Thank you all for the reviews you have left (especially the guest ones, as I can't get back to you) and to everyone else who has favorited/followed this story so far.

Maybe I should have done this from the start, but I should put some expectations to rest: don't expect this fic to be massively long. It has a well-defined scope in mind, with clear themes and goals in what it wants to accomplish. It's a character-focused fic, not an action/thriller sprawling epic. Kind of ironic, given what happens in this chapter, but stil...

With that said, enjoy the new chapter!

III

The first time he saved her life, it was amidst burning wood and the screams of death.

Rising above the bustle to keep the ship on course, the squawking of the seagulls above them reached her ears.

The day offered pleasant warmth to the sailors working tirelessly atop the deck, despite the many clouds in the sky hiding the sun from view. Eyes closed and leaning onto the wooden railing near the bow, Desmera let herself be blanketed by the murmur of the tides going back and forth, basking in the weather.

"Milady, you should go inside to your cabin."

Opening her eyes, she watched Owen climb the few steps to the forecastle to join her. "Go inside?" She turned with a carefree laugh, spreading out a hand towards the vastness of the ocean before them. "Look at the waves, Owen, the ocean around us; going inside would be a crime right now!" The breeze swept her crimson locks, lifting them like a veil of burgundy velvet around her.

"You better than anyone here should know that the sea is not free of dangers." His words were firm, but they were not unkind.

Desmera frowned nonetheless, losing her smile. "I'm well aware, yes."

"I know you don't like to hear it, Lady Desmera, but you didn't exactly give your parents reason to trust you to behave and the ironborn are still a problem."

"I don't need any reminders, thank you very much. Father and mother have made sure I won't forget the earful they gave me for some time," she grumbled, looking away.

The chastisement she'd gotten from them both had been something to behold, indeed. The so-called Seafarer's baffling disappearance hadn't put an end to the lockdown she'd ordered on Vinetown and his continued search. It wasn't until her father arrived with a detachment of guards that things began to die down once he put things to right. He'd also come to collect her and her companions. Apparently, a runner had rushed to Ivyhall at some point during the chase and explained the situation.

The ride back to the castle had been painfully silent. The knuckles around the reins of her father's steed had been chalk white, his brow set in a harsh slope. His eyes had given her a silent warning and this time, she hadn't dared to disobey.

Even when expecting it, the screaming she'd received once they got to Ivyhall had made her feel small and like a child of seven years once again. Ceryse, Margaery and Loras interceded on her behalf, but they'd been cordially, yet coolly rejected by her father. They didn't try a second time. Family and close friends they might be, but they were in the Arbor, and they couldn't rightly tell the Lord of its ruling House how to rear his children.

The price of her daring chase had been three long moons of confinement, stuck within Ivyhall's walls and barred from leaving the castle at all. Only her lessons with both the Septa and Maester Herryk had been allowed, with very little leisure time given after she was finished. Naturally, her secret lessons with Hobber and Owen had come to a sudden, screeching halt.

The most she could do was to practice in the privacy of her own chambers, fighting her own shadow or conjuring soldiers of smoke and mist with her mind.

Both the chastisement and the punishment had chafed at her, and Desmera had thought she'd go mad from being confined to her chambers most of the time. She'd only been trying to help her father! Recognizing the Seafarer in Vinetown of all places had been a stroke of absolute luck, the providence of the Seven at work – should they have let him go with a smile and a pat on the back?

'Of course not!' she thought with annoyed indignation.

Unfortunately, such flawless reasoning had fallen on deaf ears when she'd posed it to her parents. They only saw the danger she'd foolishly exposed herself to, instead of the fleeting opportunity they'd been given. An opportunity she'd squandered.

As if that hadn't shamed her enough, her recklessness had pushed her lord father to start giving serious consideration to the matter of betrothals. In truth, it had always been something Desmera expected to happen sooner or later. She was seven-and-ten, she knew her parents could have set up a betrothal to someone else when she was much younger. They'd done a similar thing with Horas: as heir, he'd been betrothed to Alla Tyrell from a young age. They could have married her off years ago after her first flowering, but they'd seemed unwilling to really pursue the matter when it came to Hobber and her.

'Until now.'

Desmera's mood soured even further.

She wasn't afraid of doing her duty to House Redwyne; she knew it was expected of her. What she feared was being stuck in a loveless marriage; being married to a powerful, but drunk lout. Her parents loved each other, and she'd like to have that bliss, but she feared she'd never get it.

She wasn't completely clueless about a few of the matches her father was considering – Herryk had let it slip without meaning to. None of the potential matches impressed her; they were all dull boys or older, egotistical fools.

Desmera remembered the Tarlys' visit to the Arbor years ago. Though they hadn't stayed long, her father had told her afterwards that a betrothal to Lord Tarly's son, Samwell Tarly, had been considered. Samwell had been far too fond of sweets and timid, without an ounce of a backbone in him, but at least he'd been kind and gifted with a keen mind. Most of these newer prospects didn't even have that going for them.

She'd oft imagined her betrothed as a dashing, charming heir when she was younger – a charismatic and handsome man that would sweep her off her feet. But now, with her parents both angry and disappointed with her, the talk of betrothals and marriages had turned sour and bitter.

"They were worried, Lady Desmera. Rightfully so," Owen said at last, breaking her out of her moody thoughts. "If the ironborn appear, they will attack us. Honestly, I'm surprised your lord father even allowed you to make this trip. The risk is-"

Desmera scoffed, cutting him off. "I might have been stuck in my chambers, but I'm not ignorant of the gossips running about the castle. I know the storms haven't abated, that they've struck several of our ships and the ironborn's weren't spared either."

"The pirates have been lying low these past months, true," Owen admitted, but he quickly gave his counterpoint. "But that could just mean they're waiting for their chance to strike again."

"You worry too much, Owen!" Desmera chided, rolling her eyes. She didn't want to think about the ironborn today, not when it was her first real taste of freedom in many months. "The Aurora is no slouch in combat, as Captain Shaw can attest, and the Highflyer is a warship. You think they would dare attack us? Maybe they're just licking their wounds after being given a thrashing by the Storm God."

"I pray that you are right," he muttered, standing next to her.

Desmera shook her head. She had no doubt he'd be on edge until they arrived to Mermaid's Palace.

"These waters are Redwyne territory! Even if the ironborn see us before we reach Mermaid's Palace –which I doubt– and decide to attack us, our fleet patrols these waters and they're more than a match for these pirates. They'll be close enough to help us."

Owen frowned. He looked entirely unconvinced, but he just shook his head with a sigh. Desmera refrained from laughing out loud; Owen had served her family as a guard long enough to know that trying to persuade her of something was an exercise in futility.

"Have you reviewed the terms of the contract yet? You might want to make sure you've got it all in your head before we reach the island, my Lady."

"No need for that, Owen, I've already looked at it and it should be fine. Maester Herryk does fine work, as always."

"Maybe. I wouldn't presume to know better than the maester, but don't you think you should ensure Brightfort's castellan won't find any irregularities in the contract? Or loopholes that could allow Mermaid's Palace to get a leg up over his liege lord. You are all but representing Lord Redwyne on his behalf on this, milady, you shouldn't take this lightly," he warned.

Desmera grunted, crossing her arms while a frown creased her brow. "I've already looked at it, I said!" she snapped, but quickly changed her mind before Owen could get a word in edgewise. "Oh, fine, I'll go review it again!"

'Owen can really be a pain in the arse sometimes,' she thought with annoyance as she made her way to her cabin.

For his part, Owen watched her leave fuming, disappearing into the bowels of the ship. More than one sailor glanced her way as she went; her outburst had not been quiet.

He sighed again; Desmera's strong-willed demeanour wasn't always something to be commended. He just hoped her irritation cooled after a couple hours. Perhaps he'd been too insistent, but the ironborn being this silent these past months made him uneasy, he'd breathe easier if the little lady didn't stay outside on the deck for too long.

He'd rather be safe than-

"Ship spotted! Ship spotted north-west!" the lookout suddenly shouted, startling him out of his thoughts.

The mood in the ship changed in a single moment, shifting from laid-back and cheerful to edgy and agitated. Owen spotted Captain Shaw as he hurried to the edge of the ship. He held a Myrish far-eye in his hands, and the man used it to look to where the lookout had pointed.

"Captain, is it friendly?" Owen asked as he approached, peering north-west. Far into the sea, he could indeed see something that resembled a vessel.

"Smaller than the usual warships of Lannister make or the Crown fleet by a good margin… It's a gods-damned ironborn longship," the captain declared, lowering the far-eye. He was a man graying at the hair, with carefully groomed whiskers and a weathered face that did nothing to hide the sharp glint in his eyes.

"The Iron Fleet?" Owen asked, feeling his anxiety rise. If it really was such, this could very well be an act of outright war from Lord Greyjoy.

"Pirate dogs… been far too scarce lately, it was a matter of time 'till they showed their cowardly hides again," he grunted, spitting on the deck. "But nay, lad. Iron Fleet ships are larger than this one. Still smaller than ours, but larger. From a lord's personal fleet, I reckon."

While that was a relief, it was still the silver lining of a very dark cloud, unfortunately. "What will we do?"

Captain Shaw snorted. "Us? Not a thing. I ain't about to jump into the fray carrying Lord Redwyne's only daughter with me, boyo. But that ship is dangerously close to Mermaid's Palace and I like it not one bit. Got my sister and nephews there. I'll send the Highflyer to give them chase. They'll either stand and fight or turn tail and run until we can deal with them. That is, if this boogeyman of ours doesn't get to them first."

"You expect him to appear?"

The captain shrugged. "Why not? He's been making fools of 'em squids for a good while. Got a bone to pick with 'em, feels like. Dunno why, but he's welcome to keep doing that if it kicks the vermin out of these waters."

"Don't tell anything to Lady Desmera, captain. She doesn't need to worry about this. Not unless it's necessary."

"You give the young lady too little credit, lad. She's known the threat the ironborn pose all her life, she's not stupid."

"No, but she is stubborn. She'd get the idea to chase the ironborn ourselves," Owen replied, to which Captain Shaw barked out a booming laugh.

"Now that'd be a sight to see, a slip of a girl giving orders to men thrice her age and size! Might serve to put this lot through their paces, though," he mused out loud before he left to make contact with the Highflyer's captain.

Minutes later, Owen watched as their escort ship slowly turned west and set a course for the ironborn ship. From the Aurora's deck, he could see the sailors and soldiers readying the ship for the battle ahead.

'Some of them will never return home, and yet they still go to meet their fate head-on.'

He felt a wave of sympathy for them. It took a certain kind of courage to sail to uncertain doom, knowing you might not return. Owen watched them drift away. He was unable to shake the foreboding feeling that trickled into his bones.

'Nothing but my own mind working against me,' he told himself. He dearly hoped he was right.

"Sail on, my friends, sail on. May the shores ahead always be bountiful," he muttered under his breath. The wind picked up and the Highflyer's sails expanded, gaining speed. Living up to its name, the ship soon became smaller and smaller in pursuit of the ironborn as the sun bled over into the horizon.

Time passed. Red and orange slowly turned to twilight, and the sailors lit up the lanterns set up around the ship. It wasn't a clear night: the moon barely peeked through the dark clouds, and they were surrounded by shadows.

Lady Desmera reappeared shortly after that. Thankfully, her mood had cleared up and her previous annoyance appeared to be a thing of the past. When the cooks' announcement that supper was ready, she took her food alongside the crew. It was something she did whenever they sailed around the Arbor, something she no doubt had picked up from her lord father's officers.

Supper was filled with laughter and cheer, especially when one of the sailors, Garrett, took his lute and began playing songs like Autumn of my day, Ride of the Seven, or A cask of ale. However, none were as cheered for or sung along as The bear and a maiden fair, to which even Lady Desmera joined in with a laugh, adding her voice to the mostly off-key cacophony that was the chorus.

None of the crew mentioned the appearance of the ironborn, though they could feel the tension creeping in. Owen could see the hint of worry in their eyes, but they tried their best to bury it under jolly merriment and singing and he appreciated the effort, if only for Lady Desmera's sake.

When supper was over, most of the sailors retired below, where the shared quarters for the crew were placed. Those that remained on deck would take the first shift to stand guard, and if there were a few more guards on first shift than usual, he was certain Lady Desmera didn't notice it.

Since the officers also bunked with the regular crew, Owen followed Shaw's first mate down to the crew quarters, but not before wishing his charge a good night of rest.

"Likewise, Owen. And listen, I'm sorry for earlier, okay? I know you're just trying to do your job. Once we reach Mermaid's Palace things will be easier, you'll see! See you on the morrow."

Descending to the crew quarters, he quickly made a beeline for his hammock and turned in for the night. He tried to find a good position, uncomfortable as it was; he didn't know which god he'd angered, but he'd never get used to sailing on a ship despite being in the service of a seafaring lord.

There was a disturbing unease gnawing at his mind, but it was nothing more than his unfounded worries hounding him.

'Tomorrow will be a new day.'

The low murmurs of those few sailors not yet willing to slumber filled the quarters and Owen allowed himself to be lulled to sleep.

The pale flame of her candle cast light into the depths of her room, creating long shadows in which the monsters of her childhood dwelled.

The cabin set aside for her wasn't as big as her chambers in Ivyhall, but that didn't bother Desmera; she'd grown used to the reduced number of luxuries aboard a ship long ago. Despite its small size, it still displayed some of the wealth and luxury afforded to the sole daughter of a prominent noble house from the Reach.

Desmera ran a hand over the soft blue fabric of her bed's blankets, made of fine threads imported from Essos. On top of the bed were her sleeping clothes, neatly folded. A cabinet for clothes stood near the windows, which gave her a view of the sea from the ship's starboard side.

There was also a desk near the bed, where several legal documents rested. A small shelf was bolted to the wall above it, holding a few books and scrolls of varied content. Though it was dark already, she felt no urge to go to sleep yet, so she decided to take heed of Owen's words at last and go over the documents in depth before they reached Mermaid's Palace.

It was a thankless, boring job, which is why, despite what she'd told Owen, she'd mostly forgone doing it before in favour of reading some of the books she'd taken from Ivyhall's library, copies transcribed by Herryk.

Eyeing them, Desmera felt the temptation to put her task off for a bit longer. 'Just a bit more and then I'll get to my father's papers,' she thought with a brief stab of guilt.

Sitting down and grabbing the copy of Maester Mathis' The Nine Voyages, she quickly opened the book to her bookmark.

Under the aegis of the flickering candlelight, Desmera began to read, just as the maester described Lord Corlys' arrival to Asshai-by-the-Shadow.

Lord Velaryon reached the shadowed city, henceforth known as Asshai of the Shadow, under the cloak of night. The hour of the wolf seemed an apt time to arrive at a place sundered forevermore from the light, loomed over by thrice-accursed Stygai. Stygai, the corpse city; Stygai in the Shadow, the demon city. When they arrived, the Sea Snake saw a vast beast of dark stone, sprawled across the river Ash, slumbering and pondering. In Asshai, only one building of ten held a spark in it, tiny pinpricks of light revealing the fragility of life within. Even those were swallowed whole by the green pallor of the Ash at night, glowing with the color of fiery death, the color of the dragonflame's cousin.

They arrived in darkness, to darkness, passing beneath the shadow to gain entrance.

The city soon proved treacherous, but not only because of the people. The land itself was poisonous, as Lord Velaryon relayed upon his return: "Over half our livestock died with no clear cause. The air seemed to be poisonous to them, even though we were never affected."

It did not take long for the Sea Snake and his crew to understand what made such a place so eerie, regardless. Every building, every wall, every bridge and every road there was built with the same type of oily, black stone. The blackness of it seemed to suck the light in, giving the city a dark, oppressive feeling. It reflected on those who lived there, for the Asshai'i, as said by Lord Velaryon, are dark and solemn in appearance, just like the city they inhabit.

And yet, for all the Asshai'i the Sea Snake met, not once did he see children by their parents' side or hear the pitter-patter of small feet running about, to the point he himself came to doubt whether there were children at all in Asshai.

This might have been a blessing in disguise, for Asshai is the city where nothing is too sacred and one shudders to think what would happen to children in such a place, forsaken by the Seven Who Are One. In Lord Velaryon's own words, he saw many a man and woman practicing openly what he could only call magic – spellsingers, aeromancers and warlocks all walked the roads of Asshai. When asked, he was told that "none are turned away from the Shadow."

Even the most depraved practices have a home in Asshai. Lord Velaryon met with godswives and pyromancers, but the city also held bloodmages, night-walkers, torturers, necromancers, and poisoners. As he and his crew explored the city, the first Westerosi to ever set foot in it, they saw ghastly sights that would never be permitted amongst civilized folk: ritual sacrifices of nubile slaves on the streets; men and women who mated eagerly with beasts and animals to commune with their false gods; shadowbinders that copulated with demons of the abyss, spawning shadows from the unholy union bent to their will; weekly human burnings that the Red Priests of R'hllor organized to lead their sermons…

There were live executions of criminals and slaves masquerading as magical research by bloodmages, cheered by men and women who regarded the practice as no more odd than what Asshai'i usually saw. At one point, Lord Velaryon also saw a long line of supplicants that extended as far as the eye could see through the eastern market. When asked about it, they replied they waited to pay respects to the Mother Matron, an immortal empress from a long-forgotten empire that resided in Asshai. Those who visited her, they said, had to blind her eyes with an amethyst band and keep her in a state of constant ecstasy, for it was believed that to break the cycle would break the world.

Eyewitnesses claimed that when a japing Ellard Crane questioned this claim and asked if he partook in the ritual by "fucking the harlot empress into oblivion", an impassive Lord Corlys replied that Crane could be the next to go to Asshai and find out. "You certainly sound eager enough for the both of us," Lord Velaryon allegedly said.

Regardless of spats in the Court, not only did Lord Velaryon find depravity in Asshai of the Shadow, he also found loss. When he returned to civilized Westerosi waters, those who knew him said his eyes were haunted for a long time. Half his crew was gone, but this went beyond that; it was personal, they said. The one time he spoke of it, Lord Velaryon only said: "I sailed to the Shadow, and the Shadow took its due. It kept my love and my people there forever more," but when asked, those remaining souls that came back with him would never budge from their silence.

Who was this mysterious lover he mentioned? Lord Velaryon never revealed this secret, and speculation ran rampant during his time. Many spoke of a paramour from the Orthys noble house, of Lyseni origin. Others said that it was the High Priestess of R'hllor, whom he absconded with to Asshai after taking her from the Temple of the Lord of Light, though no two people can agree on who seduced who in this case.

A few others claimed that Saera Targaryen was this lost love, spinning a tale about the runaway princess and the rakish seafarer, but such people clearly didn't realize the dates don't align. Lord Velaryon returned from Asshai in 79 AC whereas Saera Targaryen only fled to Essos and became a Lyseni concubine several years later, around 85 AC. It is indeed possible she could have been his paramour for a time before he married Lady Rhaenys Targaryen in 90 AC, but there has never been credible proof of it. I personally doubt we will ever know the truth of such.

In truth, we only know of the things the crew and Lord Velaryon himself revealed to the Court and the maesters. Anything else of importance that might have happened in Asshai before their return is a mystery, the answer of which they all took to the grave.

"I think I now know why Herryk didn't want me reading this book," Desmera muttered with a blush on her face after reading some of the more lurid descriptions of the passage. She didn't know whether to take it all as truth or not, but Maester Mathis had lived a generation after Lord Corlys Velaryon. Surely he wouldn't have lied?

She looked up from the book to the door for a moment, unable to completely shake off the niggling feeling of guilt for having taken the book from the castle's library without permission. There was no angry maester beyond it however, and Desmera went back to Maester Mathis' book with a sense of morbid fascination as her mind conjured all manner of perverse imagery to match the descriptions.

But daydreaming about the sinful horrors of Asshai-by-the-Shadow wasn't going to complete the work her father had entrusted her.

It was nothing more than a routine check of Mermaid's Palace's tariffs and taxes on maritime imports and products, close to home. A simple and safe task, so Desmera couldn't manage to find herself in trouble despite her best efforts

'The only reason mother said nothing when father decided to send me along, most likely.'

The ironborn prowled in the Sunset Sea indiscriminately, targeting merchant fleets sailing north to the Reach mainland and the Westerlands or in the south lanes, watching for Essos-bound ships. But not even the ironborn would be foolhardy enough to risk coming so very close to the Arbor itself without a massive fleet.

Regardless of the reasoning, it was the first proverbial show of trust her father had given her since her punishment over the Vinetown debacle months ago. She really wanted to do a good job, make her parents and her House proud.

"It's such a boring chore, though! If only Ceryse were here…" she groaned as she finally put away The Nine Voyages and took out the papers and ledgers her father and the maester had given her.

Her friend's presence would have done a lot to liven up the journey to Mermaid's Palace; unfortunately, she'd fallen ill with a light summer fever a few days before her departure. Desmera hoped it would be nothing overly serious so that she'd be up and about when she came back from her assignment.

'Mother Above and Maiden both, please watch over my friend Ceryse so that she gets well soon,' she thought in a quick prayer before she leaned over the accounting papers. There was work to do.

Once she got into it, time seemed to ebb and flow, and Desmera soon lost track of it. The only things that could be heard were the scratching of quill on parchment and the whooshing of the waves outside, dulled by the thick hull. Though it was a mind-numbing task, she kept at it, checking and rechecking the different accounts and ledgers from all the merchants set up in Mermaid's Palace. Luckily, she had a head for sums and since Horas and Hobber were useless with them, the maester had made sure to give her plenty of work to nurture that potential.

Well, Hobber wasn't half-bad at them, but given his utter lack of interest in the subject, it amounted to the same thing in the end.

Maester Herryk had even left her several notes highlighting areas of concern regarding the legalese jargon and possible loopholes the merchants might try to use to get better concessions or a more favourable deal when it was not due. Apparently, men became greedy beasts when the notion of profit was dangled in front of their eyes.

When she finished some hours later, she was exhausted and her mind felt like it was filled entirely with wool. "Father had better appreciate this," she mumbled, unable to suppress a yawn. Standing from the chair, she stretched and groaned in relief as she felt the tiredness in her limbs recede a bit. Now that she was done, she could finally go and get some well deserved sleep.

Putting away the documents for tomorrow, Desmera cleared out the desk and approached the windows to her cabin. She pulled the curtains aside and glanced at the moon above. Unfortunately, the clouds hadn't cleared during the night. Even now, the moon was hidden behind a thick blanket of dark clouds.

"A shame," she muttered to herself. "The moon is beautiful on a clear night."

She looked down at the ocean below and the frothing waves, surging back and forth as far as the eye could see. Without moonlight to give them the glimmering beauty that had inspired many a bard for their songs, they appeared like black tar, spreading underneath them. A fog seemed to hung in the air, gliding over the crest of the water.

Desmera felt a small shudder run down her spine. The words an old Redwyne sailor had once told her echoed in her mind, like drifting winds carrying a foreboding omen. "The sea gives life an' feeds us, youn'un, but it also takes. Generous aplenty, but fickle an' treacherous too…"

Putting those ominous words out of her mind, she was about to turn away and change into her nightclothes when she glimpsed a blot of dark void at the edge of her vision, within the fog.

"What's that?" Desmera wondered out loud, edging closer to the glass and peering into the distance.

She hadn't imagined it – there was something there, almost too faint to see. A void darker than the area surrounding it. Narrowing her eyes, Desmera focused; the moonless night didn't make it easy to distinguish it, but unless she was very much mistaken, the dark… blot was growing bit by bit.

Unsure of what to do or what it could even be, Desmera stood by the windows of her cabin, watching as the darkness kept moving. But then, a point of light appeared in the middle of it, flickering in the night. 'Is that a lantern? Are there people out there?'

A sense of dread started creeping in her, but she didn't have time to react before dozens more flickering points of light appeared all around the first one. The sight of it seemed to snap Desmera out of her wary confusion. Those were no lanterns.

"They're flaming arrows! It's the ironborn!" she exclaimed, eyes widening as they soared through the air towards them. Rushing out of her room, she went to the captain's room and started banging on the door. "Captain! Captain Shaw, we're under attack!"

Moments later, the door opened and out stepped the captain. There was a grim look on his face as shouts and yells began to come from the upper deck. Clearly dressed in a hurry, he was frantically buckling a sword belt to his hips.

"Damn ironborn… That other ship must've been bait."

"What? What other ship?!"

"No time for that! Lady Desmera, get back to your room and bolt the door! Do not open it under any circumstance, and only open it if you hear mine or the first mate's voice!" he ordered before unsheathing his cutlass. Desmera could only watch as he rushed for the stairs and barged onto the upper deck.

Hide away and cower in fright, waiting for death or salvation at the hands of others?

"Not in a million years!" she exclaimed. Her previous sleepiness was gone, burnt away by the burst of energy surging in her veins. Pirates were attacking her ship, her father's men, her people. This is what she'd trained for, she had to do something!

Desmera took a quick detour to run into her room, making a beeline for the trunk at the feet of her bed and taking the dagger packed within. She pulled it out of its sheath and inspected the blade. The edge was sharp and it gleamed under the soft candlelight of her room. It was no Valyrian steel, but it was forged by Ivyhall's master blacksmith. It would kill ironborn just as well as any other weapon.

'I will not let them get away with this!'

Leaving her room once more, she exited into the hallway and rushed to the stairs that led to the upper deck. The shouts and yells had been joined by the clash of blades and the screams of the injured.

Desmera ran to the upper deck, fire in her veins and dagger in hand, ready to inflict deliverance on the bastards that dared attack good, honest folk. The wave of hot air that rushed past her was the first sign of the chaos overboard as she stepped onto the deck. Her feet faltered. Desmera froze on the spot, eyes widening as she took in what her eyes saw.

The world before her was an inferno. The sails were on fire, the flames lapping at the masts like ravenous beasts. One of the sailors ran past her, clothes aflame and letting out a howl of absolute agony that no human throat should ever utter. He threw himself overboard in a futile attempt to douse the flames; rooted to her spot, Desmera could only watch as he fell. His scream cut off abruptly by a loud splashing sound.

The world in front of her was the Seven Hells on earth. There was darkness all around them, and the only light Desmera could see came from the fires steadily engulfing the ship, creating beacons of red and orange light over the Aurora. She looked down and saw a coat of black slowly covering the deck, wet and fluid.

'Blood,' she realized with a shudder.

It spread over the planks like a carpet of red to welcome the God of death. The screams of the wounded and the dying blended together into bone-chilling wailing, a loud dirge that had beckoned the aspect of Death to their ship. The Stranger had been summoned, and now it spread icy arms to reap its grim reward.

A sea of bodies fought on the deck, clashing with steel and words. The Aurora's crew and the ironborn blended into one against the darkness, lit up only by the uncaring flames around them as they devoured the ship bit by bit. They looked like twisting shadows, moving as though in a dance; a brutal, savage dance in which death could only be the final step.

She saw over the deck the unmoving shapes of bodies: corpses of people that would never rise again, kissed by the blood spreading around them. To whom they belonged, Desmera could not say. Many had been butchered; sailor or ironborn, it made no difference. There was no coordination that Desmera could see in the pirates or her own crew. The only thing that mattered was to kill and survive.

There, near the main mast, the fires lit up Garrett's face as he weakly dragged himself over the planks. The jovial sailor from mere hours ago was nowhere to be seen; his face was smeared with blood and grime, and a trail of blood leaked from the stump of his left leg.

A shadow stepped over him and plunged down a sword, gleaming under the flames. The ironborn stabbed Garrett in the neck, laughing as the sailor choked on his own blood and fell limp with a wet gurgle.

Desmera heaved, feeling bile rise up her throat. She took a step back. Garrett did not die bravely or honourably. He died crawling over the deck like a dog, clutching to life even when that same life bled out of him. He died alone, his death unnoticed save by the savage ironborn that had killed him and the girl that did not have the courage to step in and try to save him.

Deep in his bloodlust, the pirate didn't even see her standing a few paces away as he jumped back into the fray with a manic grin, disappearing in the throng of people fighting. That ultimately saved her life, because he'd have found little resistance if he'd targeted her.

'Move, move! They're killing them! Do something!' her mind screamed.

She wanted to do it, she really did. She wanted to make the ironborn pay, make sure the crew was safe… but her legs wouldn't budge from their spot, no matter how much her mind ordered them to. Her arms wavered and Desmera looked down, staring at the shaking of her arms. The grip around her dagger was so tight her knuckles had turned white.

The smell of blood, coppery and tangy, hung in the air. It mixed with the heavy incense of burning wood, filling her nostrils. It was a nauseating odour, and she felt close to retching.

"Well, well, what we've got here?"

The drawling voice snapped her out of her daze. Blinking, Desmera focused on her surroundings once more, only to realize one of the ironborn had broken away from the fighting and stepped towards her. His face was gaunt, marred by an old scar that had left him blind in one eye, yet his blade dripped with blood and he merely looked winded instead of wounded.

The putrid smile he gave her when they locked eyes revealed a row of yellowish teeth, flanked by gaping voids. He didn't try to rush her, but his leering eyes held no kindness in them. They pierced Desmera, undressing her with but a single look full of lust; an appreciation that was barely-controlled desire and little else as it trailed over every curve hinted by Desmera's dress, over the swell of her generous chest. Instead of being filled with ardour or passion, Desmera felt only disgust. It was degrading.

It was enough for her to find her voice again.

"Step back! Step back or I'll gut you!" she threatened, raising her dagger. The ironborn just chuckled.

"Feisty. I like that. Shame you're not from the Iron Islands, girlie. Could make a fine reaver with some work put in you," he mused, as if the world around them wasn't a whirlwind of death and blood. He sounded almost genuine in his whimsical regret. "Ah, no matter. You'll be an excellent salt wife. Don't worry, I'll make sure you enjoy it. Don't want my wives to be dissatisfied, ye see."

He stepped closer to her. Desmera kept walking back, placing her dagger between the ironborn and herself. It was a flimsy barrier at best, but the man allowed her the illusion of hope for a few moments, chuckling again under his breath.

But when her back hit the door to the lower decks, he stopped playing. He took a long stride towards Desmera, batting away the dagger with contemptuous ease as if it wasn't even there, and slammed her against the door.

"Fuck! Wh- what are you going to do to me?" she asked, hating the way her voice wavered.

He leaned down, looming over her. Somewhere above them, something burned; the fire cast the reaver in flickering, orange light. It made him look like a terrifying demon.

"Gonna claim you, girl. You're gonna be my salt wife."

Salt wife. She knew enough about the islanders to understand what that meant. She'd be little more than a thrall, a concubine stolen and kidnapped, bound for the Iron Islands. There was no doubt about what her fate would be; he'd take her over and over until she broke down and learned to accept her lot in life. Whether she was willing or not was most likely not a concern.

Something in Desmera surged with that thought. Repulsion and fury flooded her veins, burning hotly. "No!" she yelled. She struggled against his hold, punching and thrashing.

"Stay still, girl," the ironborn grumbled, but he didn't seem particularly bothered. He was larger, bigger; he could manhandle her with ease. "Got no interest in breaking in my wives the moment I claim them. Don't fight it and things will be easier."

"And I should be fucking grateful for that?!" she exploded, but her scream was drowned under the sea of all the others rending the night.

"No, but I hear some come to enjoy it. Either way, life ain't fair, girl. Get used to it," he said, gripping her roughly by the shoulders.

'Gods, no! Seven above, hear me! If you've ever answered a plea, answer mine! Help me! Help me!'

The ironborn sank his fingers through her mane of crimson locks, gripping her head harshly and forced her to look at him. He reeked of death and sweat. Desmera froze. "I like your hair, girl. Kissed by fire, it is. You must have proper fire in your veins too! I-"

The words died on the raider's throat as the tip of a sword pierced through his neck in an instant, splattering Desmera with warm blood across her face and torso. She flinched, feeling it drip down her face.

The reaver looked at her with wide eyes, not quite understanding what had happened. His hands instinctively sought his neck to clutch at the wound, but it was pointless. The blood kept falling, unwilling to be held back. There was no surviving a severed throat.

With a wet gurgle, he dropped to the floor just as the sword drew back, revealing a bloodied Owen behind. "And stay down, dog!" he said, spitting at the raider's corpse.

Wide-eyed, Desmera could only gape at him. "O- Owen!"

"What are you doing up here, Desmera?! Get back down now!" he roared.

His dark locks were plastered to his forehead, slick with sweat and blood; one of his eyes was bruised and swelling up. The part of Desmera that could still think rationally couldn't help but find the irony in that amusing. She had no doubt she must be just as much of a sorry sight as he was, if for different reasons.

"You're- you're hurt," she said with a mumble, looking down at his simple shirt, soaked through with blood.

"It's not mine," Owen grunted with steely eyes, but Desmera could see the lie in them. He'd never been that good of a liar, and she could always tell. So close to him, she saw thin rivers of blood trailing down his breeches, flowing from under his bloodied shirt. "There's no time, you need to get back down and hide, Desmera!"

"No, I can fight! I've been training, we need everyone to throw them off!" she exclaimed, putting on a strong front.

Be brave, her mind encouraged, but she felt anything but that. Even as her mouth and lips said the words, she wished to be anywhere but the Aurora, surrounded by fire and oblivion.

"This isn't a game! The bastards caught us by surprise, they're killing us all!" he screamed, shaking her roughly by the shoulders in a vain effort to make her see reason. "Listen to me, Desmera, you need to hide! You must-"

His whole body jerked forward, slamming her against the door. His grunt of pain filled her ears. She felt his entire weight fall on her, and it took all of her strength to keep him upright. "Owen! Owen, what happened?!"

"Desmera… need to… run." His voice had turned weak, pained. Looking over his shoulder, her mouth fell from shock when she saw the shaft of an arrow sticking out of his back.

As if on cue, Desmera only heard the whistling of the wind in her ears before a second arrow pierced through cloth and skin, burying itself deep into Owen, higher on his back. The force of the impact slammed him against Desmera. He gasped wetly, raggedly, and when he spoke again, his voice was faint.

"Hide…"

Then he fell, sinking to the ground next to her, limp and unmoving.

Frozen and numb, Desmera could only look up from him to the direction where the arrows had come from. There, on the other side of the deck, was a shadow, crouched next to some barrels. He held something in his hands. A breeze blew over the sea, and the fires shifted, revealing the shadow to a bow-wielding ironborn. He was half-plunged into darkness, but Desmera could tell he was looking their way.

He was too far away to see his face, but not enough to miss how he slowly nocked another arrow. 'He could've killed me already,' she realized. 'He's just making sure I knew it was him.'

It'd have been kinder to end her right after killing Owen, but ironborn didn't understand the concept of kindness. This was deliberate, a cruel mercy to give her a few more precious moments of life to inflict her with as much pain and grief as possible before the end.

'Is this the end?' For a moment, the embers of her earlier defiance surged back to life, and she glared at him. That bastard had killed Owen! He had to pay! 'Move!' she screamed at herself.

And yet, for all her bravado, her legs remained rooted to the spot.

Desmera cursed.

She cursed the ironborn, for attacking and butchering her people; she cursed Owen, for dying when she needed him most. She cursed herself for getting the crew killed; for getting Owen killed. But above all, she cursed her own weakness, for being unable to do anything as she waited for death to claim her at last.

The fires burned. There was an acrid edge in her tongue, the result of smoke and grief stuck to the back of her throat. Desmera stared death in the face and found herself not filled with bravery or defiance, as the tales said.

She felt only terror in the end.

"Expulso."

A burst of blue light erupted near the portside. Several of the raiders flew through the air screaming and went overboard. Everything ground to a halt as they all turned to stare at what had happened.

Near where the blue light had appeared was a figure, standing next to the ship's railing. The fires lit up his frame in orange and red, contrasting the blackness of his robes, which fused with the night around them. His hooded cloak covered his head, hiding most of his face.

Keeping his identity concealed didn't seem to be much of a priority for him however, as he began to speak. "To all ironborn on the ship, you have a choice. Either leave the way you came, or die tonight."

He did not shout, yet his voice boomed, easily rising above the screams and the crackling of the flames devouring the Aurora. Despite its unnatural strength, it was smooth and refined; Desmera had heard lowborn speak plenty of times, and this man did not have their rough, plainer accent. He didn't sound grizzled or wizened, but rather young.

For some unfathomable reason, he sounded vaguely familiar.

One of the ironborn laughed, stepping towards the stranger. "Hear that, lads? This pup thinks he can kill us all!" he jeered. Some of his fellows around him laughed uproariously, but there was an undercurrent of nervousness under their bluster. Desmera saw that not all laughed, remaining uncharacteristically serious. Others hadn't even turned to the commotion; she could still hear the sounds of swords clashing, the twisting of half-lit shadows struggling against each other.

Taking a look across the deck, Desmera's heart sank when she realized that most of her father's men had been cut down and only a mere handful remained alive. So many things had happened that she hadn't even noticed the ironborn had slowly whittled away at the crew until so few remained. She could not see Captain Shaw anywhere.

Plumes of dark smoke arose from the ship, like spears from giants besieging it. The Aurora was finished, it was only a matter of time till its death knell tolled.

The newcomer was unfazed by the ironborn's mocking. "I won't repeat myself. Leave or die, your choice."

'What are you doing, idiot?! Get out of here, they'll kill you!' Desmera wanted to shout, but that would mean drawing attention to herself. Her mouth remained shut.

The ironborn who'd mocked the newcomer spat at his feet. "Stupid greenlander, you think your threats scare us? There are dozens of us, fool!" he said, raising his twin axes and pointing at the stranger with them.

Instead of replying, the cloaked man only raised one of his arms, mirroring the ironborn as if he were mocking him. He held something in his hand. It was much too small to make out what it was with the lack of light and Desmera had to strain her eyes, but it almost looked like…

'A- a stick? What?'

Before she could even question the man's sanity, a bolt of vibrant blue erupted from his hand straight to the ironborn. Too caught off guard, he failed to move aside; it proved to be his undoing, as his whole head exploded to bits.

The ship stilled, even as the world burned.

The cocky ironborn dropped to the ground, now headless. Blood flowed freely from the stump as his axes clattered onto the deck. A beat of silence fell amongst them all. Desmera clasped a hand over her mouth to keep herself from screaming, horrified.

The stranger lowered his arm. "I did warn you."

"RYKKER! That was my brother, bastard! Kill this fucker dead, you louts!" someone shouted.

The raiders howled as one, three dozen throats baying for blood. Nearly all of them converged on the man that dared defy them. To Desmera, who watched from the side unnoticed by all, it looked like a wave of savagery and steel surged towards a single man.

He was ready for it.

She couldn't see what happened as the ironborn shielded the newcomer from sight, but after a moment, an arc of yellow light spread out from within the writhing mass of limbs and shadowy bodies. Some were canny enough to duck under it, thanks to honed battle instincts, but most were sent flying to the opposite side of the ship, smashing against the starboard railing or going overboard. The force of the magic was such that several of the flames were snuffed out in an instant, plunging the chaos of the ship into an even darker hell.

Wide-eyed, Desmera could only gape at what she'd seen. This was no mere shadowplay to make stories out of hand shadows, or simple folktales. This… this was magic. True magic, the kind of sorcery that built the Wall on the far North; the kind of power that made the Hammer of the Waters, which broke the Arm of Dorne and separated Westeros from Essos. There was no other way to describe what was happening.

It was something that should have been impossible and yet, she could not deny what her eyes were seeing. She had a front-row seat to it. Like a spark bringing a fire to life, things fell into place in Desmera's mind. The familiar voice, the strange appearance, the magic… it all fit, there was no other explanation.

'He's here! The Seafarer… it has to be him!'

"Let's make it a bit clearer, eh? Lumos Maxima!" he said, pointing an arm to the sky and producing a ball of light that shot up to the sky.

It stayed atop the ship's crow's nest, creating a vast white light under it that cast long shadows all around them. The ball of light seemed akin to a miniature sun, plucked from the sky and brought down to the seas of the Arbor.

Desmera shielded her eyes until they got used to the sudden brightness, but her little gasp was drowned by the shouts from the reavers as they clutched their eyes. "It's a fekkin' warlock!" one of them yelled as he scrambled to his feet, stumbling around like a drunkard.

A murmur spread over the raiders, offering a lull in their fight as they recovered their sight. The Seafarer seemed content to wait them out, but the ironborn eyed him warily. To Desmera, it looked as though they had no idea what to do now.

Desmera looked at the stranger; now that the night had all but turned to day, she finally got a better view of him. His cloak was dark, trailing down to his shins, tied together at the front by an elaborate brooch. Even under the harsh white light he'd created, his face was mostly hidden from view by the cowl of his cloak; the only thing she could see was the hint of stubble he had. Even so, the most bizarre thing of his appearance, lackluster in actual details as it was, had to be the wooden stick he held in his right hand.

The sight of it managed to pierce the fog of her numb stupor, if only for a moment. 'Bringing a stick to a sword fight doesn't matter if it's a magic stick, I suppose.'

"The Drowned God demands his head. Whoever kills the fucker will feast in his Hall of Salt!" an ironborn exclaimed, wielding both a sword and a sickle in his hands. "What is dead may never die!"

"But rises again harder and stronger!" the others chorused as one, emboldened. Instead of cowering, the newcomer remained unmoving in his spot, as if he were unconcerned about the possibility of dying in the next minutes.

'Will he, though?'

Common sense and logic would dictate that one single man going openly against several scores of pirates thirsting for his blood would have no chance of surviving. And yet, the Seafarer had long proved he was no mere man. After seeing just a glimpse of his powers, Desmera seriously doubted the ironborn could do anything against him.

Such fools. Who could triumph against someone who commanded magic?

The Seafarer just scoffed. "I'd like to see you try."

The ironborn leader let out a roar in response, full of rage and bloodlust. Readying his weapons, he leapt forward, but the Seafarer was ready for it. Raising his arm again, he took a step back and made a slashing motion, as though he were slicing the air with an invisible sword.

"Sectumsempra."

At his call, large cuts appeared on the reaver's face, his arms, and chest. Stopped dead in his tracks, the man staggered and dropped to his knees with a gurgled whine as the strength fled from his limbs.

Desmera flinched. The result of the magic used was a gruesome one, making clear it had been made to hurt and maim. Huge gashes had appeared at a mere word from the magician, spilling blood onto the floor – this could only be some sort of blood magic. She shuddered. Herryk had told her once that if magic truly existed, blood magic would be the foulest of them all.

Yet, it still paled in comparison to the gory display from moments earlier.

For their part, the ironborn received a hit to their morale upon seeing their leader go down. There was a heaviness in the air; it was thick with their fear, the smell of fresh blood and of burnt wood. The pirates eyed the warlock and their fellows warily, unsure of what they should do. None of them were willing to be the one to act first and draw attention to themselves.

That was not something that the magician feared, as he began to walk forward with unhurried steps.

Desmera could only gape. 'Is he absolutely mad?!'

One of the ironborn attacked him, but the Seafarer merely slashed his stick. The reaver dropped, twitching limbs flopping beside him as the screams rent the night. Seeing this, the other ironborn hurriedly parted like waves, surrounding him as the man moved towards the main mast, at the centre of the ship.

But surrounded as he was, the ironborn didn't attack. Instead, the burning wreck that was the Aurora acted faster than them. As if it had been waiting for such a moment, the mast groaned and creaked loudly when it broke under the flames' assault.

The wood splintered, snapping in two close to the base. For a beat, nothing else happened, and Desmera wondered if the mast would fall at all. However, it weighed too much to remain locked in place, and crumbled under its own weight. With the sound of wood splitting apart, the mast tilted forward and began to fall.

"It's gonna hit us!"

But that did not happen.

The magician raised his arm once again, pointing it upwards to the burning wreck as it fell. "Confringo!"

A bolt of fiery orange shot from his hand. The moment it connected, the mast exploded with a loud bang, and a shower of splinters and burning debris fell all around them like summer rains under the harsh light as the Seafarer faced the ironborn.

"Wait, wait, don't kill us! We'll just- we'll just go!" one of them yelled. It seemed his show of power had finally tipped the scales for some of the raiders

"No, he's the one killing our people for months, has to be! The Drowned God demands his head!" a voice called out from the group of ironborn surrounding the magician.

Desmera saw an axe emerge from the throng of pirates. It flew towards the warlock's head, splitting the air with an angry whistle. The Seafarer whirled with lightning-fast reflexes, brandishing his stick.

"Devertus!" he said, and the weapon was rebuffed as though it had smashed against an invisible air.

From the remaining ironborn, a reaver rushed the warlock heeding the fanatic's call. "For the Drowned God!"

"Pressum."

Instead of reaching the Seafarer, the ironborn slammed onto the deck with such strength he cracked the planks underneath him with a sickening crunch. "Too slow," the warlock said, looking up at the other pirates. "Anyone else?"

The ironborn that had pleaded first sent a big scowl at the fanatic. "Fuck, throw yourself against this monster and die if it makes you happy, but I ain't havin' no part in it! I value my life too much for that. Warlock, spare me, I have no wish to die!"

"Traitor!"

"That's all good and well, but you know," the magician cut in, "you're little more than pirates and rapists, would you really turn your life around if I let you go? Look around you. You think you deserve mercy after what you've done?" His voice was deadly calm, devoid of any sympathy for the pirates. "I gave you one chance and you threw it away. Time to face the consequences."

His denial whipped the ironborn into a frenzy. With nothing to lose, they all jumped the magician, screaming and yelling as they brandished their weapons. Desmera knew it was futile however. For all their savagery, there was little that regular people could do against magic.

What followed afterwards was nothing short of a bloodbath. Desmera saw the raiders being rebuffed time and time again as the warlock carved them up with contemptuous ease. He didn't move much from his spot, but he didn't need to – not when everything he did felled a few ironborn at the same time.

Flashes of white, blue, and purple erupted from his stick and death followed their wake. ironborn dropped one after another, some with missing limbs, others screaming like broken beasts while clawing at their bodies. Some had their weapons turned into flocks of colourful birds; when they tried to take the fight to him with their fists, he sent them flying to the depths of the sea. The Seafarer proved to be methodical and skilled, repositioning himself a few times to keep his enemies in sight.

'But he's not invincible,' Desmera realized. One of the ironborn had stepped around him silently, surrounding him ever so slowly until the Seafarer had his back turned to him while he focused on the other pirates. 'He's going for a sneak attack, the craven!'

What else could one expect from honourless curs like them?

Her thought halted when she spotted a bow strapped to the back of the sneaking ironborn, though he now wielded a sword. Her eyes widened. She recognized him – he… he was the bastard that had killed Owen, the same one that had been about to kill her until the warlock's arrival put a stop to that. And now he was trying to kill him using the same cowardly tactics!

The pirate hadn't seen her. Rather, he'd likely forgotten all about her when the Seafarer appeared.

Desmera gnashed her teeth. A shudder coursed over her body – she felt a dark, poisonous surge flood her veins. Casting a frantic look around her, she spotted Owen's sword, lying on the deck next to his corpse. Her body moved on its own and her hand closed around the handle. He fingers twitched as they gripped it; it was slick with blood

She instinctively sought his face before she could stop herself. It was bloody, and his eyes were half-opened, dull and devoid of life. Desmera bit back the sob that threatened to break through the fog of her rage, and pushed down the tight knot that formed in her throat.

I'm sorry, she wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come. Tightening her grip on the sword, she rose to her feet.

She could feel blood thundering in her temples, but her mind was blank. She stepped over the bodies at her feet, approaching the pirate. Desmera saw him raise his sword, ready to strike down the magician, and she broke out into a sprint. She rushed past the few ironborn still alive between them, too fast for them to react in time and stop her. At the last moment, she could see the craven begin to turn around.

He wasn't fast enough.

Desmera stabbed him deep in the back with a loud yell. She put all her hatred and fear and rage into it, pouring out all her blackened grief for the world to hear. The warlock whirled around just in time to see the raider arched, revealing the bloody tip of Owen's sword protruding from his chest. The ironborn sputtered in pain, sword falling from his grip as blood flew from his mouth. Then he crumbled, spasming and twitching on the floor in his death throes.

"Oh gods, oh gods," Desmera said in absolute disbelief, staring at the blood that covered her shaking hands. She'd almost felt the muscles tearing inside, the bones breaking as the sword carved up a path through his body. She'd killed him. She'd killed him.

Violent tremors coursed through her body as a lightheaded feeling settled over her. She heard a single word being uttered, followed by a strange whooshing sound. Screaming reached her ears. Someone was shouting close to her, but it sounded so distant, so faint… as if it were a whole world away from her.

She stared down at the body at her feet. He had turned to the sky in his last moments. The only thing she could see were the glazed eyes, staring but unseeing into her own. Owen's sword was still lodged in the reaver's body, resembling a grisly rose of red and silver that had bloomed from his chest. Her boots were surrounded by a carpet of blood.

Bile rose up her throat and she gagged, heaving.

Through the haze of her numb stupor, she heard something – a voice. It reached out to her, pulling her out of her trance this time. "Hey, look at me! Are you okay? Pull yourself together! This isn't the time to have a breakdown!"

She blinked and looked up to see the Seafarer standing close to her, arm raised and brandishing a stick with it. Its tip was alit with red. His voice was smooth, softer than what it had been when he spoke to the ironborn. It had lost its booming quality at some point and there was concern in it, concern for her.

It all became too much. Darkness rushed across her vision and she only saw a glimpse of his eyes within the shadows of the cowl. They hid behind strange Myrish lenses, resting snugly over his nose.

'I've seen those before…' was her only thought.

"Bloody- Hey, don't faint on me! Hey!"

Then, only darkness.