Gyles VI

The open sea wasn't all that the songs had made it out to be. Gyles had expected clear blue waters, and strong winds to catch the ship's sails. Any shanty or sailor's ditty seemed to promise as much. Instead, choppy waves the color of mottled iron were all that he could see in any direction as far as his eyes could perceive. Sighing, he stood from where he had been leaning against the ship's rail, and looked back across the deck behind him. Sailors were busy at work, crossing back and forth across the deck quickly as they moved to complete their chores.

The Steadfast did not possess a particularly interesting or original name, but Gyles supposed that it was an accurate one. Modest in size as it was, the Steadfast plied the waters south of King's Landing admirably. Prince Qyle and his delegation had decided that it would be best to take a ship that was both sturdy and inconspicuous, given the concerning reports of heightened raiding occurring off the coast of Essos between the former cities of the Three Daughters. For this self-same reason, the Steadfast largely hugged the coast of Westeros as it continued south, though its course would veer more widely around the eastern coast of Tarth to avoid the notorious storms of Shipbreaker Bay.

The sun was beginning to set in the western sky, and Gyles knew that the members of the delegation would soon gather in the captain's cabin for the evening meal. As he was technically a "guest" of the delegation, Gyles was welcome to join them at the meal, and he had done so each evening. Even so, the awkwardness had been palpable those first few nights, almost painfully so.

The majority of the delegation had been largely indifferent towards Gyles, with the exception of the vitriol of Ser Yorick Wyl. Gyles wasn't entirely certain that the man was above trying to poison his food, or pushing him overboard at an opportune moment. And yet, can I blame him entirely? Gyles' siblings had all been born still in the cradle, and he had grown up as an only child. However, if he had possessed a sibling that had been slain, Gyles was quite certain that he would resent being forced to break bread with their killer for days on end, trapped on a ship with nowhere else to go.

Gyles supposed that in some odd and twisted way, he could sympathize with Ser Yorick. Even more so, it was why Gyles knew that he needed to be exceedingly careful around him. Despite Prince Qyle's stern warnings against untoward actions, Gyles did not know if he would reach Sunspear alive if he wasn't cautious.

Prince Qyle's words were never far from his mind as the voyage continued. "It will not only be the actions before your exile that will be judged, but also those after you traveled north of the Red Mountains," Prince Qyle had told him. Fortunately, it had not been nearly as difficult to ingratiate himself with the other members of the delegation. Gyles' kin at Yronwood had always said that he could talk himself out of a set of manacles with his silver tongue. In this instance, that may truly be the case. He had taken upon it himself to give the members of the delegation nothing but words of praise to speak of him.

His hearing at Sunspear would either free him or condemn him, and Gyles would not make his way into it meekly. When backed into a corner, Gyles always found a way out of it. He was a fighter, whether that meant slaying bandits or winning over allies to his cause. His wits had hardly ever failed him, and Gyles had never lacked self-confidence. However, he had Mors, Ser Jarmen, and Ser Maegor to thank for his newer outlook. They taught me the value in surrounding oneself with able allies. Not fawning sycophants, but those that can truly be trusted to fight at your side. Gyles could and would fight, but what was the harm in entering the melee with some extra muscle?

He had worked on winning over Red Ella first. Ellara Jordayne's nickname was an apt one, for her hair was a mane of short, fiery red curls, framing a face covered in freckles. However, her nickname also stemmed from a successful counterattack that she had led against Myrish slavers who had been raiding along the northern Dornish coast near her family's seat, the Tor. She had acquitted herself well, and by battle's end was covered in the blood of slavers. Thus the nickname Red Ella truly came into being. A close friend and confidant of the Princess Aliandra, she spent most of her time at Sunspear, while her elder twin brother ruled as Lord from their home.

It had not been overly difficult for Gyles to determine how he could best win her favor. He'd simply asked to begin sparring with her on the Steadfast's foredeck each morn. Gyles had found that there was oft a natural advantage in sparring held by those who had been blooded versus those who had never killed. If such was the case, then Red Ella was certainly a blooded warrior. She was incredibly fast, relying on such swiftness to make up for her lack of size and muscle compared to knights like Gyles. She fought like a hornet, darting in for quick and vicious strikes that to the untrained eye may seem like a chaotic and uncoordinated flurry. This was not the case, however. Each strike and jab was carefully placed and executed, making for an aggressive and unforgiving assault that immediately put her opponent on the defense. Though fairly evenly matched in skill, Gyles was glad for the use of training swords, for Red Ella would have killed him many times over had they fought with live steel.

Ser Malwyn Ladybright proved more than amenable to Gyle's attempts at conversation and camaraderie. The handsome young knight had recently sworn his vows, and was easily the type of warrior to make tourney-goers swoon, with his winning smile and affable nature. The heir of his Lady mother, he was to marry his betrothed as soon as he arrived home to Dorne. Unlike many in his position, he seemed ecstatic about the impending nuptials, utterly infatuated with and devoted to his bride-to-be, a Toland of Ghost Hill. Ser Malwyn was emphatic about his desire to marry his bride when the orange groves maintained by his family were in bloom, and Gyles had to physically resist the urge to roll his eyes while maintaining a cordial grin. The pains I must endure to win allies to my cause. Ser Malwyn enjoyed Gyles' tales about his journeys north of the Red Mountains, and oft told him in their conversations together that he should recount them to a maester, so that they might be preserved for posterity.

With Lady Anya Dayne, heir to Starfall, Gyles had resorted to an entirely different set of tactics. Though he'd initially thought to aggressively utilize all the charm and charisma that he possessed in his interactions with her, Gyles quickly surmised that such a choice would be ultimately unsuccessful. As a beautiful heiress to a powerful House, she already had admirers and charmers aplenty. Gyles' initial attempts at flowery compliments and flattery had fallen exceedingly flat, eliciting naught more than disinterest from Lady Anya, and at times such disinterest nearly seemed to border on annoyance. Lady Anya had little time for anyone beyond her impressive collection of tomes and scrolls that she had brought along with her for the journey, and seemed to nearly always be reading.

It was this observation that proved to be the key to Gyles' success. Dropping all pretense of charm and flattery, Gyles instead tried to make conversation with the Lady Anya about the texts that she voraciously read. Though he had made little time in his life for reading amongst his passions, Gyles' father had instilled a deep appreciation for the written word within his hot-headed and wayward son, when he'd still hoped to fashion Gyles into a Steward. Gyles nearly wept with joy when he realized that the Lady Anya was currently reading Wonders by Lomas Longstrider, a text that Gyles had spent much time with in his youth. Longstrider's observations and accounts of the far-flung natural wonders of the world had proven a powerful balm for Gyles' growing sense of wanderlust as a young lad, when the walls of Yronwood had begun to increasingly feel like those of an inescapable prison. He had expressed such sentiments to Lady Anya, and offered an open invitation to further discuss literature with him if she so desired. The success of his efforts was immediate, and their conversations about all kinds of famous and treasured writings were spirited and varied. Gyles found that while his attempts to ingratiate himself with the heir to Starfall were wildly successful, he enjoyed discussing dusty texts about people long-dead much more than he ever expected to.

Beyond Red Ella, Ser Malwyn, and Lady Anya, however, Gyles' success was much more limited. Lord Nymor Vaith was a wizened Lord that had nearly counted his sixtieth nameday, and was a staunch ally and friend to the ailing Prince Qoren. Unsurprisingly, there was seemingly little to be found in common between himself and a traveling exile knight that still sought to carve a place for himself in the world with the kind of vigor and ambition only possessed by the young. Though his interactions with Gyles were always courteous, they never approached anything near warmth, and Lord Nymor never indicated a desire to interact with Gyles any more than was necessary.

Gyles' efforts were similarly unsuccessful with Lord Andros Qorgyle, and his ward, the Prince Qyle Martell, which was most frustrating of all. Of all the allies that Gyles desperately needed for his upcoming hearing, the only son of the Prince of Dorne would be a powerful one. The urbane Lord of Sandstone and the reserved Prince showed naught else but cold courtesy to Gyles, however, and resisted any and all attempts at further fraternization. Gyles would not stop in his attempts at ingratiation, however. If for no other reason than the fact that the voyage was bone-achingly boring, Gyles would utilize every trick up his sleeve if it meant the presence of an additional ally at his side when he faced the court of Sunspear and its ruling Prince.

Gyles wasn't sure what it was that caused him to sit up so suddenly in his bunk. The night was late, with the majority of the Steadfast's crew and passengers already asleep. The hull creaked quietly as the muted sound of distant waves lapped at its sides. Gyles could hear soft snores of the crew beyond the thin wooden door of the cramped personal quarters that he'd been afforded and shared with Ser Malwyn. What is the problem, then? Nothing outwardly seemed amiss. Even so, there was a churning uneasiness deep within Gyles' innards. It was a sense that he'd learned to implicitly trust in the aftermath of his flight from King's Landing, when all had seemed so hopeless and lost. Trusting my gut is the only reason I'm still alive. Slipping quietly from his uncomfortable cot, Gyles slipped on his boots as quietly as he could. Standing, he buckled his sword belt about his waist. This is utterly foolish. Ignoring his mind's attempts at dissuasion, Gyles crept to the door of his cabin and cracked it open, peering suspiciously into the musty hold beyond.

Nothing, save sleeping sailors dimly illuminated by several tallow candles burning low. What else did I expect? The uneasy feeling hadn't receded, however. Gyles crept forth from his cabin, and peered up the stairs towards the deck above. He saw naught but the night sky's vast expanse beyond the ship's main mast, awash with distant, glimmering stars. Gyles frowned, and made up his mind to head topside and take a look around. When I see that there's truly nothing amiss, I'll put the foolish uneasiness to rest and get some sleep. Months of hard living had taken their toll on him. A sudden shift in shadow would put him on edge, while the rustling of branches and brush in the wind had him looking for an ambush. Will the wariness ever take its leave of me?

He nearly drew his sword when the shadow stepped into place beside him. "Seven Hells!" he hissed, "I nearly drew steel!"

The shadow smirked. "If I had wanted you dead, you wouldn't have seen me in the first place." Red Ella's hand was clenched around the hilt of her sword, a thin and slightly curved blade that complimented the speed of her movements. She had pulled on her shirt of scales over her shift, though unlike Gyles, she still wore her soft night shoes. Silent as a shadow.

"It isn't just me then," Gyles muttered. Red Ella shook her head. Without another word, the both of them crept up the stairs to the ship's deck. Yet again, nothing seemed overtly amiss. That was, until Gyles noticed a glint on the Steadfast's wooden portside railing. Creeping closer, Gyles felt a sudden pit form in his stomach when he realized that the source of the glint was an iron grapnel, hooked over the railing. Rushing up to the rail, he peered beyond into the darkness. Sure enough, a smaller ship was alongside theirs. It emitted no light, but Gyles could make out scurrying shadows on its deck beneath the starlight.

More out of instinct than anything else, Gyles dropped low. A moment later, an arrow sluiced through the air where his face had been only moments before. After only a moment's hesitation due to shock, Gyles began to shout at the top of his lungs. "TO ARMS! CORSAIRS!"

Drawing his sword, Gyles levered it beneath the grapnel and forced it loose off the rail. To his dismay he heard several clanks as several more grapnels were hooked over the rail in different places. The clash of steel behind him made him turn his head. Oh. The pirates had already boarded. The corpses of the Martell guards and crew that had been assigned the evening watch were a clear indication of this. Red Ella fought three corsairs with a desperate fervor. One quick slash opened a corsair's throat, while a thrust immediately after entered the gut of a second. As Red Ella turned to face the third, her blade refused to pull free of the screaming corsair that had collapsed to the deck. The third and final corsair seized the opportunity, preparing to strike at the momentarily defenseless Dornishwoman. The swing fell short when Red Ella simply let go of her blade's hilt and delivered a swift and merciless punch to the corsair's throat. Choking and gasping, the corsair fell to one knee. Red Ella drew a dagger from the corsair's belt and shoved it through his eye.

Leaving Red Ella to her killing, Gyles rushed to another of the grapnels, levering it free of the rail with his sword once more. Rushing towards a third, Gyles watched as a large pirate hopped over the rail, turning to face him with his blade still clenched between his teeth. Gyles gave him no time to react, thrusting his blade straight into the man's heart. Even as he collapsed into a heap, however, more corsairs were scrambling over the Steadfast's rail onto the deck to replace him. Taking several steps back to give himself a moment to think, Gyles realized how truly dire the situation had become. We're going to be overrun.

Even as such thought crossed his mind, footsteps behind him proved to be his and Red Ella's salvation. The Steadfast's crew was scrambling onto the deck with weapons in hand, as well as members of the Dornish delegation. Ser Malwyn was first, wearing a shirt of mail, and bearing sword and shield. Not far behind were the Prince Qyle, Lord Qorgyle, and Lord Vaith. Without so much as a sideways glance, Ser Yorick Wyl had appeared near Gyles, laying into the corsairs mercilessly with blade and dagger clutched in each hand.

Relieved, Gyles stepped back into the fray. Due to his lack of armor and shield, he was forced to fight more conservatively, as any blow he took would cause a wound that he couldn't afford. Catching the forearm of one pirate as the man attempted to work a dagger between his ribs, Gyles shoved his own blade through the man's throat. Fight on! If we can seize the initiative, we might stand a chan-

Gyles opened his eyes a moment later, the right side of his face pressed against the planks of the boatdeck. His head throbbed dully, and he could feel hot blood running down the back of his neck. A corsair stood before him, bloodied club in hand. Gyles could hear shouting all about him, but it all sounded muted, as though his ears had been stuffed with wool. No! I have to fight! We must win! Gyles could see his sword, only just beyond his grasp. Though his vision was blurred and wavy, and his innards churned with sudden nausea, Gyles lunged for the blade. A triumphant surge of vigor coursed through his veins as he felt his hand close about its hilt, a mere moment before the booted foot connected with his face, sending Gyles into darkness once more.

When he finally awoke, Gyles didn't know for how long he had been unconscious. For a moment, Gyles was overtaken by a hideous fear as he attempted to open his eyes and found only darkness. By all the Gods. Did the corsair's blow blind me? After his initial panic, Gyles realized that he was not blind, but that his eyelids had been sealed shut by his own congealed blood. Scraping at the blood about his eyelids with his fingertips, he was eventually able to force them open.

Though his eyes took a moment to adjust, Gyles could see that he was in the Steadfast's lowest hold, rank with the stale scent of the shallow pools of seawater that sloshed about the floor. The only light came from the mid-deck above and the torches and candles that burned there. Even when confronted with such pathetically dim light, a sharp, throbbing pain exploded within Gyles' skull. Gritting his teeth, Gyles quickly turned his eyes from the light, the sudden movement causing nausea to roil within his stomach and nearly making him vomit. "Gods," he muttered plaintively. His head felt positively swollen, and Gyles bit back a scream at the pain he felt when he gingerly touched the swollen lump on the back of his head where the pirate had cracked him with his club.

"You're awake, then," the voice to his left muttered. Gyles gingerly turned his face to regard Red Ella. Even in the dim light, she looked terrible. Her left eye was surrounded by a thick black-and-blue ring, and the cheek below it was puffy and swollen. Her lower lip was also swollen and split, and much of the rest of her face was a patchwork of bruises. Her armor was gone, and she only wore her ragged and bloodstained shift. Iron manacles were clasped tightly about her ankles, connected by a rusted chain to those that Gyles realized were about his own ankles.

The sight of her filled Gyles with white-hot rage. "Did they-" he began, only to be cut off by Red Ella.

"They did not," she confirmed, "but one of them tried, before their Captain brought them under control. I took his stones in my hand and twisted. A few more seconds, and I think I could've torn them off." An odd expression twisted across her face, seemingly half-smile and half-grimace, and full of hate. "I'd sooner have had them kill me than that."

Red Ella seemed unwilling to say more on the matter, so Gyles changed the subject. "The others?" he croaked. Gods, does my head hurt. It was all Gyles could do to remain conscious, but he forced himself to remain alert as possible. I need to know what has happened. More importantly, what can be done.

Red Ella sat in silence for a moment before responding. "Lord Qorgyle is dead. Ser Malwyn and Ser Yorick are down here with us, though I don't think either has yet regained consciousness." Red Ella nodded upwards. "Prince Qyle, Lady Anya, and Lord Vaith are confined to their quarters, as far as I'm aware. They didn't cause the corsairs too much trouble, so they weren't chained up and thrown down here with the rest of us." She grimaced. "Once the captain realized just who he and his crew had captured, he ordered for the nobles to remain untouched. He likely means to use us as hostages for his benefactors within the former lands of the Three Daughters. Last I heard, they were going to take us in the direction of the Stepstones."

Gyles hung his head. So close. I was so close to home. Gods damn it all. Sudden despair threatened to overwhelm him. He didn't know if Red Ella expected him to respond, but in that moment, Gyles found himself utterly robbed of his own voice. I'm going to die. It was a feeling that he couldn't explain, akin to the ones he felt in his gut. Intuition that defied logic, and had seldom been proven wrong. I will die before I see my home again.

The passage of time was impossible to gauge within the depths of the Steadfast. At some point, Sers Malwyn and Yorick awoke. Apart from the occasional complaints from Ser Malwyn about pain in his leg from a largely superficial sword wound he'd taken, neither man seemed desirous of conversation. That was just as well, for Gyles and Red Ella seemed content to spend their time in brooding silence as well. Gyles sat in the darkness with his eyes closed, the maddening throbbing in his skull receding somewhat, but never quite going away.

Deep within the interminable dark and stillness, the separation between consciousness and slumber became nearly imperceptible for Gyles. Mostly, he reminisced and dreamed about home. He remembered when he'd first tamed Evenfall, as a squire of only fourteen namedays. Yronwood's stablemaster had told all who'd listen that the young sand steed stallion was half-mad, and would likely kill a man just as soon as he'd let him mount him. Gyles had seen that as a challenge, and had entered the ring with the bucking and kicking stallion after a morning of watching knights with half again as many years as him try and fail to ride the horse. Gyles had approached the stallion directly, even as he watched his father trying to restrain his petrified mother. It was madness, Gyles had thought, which put a wide grin on his face as he drew close to the wary stallion. When he'd reached out his hand to stroke the stallion's nose, it didn't recoil or bite. Smiling even more, Gyles had leaned close, whispering soothingly into its ear. "Methinks we're both a little mad," he'd quietly confessed to the horse, "so from one madman to another, why don't you give me a chance?" Without any further hesitation, he'd wrapped his arms about its neck and swung himself up onto the stallion's back. The stallion proceeded to gallop about the ring as fiercely as a raging tempest, with Gyles clinging to its neck and laughing joyously all the while. When the creature eventually wore itself out, Gyles still sat atop its back, and reveled in the raucous jubilance of the watching crowd.

Only a year later, he'd killed his first man and lain with his first woman. Within the same day, as a matter of fact. There were plenty of tiny villages nestled amongst the Red Mountains' hidden valleys, that since time immemorial had changed hands between Dornishmen, Reachmen, and Stormlanders. The people of the villages were hardy folk, and knew how to wield cudgel and sling just as well as a plow, for raids and counterraids across the Red Mountains were an omnipresent fact of life. Men and women both of the villages were ready to take up arms at a moment's notice in the defense of their friends, family, and livelihood.

Gyles had been sent with a contingent of knights and men-at-arms from Yronwood to help defend one such village from an incursion of raiders from the Stormlands. The attack had come sooner rather than later, and in the heat of it all, Gyles had put an arrow through the heart of a grizzled man with a purple bolt of lightning emblazoned across his chest. The realization of it all had only set in after the dust of battle had settled, and the Stormlanders that could still walk had fled back into the northern passes in defeat. It was as though the lightning on the slain man's chest had arced forth and struck Gyles, its energy coursing through his veins with such brutal intensity that he began to shake and feel a powerful urge to vomit, while at the same time wishing to shout and laugh at the top of his lungs with exhilaration.

Gyles' comrades and the people of the village were all in high spirits following their total victory, and the ale and wine had flowed freely as bonfires burned bright into the night. The celebration was wild and unrestrained, full of the kind of joy only experienced by those who had faced death and knew that they'd live to see the coming dawn's light. In the center of it all, a smiling and laughing girl about his own age had taken Gyles' hand and led him into the shadows beyond the bonfires. His movements had been shaky and erratic with a different kind of anticipation as they worked to unclothe each other. It was Gyles' swordbelt that dropped first to the ground, followed by her sling and knapsack of large polished rocks. Gyles' gambeson, followed by her cloak and cured leather mantle, and so on. Laying in the dim light of the dying bonfires afterwards with the girl sleeping in his arms, Gyles had watched the night sky above the mountains turn a vibrant violet with the approaching sunrise. He had realized then that he felt more alive, happy, and free than he ever had behind the thick stone redoubts of Yronwood Castle.

Gyles was brought back into his current waking reality by the sound of clanking chains. The wooden hatch of the mid-deck had been raised, and a large group of men, women, and children in ragged garments and manacles were escorted into the lower hold at swordpoint by stone-faced pirates. Some of them wept, but most of their faces were devoid of emotion, hollow and uncomprehending. As his comrades watched like hawks for any signs of insubordination, a burly pirate then proceeded to loop the rusted chain through each set of manacles worn by the unfortunate souls in the lower hold, including Gyles'. Afterwards, the corsair climbed back up to the mid-deck, and the hatch was closed.

Gyles turned to the man closest to him, one of the newcomers. His face was wan and emaciated, his eyes tired and sad. Though his olive skin indicated what must have once been a darker complexion, an extended amount of time deprived of sunlight made the man's skin much paler, and gave him an almost sickly look.

"Who are you?" Gyles asked weakly. He lacked the will and conviction to say more.

The man looked to him with dark eyes, ringed with deep bags. "Mero of Braavos," the man responded, "though most of your new companions are Westerosi, taken in a recent raid on a coastal village." He sighed. "The men present, myself included, are either too weak or too broken down to be of use on the oars. The crew of this ship and several captured Dornish soldiers took our place on their galley." Mero coughed weakly. "It matters not. As soon as we make port, we will all be sold for other purposes."

The Braavosi looked directly into Gyles' eyes, his expression emotionless and cold. "A bit of friendly advice. Don't bother learning any of our names. We're all nothing now but meat for foreign flesh markets. The moment we step off this ship, we may as well no longer exist."