The Three Sisters emerged from the mists of The Bite like the hulking skeletons of drowned giants, lost at sea, so dark and obscured by fog that Sansa Stark did not quite believe they were real until the Barnacled Belinda was nearly within the Sisterton harbor. Were it not for the beacon of the Night Lamp, they would not have been able to see the island at all. The tower is the only building in the town taller than three stories, a sentinel standing guard over the harbor, beaming light out to cut through the murky air and guide passing ships to safety.
The Belinda slips silently into Sisterton at midday, but to Sansa, it seems that it might as well still be night, with thick grey clouds blocking out the sky and the cold mist strangling any sunshine that manages to break through. Shivering, she wraps a heavy wool shawl over her thin grey dress. Thankfully, the leak in their hold had not sunk them so quickly as she feared, but it was quite apparent that they were moving far more slowly and sitting far lower in the water than when they had left White Harbor.
The Sisterton harbor itself seems to be assembled at random, a maze of rickety wooden piers and shacks jutting out from the rocky shoreline with no rhyme or reason. Behind them, what is visible through the fog, are tightly clustered straw-roofed hovels, half looking abandoned, save for the ghostly candlelight glowing within. As they come into dock, a wave of stench rolls over the bow, pig dung and spoiled fish. Sansa gags and wraps her arm a little tighter around Lady's neck. The wolf growls at the smell, and she turns to Mycah beside her.
"Have you been here before?" she asks.
"No," he shakes his head, turning up the hood of his dark green cloak to keep out the cold and the rotting air that comes with it. "But it's quite what I imagined."
Sansa can't help but agree. She had heard many stories about the Three Sisters – none of them good. "This is a cursed place. We should not stay long."
"Nice to see some things never change!" Torbin Tollett shouts, shattering the eerie silence as he shoulders past them, ropes in hand, to jump off the boat onto the nearest pier with a splintering crash so loud Sansa expects to see him fall straight through the planks into the frigid water below.
Uthor and Niamh follow quickly, the huge Skagosi wildings heaving silently on the ropes, pulling the Belinda into place and tying them tight against the barnacle-crusted posts. The deck shakes with a sudden jolt as it thuds against the pier before settling in. Reaching back up to the deck, Uthor swings down the wooden ramp, grunting as it thuds down onto the pier. They look up to their passengers expectantly.
Sansa glances over to Therry, Fen, and Remus as they gather their packs and begin to disembark. Her companions don't seem unnerved by their arrival on the haunting island. I shouldn't either, she thinks, hardening her face and straightening her back as she picks up her own pack and follows the others to the ramp.
"Stick close to me," Mycah whispers, eying the harbor nervously as the few lonely dockworkers he can see through the mist begin to turn their attention toward the new arrivals. That, Sansa did not need to be told, staying close behind him as they descend the ramp. But as she cautiously steps down onto the groaning planks, she realizes that Lady has not followed her.
The direwolf lingers at the top of the plank, her hair rising up along her spine, nostrils open to breathe in the new environment, lips curling back to reveal fangs in a snarl. She looks down at Sansa, eyes wide and cold, but does not move.
"Lady, come!" Sansa waves her forward, but the wolf does not respond, staring right through her and pawing at the deck, claws out. Sansa looks around for help, but knows that if she cannot bring Lady to heel, no one can. Slowly she walks back up the ramp, kneeling to hold Lady's head in her hands. Under the thick fur, she feels cold. "What's wrong?"
The wolf does not answer. She nudges Sansa's face away, leaving a cold wet mark on her cheek, and turns, expecting her to follow. But Sansa remains on the ramp, confused, as Lady pads away, the grim feeling holding her spine in a cold grip growing tighter as she stands to look back into the misty town. It seems darker now, the fog waiting to swallow them all up. As she lingers, the two wildings move to help her down.
"Don't fret, m'lady," Niamh speaks, and Sansa hears her voice for the first time – low and dark, but smooth, like a winter wind, a voice Sansa finds herself trusting without hesitation. "We'll stay with the wolf. These folk don't care much for our kind."
"Her name's Lady."
"Come on, Lady, let's get you something to gnaw on." Niamh reaches down to scratch the back of Lady's neck, and she eagerly answers the call of the towering woman.
Reluctantly, Sansa turns away, stepping back down the ramp and hurrying past her waiting companions down off the uneven pier. A path of half-sunken wooden planks leads up into the town, with sticky mud on either side, leaving only enough space for two people to walk side-by-side.
"Let's move!" Mycah makes haste to follow, and the others step in line behind him. "I don't want to stay out here any longer than we have to."
He and Therry step in front of Sansa, leading the way. She can recognize the squire's familiar training, always on guard. He left his trident behind on the ship, but his right hand lingers close to the sword on his belt, head always pivoting to assess threats. Beside him, Therry eagerly mimics each move.
"Where do we go to hire a new boat?" Sansa asks, her own eyes keeping careful watch around them. The handful of strangers scattered among the shacks and lean-tos watch them still, but none come near. It is far quieter than any harbor she has passed through before – too quiet, as if its voice has been stolen by some dark sea witch.
"The docks are sparse," Mycah casts a nervous glance at the handful of boats moored behind them; ancient-looking things creaking in the wind.
"All gone to raid on the mainland, no doubt," Remus adds. "Half the island's probably back looting our homes, thanks to this war."
Sansa turns a cold glare his way, daring him to try and blame House Stark for the coast's recent troubles, but he leaves it there, hands shoved in his pockets, trudging on.
"Ser Wylis is making short work of those pirates," Mycah admonishes Remus as they reach an uneven set of steps up a crumbling bluff and into the town. "And we wouldn't want to deal with them, anyway. We'll find some other fishing cog willing to carry us to Saltpans at least. Or even Gulltown. But we should find lodging first."
"Innkeeps here will charge the shirt off ye' back," Torbin coughs from the rear of the group. Sansa notes the captain walks with a limp on land he hadn't had at sea. "I know a few places, cheap but fair."
"We can afford a little better than that," Mycah stops at the top of the steps. Turning back, he pulls aside his cloak to reveal a heavy green pouch on his belt. He gives it a slap, and the coins inside rattle. "There's gold here for good rooms and still enough for the new charter."
"Waving around coin like that is an excellent way to get robbed," Remus grumbles.
"So is sleeping in one of these crumbling pirate shacks," Mycah argues back, but quickly covers the pouch with his cloak, nonetheless. He turns to Sansa. "What say you, my lady?"
Sansa looks back towards the water – now wholly consumed by the fog, the Barnacled Belinda only a shadowy outline in the mist. The haggard buildings of Sisterton around them seem skeletal, made up of dark frames and glowing with faint lights that seem anything but welcoming.
"I would rather risk danger by paying for a good room than ensure it by staying here," she nods confidently, careful that her inner fear does not show on her face. She beckons Torbin forward. "Do you know a place?"
"Aye, I know of a few," the ragged man scratches the back of his head nervously, falling into silence before realizing that the expectant silence of the others waits upon him to guide them. Hauling his bum leg to the front of the line, he hacks up a clump of dark flotsam.
"Lead the way," Mycah steps aside, letting Torbin take his place.
With a long, weary sigh, the captain twists his back from side to side with a load crack and waves his long arms as he trudges up and on, leading them into the mist.
The tavern and inn known as the Bloody Falcon is, as far as Sansa can tell, the largest building in Sisterton, save for Breakwater, the lonely castle of House Borrell, which lurks further up the bluffs. Wider than it is deep, the wooden hall encircles the town square – the only stone surface in Sisterton it seemed, though the ancient cobblestones have sunken deep into the mud, the same as the plank roads that crisscross the town. Years of haphazard expansions have left it with the appearance of a dozen buildings smashed into one – new wings and towers jutting out at absurd angles. Inside, it is just as much a patchwork, a labyrinth of halls and stairs that even a regular customer could easily get lost in. But in the room at the top of the tallest lop-sided tower, Sansa feels safe – so long as no great storms arrive to bring the whole delicate pile of sticks crashing down around them.
Therry and Torbin would be renting bunks in a long barracks beneath them. But a few extra coins slid across the bar to the plump, web-fingered proprietor had secured Sansa, Fen, Remus, and Mycah what passed for choice lodging. It was only after they climbed the precarious outdoor stair to the upper chamber that Sansa realized it is only one large room, with two beds.
"We'll sleep here," Fen marches past her to the far bed, throwing her pack down, unfazed by the circumstances. She drops down onto the mattress, sending up a puff of dust. Sansa, however, stays back by the door, the shadows barely disguising the bright red blush rushing to her face.
"How bad is it?" Remus calls from behind her. Realizing she's blocking the entrance, Sansa awkwardly scuttles in, letting the boys follow. She slowly moves to the far wall, looking the room over – no curtains, no partitions, just two beds, an unpadded chair, and a three-legged chest of drawers.
"Not bad at all," Mycah smiles, taking off his cloak – slick with moisture from the mist – and hanging it to dry on a peg in the wall. He stops when he spies the panicked look on Sansa's face, which only makes her blush more. Suddenly, the embarrassment begins to show on his own face as he takes in the bed. "I'm sorry, I thought... I can see…"
"What's the matter?" Remus rolls his eyes as he sprawls out on the bed by the door, coughing from the dust. "The lady can sleep with Fen, we'll take the bed by the door. Have to stand guard and all that noble rubbish."
"Remus, no, I…" Mycah stammers, words tumbling out of his mouth faster than he can form them. For the first time since leaving the city, his confident demeanor falters for a moment, in a way Sansa cannot help but find endearing as he glances anxiously between her and the beds. He really is still just a boy after all.
"You've done well, Mycah, it will be fine," she steps forward into the room with a deep breath, banishing the red from her face. Returning the poise to her walk, she steps to the far bed, gently dropping her pack onto the mattress next to Fen. "We should all stay together. It will be safer that way. You can simply wait outside while we change."
"Yes, of course," Mycah nods, slowly, his assurance slowly returning. He drops into the chair, letting his pack fall to the floor, wincing as a stray stick from the wicker-back jabs him in the side. "This will do."
"I'm going to see what sort of food they serve here," Remus swings his feet back onto the floor, making for the door. "My father says the Sistermen eat vile things. That's why they're so freakish."
Fen stands silently to follow him to the door, looking back expectantly at Mycah, but he waves them on out of the room as he shifts in the chair, trying to wrestle some degree of comfort from the shoddy handiwork. As the wind slams the door shut, he and Sansa are left alone, and Sansa's blush begins to return.
"Are you certain this will be alright?" he asks. "We may be here a few days. I want you to be comfortable."
"No, this is very pleasant," Sansa insists, forcing a smile as she pats the mattress, sending up more puffs of dust. She spies a large, dark bug scurrying under the bed and quickly looks away. "I'm glad you're staying here, without Lady… she's never done that before. Old Nan, my nursemaid, she used to say wolves had a special way about things. That they could sense evil." You shouldn't be talking like this, she scolds herself, like a scared child. "I know I must sound very silly."
"No, not at all!" Mycah insists. "But I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. Animals don't like unfamiliar places. And this place smells dreadful. I'm certain it's only that."
With a sigh, Sansa walks to the window, pulling aside the moth-eaten curtains, and snaps the latch, letting the shutters swing open with a rusty screech. The cold air from outside rushes in as she leans out. She can see all of Sisterton leading down to the harbor, straw roofs poking up from the fog to mark each house and shop. She can even see a few defiant rays of sun poking through the grey clouds. From here, the town does not seem so frightening. The smell, however, is just as rancid.
She hears the creak of the chair behind her as Mycah stands. When she turns, she jumps to see a long, curved dagger in his hand.
"Oh, gods!" she gasps, jumping back, her head smacking against the windowpane.
"No!" Mycah's eyes go wide. "My lady, forgive me, this is for you!"
"Ah, of course," Sansa grimaces, rubbing the bump forming on the back of her head. Must you keep making a fool of yourself in front of him? "What do you mean?"
"I want you to have this," he insists, stepping cautiously forward. She holds uncertain hands up to him as he presses the hilt into her palm. It is an elegant, curved blade in a smooth leather sheath, ringed with onyx studs. The metal is cold to the touch, but she does not shiver as she tightens her fingers around it. "I can show you how to use it."
"Certainly," she smiles. For a moment, she pictures Arya with Needle and pulls the knife close to her chest. "But I do not fear I should require this, so long as you are here."
"You're flattering, my lady," he smiles, stepping closer to close the shutters and lock out the frigid, salty breeze. "And I will defend you with my life. But my father isn't all wrong, after all. These are dangerous times. And I have a horrid feeling they're about to get even worse."
Night falls over the North. At a crossroads on the rocky dirt road winding down to White Harbor sits an inn. It has passed through too many generations to count, proprietors coming and going as the seasons turn, taking with them old names and leaving behind new ones. To most travelers making the long trek across the mercurial plains of the North, it is known only as Ravenhead Inn, for the family that rules the small, ancient keep a day's journey away. Of late, the sign above the door reads The Iced Cauldron. But tonight, it is burning.
In the distance, a wolfpack howls, joining the cacophony of carrion crows circling overhead, drawn here by the stench of death. Dead bodies – farmers and soldiers alike – are heaped in smoldering piles, too wet from the thick mist lying low on the moors to take to light. But the inn burns bright, a cruel, crackling inferno that washes Ser Jaimie Lannister in orange light as he stares into the flames, so close he can feel the tips of his golden hair begin to singe.
"They should have let it stand," he mutters to Antario Jast, barely loud enough for his fellow knight to hear, standing back a safer distance from the blaze. "We could have had a proper night's sleep. Now we'll be stuck in this frigid hell."
If Jast has heard him, he offers no reply, not that Jaime is waiting for one. All he can hear is the crackling fire, hoping it will burn the stench of killing off him, for he knows that bed or rock, he will not sleep tonight. It was little comfort to know he himself had only slain men-at-arms today. The Brave Companions had slaughtered the villagers – and he had stood by, trying to drone out their perverse whoops of war and the screams of innocents. He had told Vargo Hoat such a massacre was unnecessary. But Hoat insisted it was the only way to draw out the Manderly force from Ravenhead Keep. Jast had not disagreed. And Jaime had not the nerve to fight, for he knew what his father would command.
And it had worked. The Manderly men had ridden out and they had fallen to the Brave Companions. Now, their bodies were mingled in desecrated mounds with those they had fought in vain to save. Another great Lannister victory. Another bloody stain on his monstrous legacy. For a moment, he can hear the mad king beckoning to him from the fire. Burn them all! Burn them all! And for a shorter moment, he considers following the call into burning hell.
"Pardon me, sers," a voice calls out from behind. Jaime turns to see the old, exiled maester Qyburn standing back in the shadows, waiting upon him. "Will you come and inspect the prisoners?"
Prisoners? Jaime scoffs at the thought. At least someone has survived this bloodbath. Together with Jast, he steps back from the fire and stalks off into the darkness as Qyburn leads the way. Jaime treads gingerly through the dark, his eyes poorly adjusted after staring so long into the blaze, careful not to trip over any forgotten body parts. He keeps his eyes on the back of Qyburn's balding head, unwilling to look at the remains of their handiwork. His handiwork. You're one of them now, he reminds himself, and shudders.
They find the survivors – not quite a dozen, and soon to be less, by the look of them – lined up at the bottom of a gulley. Far from the glow of the fires, the bloodied, haggard men appear as if they've half-turned to ghosts already in the blue light of the full moon above them. They stand on display for the leader of the Brave Companions himself – Vargo Hoat, who paces proudly before his victims. His long, black goatee sways back and forth as the pointed horns of his helm glisten.
"Foolith knighth!" Vargo cackles a ghoulish laugh, spitting through his garish lisp as he boasts. "You think your fancy armor and pretty vowth make you better than the Brave Companionth? I think we have dithuaded you of that. None of it could thave you! Not your preciouth keepth either! We'll have them. Your wiveth too! If you live, it will only be to watch!"
"They will live," Jaime cuts off the bloviating warlord, who spins on his heel, shooting an offended glare towards Jaime, but he does not look back into those mad eyes, instead gazing over the prisoners one by one.
He has never met these men before, but even in their battered state, it is easy enough to tell which ones are highborn. Only two – one a tall, strapping knight with what was once a yellow beard, now dark and matted with blood, his face swollen into one huge, hideous bruise. Jaime fears the man will not last the night. The other is a wheezing man so fat Jaime can scarcely believe a smith was able to forge a breastplate to fit him. This can only be a Manderly, Jaime thinks. Thank the Mother he managed to survive.
"What do you want with thith trath, Lanithter?" Vargo hisses. Again, Jaime ignores him, turning to Qyburn.
"You were a maester once, were you not? Tend to these men."
"Of course, ser," Qyburn bows, smiling oddly. "I assure you, there is no man in Oldtown with greater healing skills than I. You will not lose these men."
Jaime motions for Jast to lead the prisoners away, but as he turns, he finds Vargo standing directly behind him, so close he can smell the rancid drool quivering on the sellsword's lip.
"I decide who liveth and dieth in my camp," he growls.
"And whose gold is filling your coffers, Hoat?" This time, Jaime stares back into Vargo's eyes, deep pits of nothingness, too dark even to reflect the stars. "So long as you wish to stay in my family's employ, you will conduct yourself accordingly. We need prisoners. These men are valuable."
He turns to find the two knights still standing in place, the tall blonde man now leaning heavily upon the fat one's shoulder. Above a thick, bushy mustache lurks an exceptionally hard look for such a soft man.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Ser Wylis Manderly, I presume?"
"And this is my goodbrother, Ser Rickard Woolfield, and these men with us all noble and true servants of House Stark. The North will not stand for this butchery!"
Wylis spits a large clump of bloody bile on Jaime's boot. But he summons up his most confident grin in response. They may not know who I am, but they know I am a Lannister, thanks to that idiot sellsword. Best to play the part. Be what they already see.
"Then you have nothing to fear. You heard me, did you not? You are in the care of the greatest healer of the Seven Kingdoms."
Antario comes up behind Ser Rickard, lifting his weight off Wylis' shoulders and dragging his barely conscious body away after Qyburn. Wylis deflates a little with that burden lifted, but his stubborn defiance remains. Jaime offers a helping hand, but he ignores it, hobbling off after his men. But before he goes, he stops to aim a final glare back at Jaime and Vargo.
"You're fools if you think you can take White Harbor!"
"Ha!" Vargo laughs, shoving Wylis on his way. "What maketh you think we're going to White Harbor?"