The room swayed gently with the sea.
Kartiga lay on the bed inside the captain's chamber, one arm over his eyes, the other resting on his chest. The wooden walls creaked now and then. The air was thick with salt and the faint smell of sweat.
Beside him, Tanaka and Kai sat in silence.
Neither spoke.
If not for the sound of waves outside and the slow rocking of the ship, the silence might have felt like something unnatural. Heavy. Waiting.
It had been nearly a week since they left Westeros behind.
Kartiga stared up at the low ceiling. His body had grown used to the ship's movements, but it still made him feel like the floor was always shifting beneath him. He'd never liked the sea. And it had only gotten worse each day.
He turned his head slightly, watching Kai and Tanaka.
Both sat with their eyes closed—breathing slow and even. As if the sea didn't touch them at all.
Were they really people?
That question came to Kartiga more often now. He remembered the day the system gave them to him—men of shadow and silence, blades that moved like wind, hearts unreadable.
Sometimes he wondered if any of this was real. If Westeros itself was real. The screams. The fire. The blood.
But then he'd remember the look on Eleanor Mooton's face, or the trembling of the children, and he'd feel something in his chest twist. That pain was real. And Tanaka's quiet grief… that was real too.
Or at least, it felt like it.
He wasn't sure anymore.
Still, what worried him most wasn't the ghosts behind—it was what lay ahead.
He had sent word to Pentos days before. Promises, messages, plans. If those men failed him, if the deals fell through—then all this suffering, all this bloodshed, would be for nothing.
A soft knock came at the door.
Three times. Quick. Urgent.
Kai stood without a word, hand already on the hilt of his blade. He opened the door slowly.
A templar knight stood there, breathless. Sweat on his brow. His voice came fast, low.
Kartiga sat up at once, annoyed to be disturbed—but that annoyance faded quickly.
"What did you say?" he asked.
The templar repeated it.
And everything changed.
Kai's eyes narrowed. Kartiga was already up and moving, stepping over scattered maps on the floor as he made for the deck. Tanaka followed without a sound.
They reached the outer deck.
The wind hit their faces. Cold and biting.
Far behind them, in the gray morning mist, sails rose on the water.
Not one.
Not two.
Five.
Dark, fast-moving ships with no banners. No flags.
Pirates.
Kai leaned forward slightly, his face still calm. Tanaka stared at the distant shapes with no emotion at all.
Kartiga's jaw tightened.
So close to Pentos.
So close to the end of this cursed voyage.
Now, one more test waited on the waves.
-----------------------
The brothel was quiet, for once.
Outside, the streets of King's Landing still echoed with drunken laughter and the clatter of hooves. But in this room—high above the noise—only the sound of quill scratching against parchment filled the air.
Petyr Baelish sat behind a polished desk, surrounded by silk curtains and gold candlelight. Records were laid out before him—ledgers of coin flowing in and out of his many businesses. Numbers. Names. Lies wrapped in ink.
He studied the page, lips moving slightly as he calculated.
Until the door opened.
He didn't look up—not at first.
Bare feet padded across the carpet. A whore, barely covered in a sheer robe, stepped into the room holding a rolled parchment. She placed it on his desk without a word, turned, and walked away slowly—hips swaying, the robe slipping just enough to reveal all of her.
Petyr glanced at her, then back to the parchment. He unrolled it with one hand, still distracted.
But as he read, his smile faded.
His eyes scanned the page once.
Then again.
And again.
The movement of his lips stopped. The fingers that had been toying with a quill went still.
His brow furrowed.
No expression of shock. No sudden words.
Just silence.
The kind of silence that lingered when something important had happened.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing, face unreadable.
The parchment remained in his hand, now lowered beside him, forgotten for the moment.
He stood and moved slowly to the map hanging beside the hearth. Eyes drifting to the coast of the Trident—there, a small mark by the bay. Maidenpool.
His hand hovered over it, then lowered.
He stood still for a long time.
Then—finally—a thin smile crept onto his lips. Subtle. Measured.
A breath escaped his nose.
"Interesting," he murmured.
He turned back to his desk, pulled the parchment closer, and read it one more time.
This changes things.
----------------------------------
The soft click of the hidden door broke the stillness.
Varys didn't turn.
He recognized the footsteps—light, careful, almost rehearsed.
A child emerged from the shadows, no older than ten, wrapped in plain cloth and soot. The little bird said nothing. Just held out a folded parchment with both hands, eyes lowered.
Varys took it gently.
The child stepped back, melted into the corridor, and was gone.
He stood alone now, the single note resting in his palm.
He unfolded it.
His eyes scanned the message once. Then a second time.
Nothing in his face moved. No twitch. No breath.
Just silence.
After a long moment, he reached for the candle. The flame trembled as he brought the edge of the parchment to it.
The fire caught slowly, then consumed the page in a soft curl of black.
He watched it turn to ash.
When the last corner crumbled in his fingers, he let it fall into the bowl beside him.
Only then did he whisper—
"Maidenpool…"
A pause.
His gaze lingered on the smoke drifting up from the ashes.
Then, barely audible—
"Who are they?"