Chapter 30

They sailed out of Saltworks Town through the lengthy narrow sea; when looking east they could see the boundless ocean, and the sky had taken away any sign of mildness. The ship rose and fell on the waves, but that was nothing—they did not need to cross the narrow sea, they only needed to turn northeast to reach Seagull Town in the valley to resupply.

The valley had not known war, making it a good place to buy grain, supplies, and horses; Laisa might have been cruel to that young man, but to most valley folk she was an outright good person.

"My lord, please return to the cabin. The waves are high." Qieluo said.

"Just waves like this." the duke said, "Asaluo thinks there are bigger waves ahead—what do you think?"

Qieluo was at a loss. "I don't know, my lord."

"You don't know, I don't know, only he knows. Let's go back." Gusts rolled over the sea, everywhere came terrifying wails; he glanced back and saw the huge lion-and-stag split banner fully unfurled, pulled taut in the fierce wind as if it might be torn apart any moment, while below the lion, rose, twin towers, and flayed-man banners were pressed together, stuck fast to the mast, occasionally blown loose but snapping back, their edges fluttering against it, and the duke thought he could already hear their crackling.

"Keep a tight watch on the red-robed monk; if he makes any move, cut his throat and toss him into the sea. You decide what counts as a move." Before entering the cabin, he gave the order.

He shut the door and sat in the chair that had been secured, swaying with the ship's side-to-side roll. Even in the corridor he had felt unsteady, only staying upright by gripping the rail, but now alone in the cabin he would not fall and lose dignity.

The cabin was fitted with a secured chair, before it a similarly secured table and bed, but what the duke cared most about was a hammock slung from several beams. Even before he boarded, the captain had told him: a good hammock prevents the person inside from swaying with the ship's motion, whether side‑to‑side or fore‑and‑aft, and thus minimizes seasickness as much as possible.

The wind and waves were still mild, so the duke felt no need to leave his seat. He gently closed his eyes, trying to sense how the outside weather might affect his fleet. With his eyes shut he felt no waves, only various numbers appearing in his mind.

483 various ships carried close to 10,000 soldiers and at least 5,000 warhorses, consuming at least 10 tons of grain and fodder each day. In the name of guarding the North he had borrowed 500,000 gold dragons from Twin River City, 300,000 from the Lannisters, 300,000 from the Tyrells, 100,000 from Lord Hightower, 100,000 from Lord Redwyne. Furthermore, because of his great responsibility, Duke Tywin gave him 100,000, Oldtown gave him 100,000, the Iron Throne gave him 30,000; besides that, he used the North's foreign trade rights as collateral to borrow 500,000 from the Iron Bank, guaranteed by the Tyrells he borrowed 100,000 from Oldtown Bank……The value of the supplies they provided might not be less than the money……Such huge numbers, according to Oldtown's saying, he could even buy the barren North.

If the Starks were willing to sell the North at that price, he felt he would pay without hesitation.

He had not seen a single coin from the Iron Bank's funds, which he spent outright in Braavos; the Twin River City money he divided among thirty different ships; of the other funds, part was paid in advance to the greedy captains, part was deposited in the church bank, to be used for buying supplies in the valley. How much would end up in Lord Belwas's belt he did not know, but compared to the whole North, any figure was trivial.

He felt the huge waves lifting him, felt his body under far greater pressure than usual, heard the cabin creak and groan as if it could not bear the load. As long as it wasn't the sound of breaking timber, it was fine.

After the pressure came a sensation of weightlessness downward. He felt as if he were riding a dragon; for a moment he began to enjoy the experience. Then he felt a sideways thrust; he gripped the left armrest with his left hand to avoid being overturned, then the right hand.

Amid the rocking he heard the distant thunder's roar outside and the patter of rain striking the windows.

He absurdly felt that the red‑robed monk Asaluo was now laughing.

This was the difficulty he had spoken of. The ship provided by the capital was large enough and stable enough; if every ship felt like this, he had no idea what a smaller vessel would be like.

He only hoped that the captains he had hired would deserve their pay.

At that moment a greater force lifted him, making him feel as if his whole body were flying off the seat before instantly dropping. He felt the blow, and his buttocks ached.

How many ships would fail to reach Seagull Town? How great the loss, he did not know; only after reaching port could he truly tally.

The ship was still violently tossing; he had already heard screams from outside. When he could not help vomiting his breakfast, he felt he should abandon the idea of personally leading the fleet to attack the capital, and he felt weak.

He would not like this feeling; he never liked weakness.

He also disliked disorder, and now the cups, wine pots, a few greasy candle stubs, pen tubes, ink bottles and dozens of sheets of parchment were rolling around on the floor with the ship's motion, thumping incessantly.

The hanging lamp swayed with the motion, its mottled shadow cutting back and forth across his face.

He thought he could steady his consciousness by watching the swinging lamp, avoiding excessive seasickness.

This really helped; he felt as if he were swinging on the lamp. The yellowish light, locked inside the glass cover, emitted a wisp of black smoke; though the flame leaned yellow, its light was unexpectedly pure and bright, already far better than a candle.

He continued to rise and fall with the ship's tossing, swaying left and right.

The windows and door were battered by the storm, making a rapid, fresh pap‑pap‑pap sound; rain hammered the outer planking, producing a reverberating crack‑crack‑crack; thunder outside rang out with an unquestionable imperial roar; besides that, he seemed to hear the sound of leather slapping the air.

It was then that the duke saw the drifting black shadow on the wall.

That was a dragon flying in the sky, he realized; the dragon flapped its wings and roared at the endless waves, and he seemed to hear the dragon's cry.

He looked again at the swaying, circling lamp. This time he was sure there was an image in the firelight.

A girl with smooth brown long hair struggled to mount the dragon, leaping from the vast arena into the sky; the wind blew her long hair back, revealing the tightly bound silver short hair underneath. She rode the dragon through the clouds.

He felt he knew the girl's identity, but he had no interest in it; compared to the fact that a human silhouette could be seen in the firelight, these details meant nothing. Even if the image were real, she was ten thousand miles away, and besides, they had no grudge; even if her true dragon were born—so be it, he could kneel like Torrhen Stark, just as the Tyrells had knelt before her ancestors.

Heh, Lahuo wondered if she had anything to do with him—ridiculous.

After the dragon‑riding girl vanished into a gray cloud, he lost track of her; then, reappearing beneath the gray cloud was a battered sea‑ship, drifting alone on the ocean. Its mast had been broken, and the crew were sawing it into sections, seemingly intending to turn it into oars. He saw a girl with brown hair sitting on the deck, listlessly gazing at the calm sea; he could not make out her face.

He was certain there were no women on his ship.

He felt the tossing, then slowly rose, steadied himself carefully in the cabin, then quickly pulled a silk robe from the bed, then staggered to the place where he had vomited, rolling twice before managing to wipe the vomit clean.

He held the silk robe, struggling to pull it to the handrail by the window; outside, seawater or rain had already seeped through the gaps. He hooked one foot on the nearby pillar, used the other hand to pry open the window panel, exposing a slit. The gale rushed into the cabin at once, and he heard some breaking sounds. The lamp swung more wildly. He pushed the silk robe out the window, feeling a great force instantly snatch it away.

Heh, this is my tribute, he thought.

Through the slit in the window he saw a huge flash of lightning illuminate the sea, revealing the surging waves nearby, like a dark‑brown ancient beast struggling to rise, which made his heart pound.

He was about to shut the window tight when a foreign object blew in through the gap. In panic the window was actually pulled wider from inside by the wind, the panel nearly torn apart. He himself was almost sucked out the window, but thanks to his foot hooked on the pillar he grabbed the wooden rod, quickly steadied his body, leaned forward, grabbed the panel and pulled it down, then bolted the window shut, sealing it firmly. After several attempts he found himself completely soaked.

After doing those motions he discovered that the lamp began swinging from a high point on one side to a high point on the other, then back down, repeatedly stretching and shrinking his shadow.

After that maneuver he felt he had actually steadied himself a little in the cabin; a major toss made him feel as if he jumped up with it and then landed steadily on the planks. Having done that, he reseated himself in the fixed chair.

Only then did he have a chance to examine the object that the wind or seawater had blown in.

A small octopus. He picked it up, pinching its skull between two fingers, and in the dim lamp light its eight arms writhed.

He wondered why at this moment he wanted to turn and look at the octopus's reflection in the lamp light.

"\"For Robb Stark…\" he thought he ought not to hear a voice from the shadows, but he did—\"I sentence you to death. \""

He saw the criminal's face; even in his final moments he still wore that mocking smile.

He looked at the octopus again; its tentacles climbed onto his fingers, he gripped its head and gave it two hard flicks; it became a little more subdued, but the tentacles still struggled.

"Ah…" he heard a wail from the shadow; a gray‑white haired man with sharp, angular features fell from the gallows, dropping from the bridge; as he fell his expression was not fear but utter rage. He did not know who this was.

The octopus's tentacles crawled back onto his hand; this time he did not shake it off, his fingers could pry it open.

This time, in the gray shadow, a man with red eyes gave him a contemptuous little smile—no one had ever looked at him with such disdain, so he curled the corner of his mouth— the other withdrew the menace, showing a thoughtful smile. The duke likewise did not know who this was.

After that he threw the octopus onto the table, drew a dagger, and drove it deep, pinning it down; its arms began to stroke the blade.

This time he saw a barbarian's head placed inside a box.

At this moment he heard a knock on the door.

He left his seat and opened the hatch. Outside, Qie Luo's face was pale, his leather armor still stained with some vomit, his hand gripping the handrail by the door tightly. Beside him, Asaluo stood tall, as if enjoying the sway of the ship, smiling at him.

"You are very brave," the Duke said first, "Has the wind outside not blown you away?"

"As you see, my lord, the wind blew me here."

The wind whistled through the gaps between the planks, his robe fluttering, yet he himself stood steady on the deck, which made him feel miraculous.

The Duke pulled the door wider, gesturing for him to come in.

"In this wind and wave, we should start as soon as possible and finish as soon as possible—you must agree!" The outside noise was too loud, so the Duke had to raise his voice slightly, but only a little, because he himself could barely hear what he was saying.

"Cheluo, just stay outside." After waiting for the red-robed monk to enter, he closed the door.

"My lord, I have come for you." He said this in his usual tone. "To solve your problems."

"Hearing you say that makes me glad." He paused, "But you must say why you have come for me. Don't say it's your god's arrangement; even if it is, I need to know the purpose behind that arrangement."

"My lord. I cannot hide it from you. My goal is truly to help you, to help you take the North. This is what my true Lord has arranged for me to do. As for why, He has not told His poor servant, and I should not speculate, but I feel that the Lord believes your goal can destroy evil for Him."

"My goal is Stark."

"Perhaps it's the North, perhaps Stark himself is evil. I don't know."

"You don't know, that's uncommon. I would like to agree with you, but most Northerners would not agree. Stark is hard to call evil, and the North is the same."

"Perhaps, my lord. It's just speculation." He paused, "I came here to solve your immediate difficulty."

He paused again. The Duke felt it best to let him explain himself.

Another violent jolt; the Duke felt himself lift off the chair again. He gripped the armrests tightly. Then he fell faster, feeling pressure on his buttocks, somewhat painful. The red-robed monk simply opened his arms, crouched, and weathered the jolt unharmed. Outside came Cheluo's wail; he must have hit something again.

"My lord. Since setting out from Salt Field Town, not counting the ship that sank near the harbor, you have lost forty-nine vessels so far. I cannot imagine how many you will have left by Seagull Town."

"Price?" The Duke felt no need to hesitate further.

"Offering."

"What offering?"

"People, living people."

"We can't light a fire now."

"Blood will do."

"Mine?"

"No, the offering's."

He stood up, took the dagger from the squid on the table, opened the door. Cheluo heard the sound, hurriedly struggled to rise from the deck, and the Duke stepped forward, driving the dagger hard into his heart, just as it had entered the King of the North.

He struggled to lift his head, eyes wide, staring at the Duke in disbelief.