YNYS
She had only been among the Ironborn for two months, but already aspects of her old life were forgotten. Being an orphan, Ynys supposed this came as no surprise. She had set out from her home town, Mullford, after being set loose from the orphanage on her fifteenth birthday with nothing but a haunch of bread and a blessing of the Mother, that went unheard. After days of walking she reached Old Town. She didn't know where she was going or what exactly she wanted to do with her life. At the time, she had felt a calling from the sea. She had read many stories in the orphanage, of strange and wonderful places across the water, and of the adventure's that took place on the high sea, and she desperatly wanted to lay her eyes on the ocean.
It was so beautiful and terrifying for this girl, who had only ever known the small walls of that mud brick building in Mullford, to set eyes on something so vast, it stretched across the whole world. She wondered what secrets lay beneath those rushing waves. It was in the city of Old Town that she procured a job on a Dornish merchant ship, bound for Essos. The fat pig of a captain had hired her to keep the books. Only too late did she realize he intended to sell her into slavery across the narrow sea. The crew of the ship were unbearably cruel to her, but the captain did protect her to an extent, if only to keep her maidenhead for whomever purchased her.
After months at sea they came to the Free Cities. She was marched in front of a terrifying man with blue lips and a smiling eye. He looked her over and argued with the captain. She wasn't sure what went wrong, but the next thing she knew she was stowed below deck and they were sailing back to Westerose. She awoke one day to hear fighting on the deck above her cell. The clash of steel and cries of dying men rang in her ears. Then her door burst open to splinters and brutish men with rough hands carried her off. She didn't have any illusions of a rescue, she assumed they were slavers, and she was right.
That's when she lost her maidenhead, to the iron lord with his pale blue eyes, the colour of the sea on a cold morning. Her romantic fantasies of princes and chivalry were gone in an instant as he slapped her hard across the face and took her roughly as she was chained below the deck of their ship. She hated him for that. This man who was capable of such gentleness and at the same time, incredibly hard and unyeilding. She had resolved to kill this man, Even after she was brought to his island and shown no way of escape.
Since landing on Saltcliffe Isle, she had been confined to the castle, spending her days in lessons learning the ways of the Ironborn. She had to admit, she respected their culture. They were a strong people, whom showed incredible fierceness upon their enemies and yet upheld a rigid code of honour. As the days past she began to identify with her captors. She shared their strength, their love and respect of the sea, and before long she forgot she was an orphan of the Reach. Her nights were spent with Lord Donnor. Her initial resentment of the man gave way under his sea blue eyes and with each passing night she felt him awaken something in her... an intense lust that she couldn't resist as hard as she may try. She surrendered to the passion and to the lord, night after night. Yet, in the back of her mind she never forgot her resolution, to kill this man.
After nearly two months of being a prisoner of Salt End she was given freedom of the Island, and named the Saltwife of Lord Donnor of Saltcliffe.
Carefully, Ynys made her way down the Widow's road. A gentle ocean mist had settled over the island earlier that morning, making the journey down the path treacherous even with her guide, Sigrin. He was a kind man, for an Ironborn, and held her hand gently yet firm as they made their way across a narrow slick ridge, the angry waves of the sea lashed up at the jagged rocks below, beckoning her to join them. She lost her footing and would have fell if Sigrin didn't pull her up and press her against the cliff wall.
"Careful, my lady. Many a life has been lost to those rocks below, I told you this trip was folley. Bad weather is coming and you would be safer to wait a few days before venturing the island."
Ynys took a deep breath. "I have been locked in Salt End for long enough. I will see this island and feel the salt breeze."
Sigrin smiled, "Spoken like a true Ironborn, my lady."
They continued on. Finally the narrow ridge gave way to a broader path. However the road sloped downward to a steep drop. The slick sheen of the rocky path threatened to speed her to the Drowned God.
"Keep to the left," warned Sigrin. "Follow my lead." Her hand tight into his, he led her across the tilted road. Her feet slipped upon the wet rocks but Sigrin's strong grip kept her on her feet and guided her safely to the other side. Then they came to the steps, narrow four foot falls that set her brow to sweating and her will to doubt this trip out of Salt End. She clenched her jaw and kept forward. She had to sit down in the mud and slowly lower herself over the steps, Sigrin lead the way and held her hips tight as they descended, one by one. This went on for an agonizing amount of time, until they finally reached the bottom. From than on it was much like any other mountain road, rocky and uneven, but relatively safe. Finally they reached the port where she first landed on the isle. She looked up at Salt End, the lonely peak rising up above it. She beamed happily at her successful journey down the Widow's road. "Well done, my lady. I shall wait for you here. Take your time but know that the climb will be next to impossible by nightfall, so best be back by than."
Ynys made her way onto the pier. The wooden dock housed about a dozen ships, and out in the sea several others were anchored. She saw the
The Blessed in Blood, The Salty Wench, The Bruiser, The Serpentine, The Ugly Maid, and
The Red Reaver but not the ship she was looking for, the one she spied when first coming to the island.
She learned from the harbour master that there were more ships anchored in Lonely Cove, particularily the foreign vessels that were not allowed to leave the Iron Isles by order of the Lord Paramount. The sailors, for the most part, spent their days drinking and pining within Saltford. She made her way into the city. In truth, Saltford wasn't much of a city. There couldn't have been more than two thousand people living within, but there was an iron mine, shops and taverns and a small castle. She climbed the far wall of the city, and spied the ship she had been looking for in the cove. Blowing in the breeze was a banner, with an oaken escutcheon studded with iron, a field bendy of undulating blue and white. A banner of The Reach.
After making some inquiries, Ynys learned that the Reach captain spent his days in an Inn, drinking and wenching to pass the time until the order was given for his ship's release. Ynys walked into the dim tavern, her eyes scanning the room. It was a low stone building, with a bar that stretched along the length of the right wall, tables for patrons on the left, with rooms for guests on the far side. The inn had been taken over by sailors of the Reach. Many slept on the floor or haunched over the bar or tabletops. The only Ironborn that she could see was the lone serving wench and inkeeper.
Too early yet for the isle whores. She was thankful that so few ironborn were within, less of a chance she would be discovered.
In the corner of the room, sitting with several others, was a large man, wearing a fine grass-cat fur cloak, long brown hair and thick side whiskers that ran down his cheeks. A bushy mustache concealed his entire mouth as it curled up into great rings on either side.
This must be the captain. The burly man leaned forward after his brown eyes met hers, and said something bawdy to his friends, and they all broke out into laughter.
Ynys stood at the bar and ordered a mug of warm ale. the Reach captain called out from his table, "I'll buy whatever the fine lass is drinking, if she will pleasure us with her company."
"She will," smiled Ynys as she slowly walked to the table and sat down on the lap of the large man. He laughed merrily as his hands felt her curvy hips. The next few minutes were spent making introductions. The captain's name was Harol Falwell, a merchant sworn to sevice of House Hewett of the Reach. He had come to Saltcliffe shortly before Ynys arrived to trade furs and spices. Like the islanders she met in Old Town, Falwell too, was a proud seaman, boasting of his prowess at oar and sail. She could use his pride to her advantage.
Before the captain could get too drunk, she whispered in his ear of her desire to be alone with him. His mustache twitched excitedly and he rose to his feet and led her to his room. He sat down on the hard bed and motioned for her to join him. She remained standing by the door. "I have a proposition for you," she said.
Falwell's mustache seemed to smile. "Ahh yes lass, anything this captain can do for you."
"How long have you been here, on Saltcliffe?"
"Long enough to get lonely, my sweetling," he patted the bed beside him insistantly.
"Must have been over two months. How long before they finally decide you eat and drink too much of their rations and decide to kill you all?"
Harol Falwell's eyes darkened, he stood up from the bed and looked at the young girl crossly, "What do you want?"
"Freedom from iron."
"What are you proposing?"
"I shall kill Lord Donnor, and we escape in the ensuing choas."
Falwell took a step toward her, bristeling. "Why should I risk it? Why not stay and drink and live?"
"Because if you stay, you will die, and you know it. How many of your crew remain?"
The captain sighed and sat back down on the bed. "Forty we were when we set out from Hewett's Town. Two were slain when they took my ship. The damnable Lord Sunderly has hung another four of my lads and eight he locked up in stocks, for drunk and disorderly. Drunk and disorderly?! On this isle? Pah!"
"You must do something soon, Captain or the rest of you will follow."
"There is a storm coming, once it passes..."
"No, it has to be tonight. We will not get another chance. I have heard their plans, winds and waves will rack the islands then give way to clear skies and calm waters, and you and your men will be dead."
If I wait any longer I will lose my nerve.
"Sail in the storm? That is folly!"
"A shield-islander fretting like a babe from a storm? You prefer to remain and die in fear than brave the lightening and waves?"
Harol Falwell rose to his feet and stepped toward Ynys, staring thoughtfully at her. "You play a dangerous game lass. Are you sure you can see it through?"
She returned his hard gaze and raised her chin confidently. "He captured me, he beat me, he raped me, and for that, Lord Donnor will die."
* * * * *
The sun had set and a deep darkness settled over the Iron Islands. A wailing wind carried stormclouds over the homes of the Ironborn, and waves, high and angry, slammed into the shores. As villagers made for high ground and shelter, Ynys was safe within Salt End.
As she climbed the long winding stairs to the Council Tower, her hand gripped a small vial within her pocket. The instructions of Harol Falwell repeated in her mind.
"You must empty the whole vial," he had said. "Stir it into a drink, and make sure he empties his glass. The poison will not take long, maybe an hour or two. A natural death it will look, so there should be no suspicions. When it is done, scream and cry, whatever you can to cause a commotion. Escape the castle, make for the docks, where I will be waiting. I set sail at midnight, whether or not you are there. Make no mistake, lass, I will leave you behind."
Her feet felt as if they were made of lead as she climbed the stairs. She took a deep breath and steeled herself for what lay ahead. Finally she reached the top, where a gaurd let her in the chamber beyond.
The councils of Lord Donnor were not at all how she imagined such meetings of lordly men. The sounds coming from the chamber are that more akin to a tavern or a brothel. A large table off to the side is overflowing with bottles of wine, casks of ale, shark steaks, boiled seaweed and squid rolls, shrimp swimming in butter, clam soup and fried eels. Donel lay drunk on the floor with a hound. Manfyrd sits off to the corner with a wench on his lap, suckling shamelessly on the girl's breasts. While Sigrin, seemingly the only sober courtier in attendence, leans against a wall and nods in greeting to her as she enters. The councillors sit around a large gold jeweled sundial, out of place in the plain, unordained chamber. There was Qhored, the steward, singing a bawdy song between drinks of wine; Skyte an advisor who always seemed to speak in whispers, but was now loudly demanding the silence of Qhored; Romny with a bundle of scrolls laid out before him and a wench rubbing his shoulders as he poured over the parchments; Todric who sat to the left of the lord's chair, frowning and looking none to pleased; Lord Lucas Sunderly, sitting to the right of the Lord's chair in a place of high honour, draining a flagon of spice wine; and finally sat Lord Donnor, a great shark's skull mounted above his seat, his sea blue eyes intently watching Ynys as she enters, he nods toward the table and raised his empty mug.
Ynys fingers the vile in her pocket as the council behind her mock and jape the off tune singing of Qhored. She takes a deep breath, fills the mug with the dark red wine, and hands it to Lord Donnor. He pulls her onto his lap and sips from the mug, mulling the blood red liquid around in his hand, before taking another deep drink.
Qhored finished his song on a high note which invited the boos and jeers of all the council.
"That has to be the worst singing of
A Cask of Ale I ever heard!" Said a thoroughly disgusted Skyte.
"What's that Skyte? You want an encore?" Asked Qhored, his eyes glassy from the wine.
Lucas Sunderly shook his head, "Sing that song again and I shall throw you from the tower." Qhored fell silent.
Lord Donnor sipped his mug of wine, it was now half full. "What news of the war, Lucas?"
Lucas grabbed a map scroll on the floor beside him and let it fly out over the sundial. It was a map of the North. "Damphair and Cleft-jaw have won a victory at Stoney Shore, here, our first victory against the northeners.
"Our latest news suggests that Cleft-jaw has marched east, to take Torrhen's Square, here.
"Meanwhile, Lady Asha's forces have landed at Deepwood Moat and lay seige to the holdfasts there.
"And our bold Lord Victarion has begun his seige of Moat Cailin, thus giving our forces a grip on the neck, and cutting of the young wolf from his supply lines."
Donnor nooded along as he inspected the map. "It goes well for our Lord Balon. Seems he has caught the Northmen completely unawares."
"What I wouldn't give for a piece of the fight," said Sigrin.
The lord of Saltcliffe took a sip of his wine, now just below half full. "You will get your chance, we all will."
Qhored hiccuped and popped a squid roll into his mouth, his hand running along the sundial. "I thought you gave this to Lord - excuse me -
King Balon?"
Todric snorted, "not all men eagerly accept the vanity of gold, Qhored. True men of iron prefer to pay the iron price."
Donnor fixed Todric under a cool stare. "Yes, Todric, Balon refused the sundial... but tell me, where is the silver chest, or the tyroshi daggers?"
The castallen only shrugged and turned to Lucas. "Tell me, my lord, what of Theon Greyjoy? Your report is decidedly absent of his doings in this war."
Lord Lucas exchanged a quick look with Lord Donnor and sighed, "He has taken Winterfell."
"Aye, with but a token force, too," said Todric.
"Perhaps Iron runs in that boy's blood, afterall," chimed Romny.
Donnor shook his head. "Does it? He has taken Winterfell, but what does he do. Sit's there, with his handful of men and declares himself prince of the north. Make no mistake, the boy has forgotten the Old Ways and is more wolf than kraken." For a moment Todric and Donnor fixed each other with a cold stare, finally Todric averted his eyes and looked down at his drained cup. Donnor turned his attention to Skyte. "We go ahead with our plan. How many will support The Crow's Eye upon his return?"
Skyte cleared his throat and began talking in a whisper, so all had to lean forward to hear his words. "Sadly, I must report that your brother-in-law, Lord Botely is most ferverant in his support of Balon Greyjoy. However, I have spoken to Lord Reaver Gorold of Great Wyck and he has voiced his support of Euron, should events of a
disasterous nature befall our King."
With one last deep drink of wine, Donnor slammed his empty mug down on the golden sundial. "Good, we needed but one Reaver Lord to support Euron. Now we must trust in him to take care of the rest." The lord of the island rose to his feet, Ynys followed close behind. "We have gone too far to falter now. When the time comes, we shall be ready and power and riches abound for us whom served the rightful King of the Iron Island." Donnor led Ynys to the door, but he stopped short and fixed Todric with his cool stare once more. The castallen met his gaze and bowed his head slightly, and with that the lord and his saltwife left the chamber.
* * * * *
The lords bedchamber in Salt End was truly indicative of an Ironborn lord. Braziers burned in every corner of the room to fend off the cool ocean breeze that blew in from the large windows. A hearth burned warm and bright from the southwall, just opposite of the large canopy bed, cut from whale bone, Donnor lay naked within, waiting for his saltwife.
Ynys peeled off her tunic and trousers, revealing the creamy skin of her body, climbing into the bed with this man who had captured her in the Summer Sea. As the lightening flashed and wind roared outside the chamber, she lay warm and comfortable in the arms of Donnor. She placed a vial into his hand. He inspected it, turned it over in his hand, eyeing the cloudy liquid that filled the vial. His ocean blue eyes stared into hers as he tossed it into a brazier, the glass popping from the heat.
Countless grisley scenarios played out in her mind. Would he slit her throat, throw her from the lonely peak, lock her up for the rest of her days, or give her to the Drowned God? Donnor raised his hand to her throat, squeezed gently as he pressed his lips to hers. She gasped as he slid inbetween her legs, her fingers running through his short cropped hair, raking against the lean muscles of his back.
She was an orphan of The Reach turned slave. Now she was a saltwife to a Lord of the Ironborn, master of reaving and the sea, and there was no other place she would rather be.
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