Notes

The knight’s feet were red raw by the time they got to the slaver’s base of operation, where the slaves were immediately sorted into different cages in varying locations around the warehouse. It was a vast building, one built for herding and slaughtering livestock or some similar task, by Garlan’s guesses.

The Chase

The rain hadn't stopped in days, though the storms that were almost ever present near the Iron Isles had calmed down. The Fingerdancer moved slowly over the water, waves crashing against its prow. The night was dark, though the moon shone bright, its reflection shimmering in the sea.

Few were yet awake on the ship, one of them Jon Myre. As the ships captain, his place was at the rudder. It was there he stood, along with his old and trusted companion, Eight-Fingers. Jon had departed from Greenhill Hall some hours earlier, sneaking out like a thief in the night. No goodbyes had been said. The crew had already been assembled by Eight-Fingers, and soon Greenhill Hall was naught but a tiny little dot on the horizon.

Jon had been unusually quiet the entire journey so far, leaving Eight-Fingers to notify the crew of their plans. After a long silence, and the men having gone to sleep one by one, Eight-Fingers spoke up to Jon: "The crew isn't sure, the ship were after outnumbers us greatly in men."

"They are ironborn," Jon answered sternly, as if that explained everything.

"Well spotted, captain. Our men are good, but those Myrish cunts are trained warriors, not your average merchant," Eight-Fingers grumbled.