The breath of winter seemed already capable of chilling the back of one's neck. Davos and Salladhor Saan stood on the swaying deck, gazing at the deadly silent and dangerous sea ahead, their faces etched with unprecedented gravity.
They had no other choice.
Piled high in the hold was not ordinary cargo, but life-saving food—grain and salt beef that had to reach Westeros before the severe cold completely locked down the shipping lanes. Otherwise, countless people would not survive this long winter.
Even more suffocating was the fact that this entire shipload of food represented their life savings and every loan they could secure. Every sack of wheat shone with the luster of the Gold Dragons they had painstakingly saved over the years.
Success might grant them a sliver of survival; failure meant eternal damnation.
"If this ship sinks, or gets taken..." Salladhor Saan's voice was dry. His eyes, usually filled with cunning mirth, now held only anxiety. "We won't just be bankrupt, old friend. We'll be worth less than the rats on this deck."
Davos nodded silently, his rough palm gently stroking the coarse wooden railing. He knew better than anyone what this meant. Losing this meant they would no longer be merchants, nor even decent sailors. To survive, they would have to pick up swords and become the very thing they had tried to avoid, the people they had dodged on the seas—pirates.
Davos was unremarkable in appearance, thin, with brown hair and brown eyes that allowed him to vanish easily into a crowd. Only his thick, messy gray beard showed traces of wind and frost.
Davos came from Flea Bottom, the lowest pit of King's Landing, struggling to survive in the mud since childhood. In his youth, he had been a cabin boy on the Cobblecat, following Captain Roro Uhoris across the Narrow Sea. Later, Uhoris was caught by the Night's Watch for selling weapons to Wildlings and executed—a scene deeply etched in Davos's memory, teaching him early on the harshness of the law and the cold of the frontier.
However, the lesson of reality didn't make Davos cower. Even after becoming a notorious smuggler, he didn't refuse to trade with the Night's Watch—as long as the price was right. In those years, he was accustomed to steering a small boat with black sails late at night, slipping silently like a floating leaf into heavily guarded harbors, truly the most elusive shadow in the dark.
His current partner, Salladhor Saan, stood almost as the antithesis of his character and background.
This Lysene mercenary captain was as hard to define as the ever-changing flags above his head: sometimes a shrewd merchant, sometimes a generous banker, and in the next turn, a feared pirate. He was slick, socially adept, and famous for his flamboyant, garish attire.
Davos still clearly remembered the sight when they first met: Salladhor wore a brilliant coat woven with silver thread and trailing sleeves, buttons carved from jade into the shape of monkeys, and a fan-shaped green hat adorned with peacock feathers atop his fine, white curly hair—a striking, amusing contrast.
The Saan family's history as pirate lords ran deep, tracing back three centuries to the reign of Aegon I Targaryen. One of Salladhor's ancestors, Samarro Saan, had even been a member of the infamous Band of Nine that terrorized the Narrow Sea.
Now, fate had bound these two men of vastly different backgrounds into the same high-stakes gamble.
Their two ships sat quietly in the treacherous waters: the Valyrian, a large galley with three hundred oars and hull painted in gaudy colors; and the Bird of a Thousand Colors, a broad-hulled Lysene merchant ship built for ocean trade.
All their hopes, all their possessions, and even their fates were tied to these two ships and the cargo of food that had to arrive before winter.
Davos looked at the faintly visible outline of Black Rock Island in the distance, frowning, trying to find a lifeline in this desperate situation. "I saw Euron Greyjoy at the Tourney in King's Landing," he mused, his gray beard trembling slightly with his words. "Back then, people called him 'The Blade of Justice'. He isn't a man addicted to slaughter; I came here to seek justice for his people who were raided. If we tell him the truth, explain that the food on board determines whether countless commoners survive the winter, perhaps... he will show mercy."
Salladhor Saan let out an exaggerated scoff, the peacock feather on his green hat bobbing as he shook his head. "My dear old friend, your naivety is heartbreaking!" He tugged at his silver-threaded sleeve, his tone sharpening. "Have you not heard of the three 'Crowns of Sea Skulls' built from human heads? You want to talk reason and mercy with him now?" He leaned in abruptly, his jade monkey buttons flashing cold in the sun. "I tell you, he won't blink when he chops off your head, let alone listen to half a word from you!"
Davos fell silent for a moment, a struggle passing through his brown eyes. He looked at the hold full of grain—their only hope. Finally, he lowered his voice and proposed a nearly desperate plan. "Then... we simply join him here, acting as pirates for the time being? At least we can keep our lives and the cargo."
Salladhor Saan paused, then burst into laughter, the sound jarring on the tense sea. "Haha! Perhaps the spirits of my pirate ancestors really are calling me!" He patted Davos on the shoulder, though his eyes held little mirth. "To be honest, the line between mercenary and pirate is sometimes just a flag you can flip at any moment—"
But before he could finish his joke, Davos interrupted him gravely, pointing to the increasingly clear island and the mass of black sails ahead. "Enough. We're almost there. Put away your playful face, old friend. Every step from now on could be life or death."
---
As Davos and Salladhor Saan's ships slowly approached the docks of Black Rock Island, the first thing that assaulted their vision was not the jagged reefs or the fortress, but the terrifying "Crown of Sea Skulls" standing tall by the shore. Countless heads were stacked layer upon layer, hollow sockets staring collectively at the sea. The stench of rot mixed with brine formed a nauseating, salty reek that was almost solid, weighing down on one's chest.
In eerie contrast to this landmark of death was the unprecedented, bizarre bustle on the docks. It was as if every fringe character in the Narrow Sea region had been drawn here. A queue wound from the pier all the way to the entrance of the great hall on the island, moving slowly like a crawling centipede.
The line was packed with a motley crew of characters who would never coexist peacefully elsewhere: numb-faced local corpse-looters wiping algae from their hooks; fierce-eyed, tattooed pirates from the Basilisk Isles; Braavosi assassins in understated dark clothing with eyes sharp as hawks; scantily clad Lysene whores laughing frivolously; tall Summer Islanders with dark skin and bright feathers; mysterious figures wrapped in robes, faces masked in strange ways; Tyroshi merchants in fine silks, shrewdly calculating risks; and even runaway slaves with old shackle marks on their necks, eyes filled with both fear and longing...
Harboring their own purposes—driven by fear or lured by profit—they all followed invisible rules, forming a long line. Batch by batch, they waited silently yet anxiously to enter the door leading to the great hall of Black Rock Island, the door that would decide their fate.
Davos and Salladhor Saan quietly joined the very end of the winding queue. Within moments, however, a new stream of people gathered behind them, sandwiching them in the middle. Ahead of them stood a Myr merchant in a velvet coat with a round, fleshy face. He turned around, striking up a conversation in heavily accented Common Tongue with curiosity.
"Friends, are you also here to answer the Lord's 'Call for Talent'?"
"Call for Talent?" Davos and Salladhor Saan asked almost in unison, looking puzzled.
They had both seen the order, but had laughed it off, assuming it was a joke or a ploy to weaken opponents before the war. They hadn't expected so many people to actually answer the call.
Davos looked around at the bizarre crowd and lowered his voice. "All these people here... are here to join that Lord?"
"Of course!" The Myr merchant wore an exaggerated expression, as if recounting a well-known miracle. "No matter your background, no matter what you've done, as long as you have a skill worth showing, that Lord will generously grant you what you desire." He leaned closer, his voice unable to hide his excitement. "Just yesterday, a bastard son disowned by his father—a wandering pirate in the Stepstones—was granted a surname and became the rightful heir of a house! And a small-time merchant from Volon Therys, known to no one, was granted the exclusive right to distribute 'Kraken' red wine in his entire town by Lord Euron himself, just because he presented fine wine and had brewing skills!"
Salladhor Saan raised an eyebrow, the peacock feather on his hat bobbing slightly, seemingly wanting to mock this too-good-to-be-true promise. But just then, a small commotion ahead caught his attention—a corpse-looter reeking of fish and brine was stuttering to an Ironborn officer about his unique skill in fish farming. Surprisingly, after taking careful notes, the officer waved him through.
Davos keenly caught the sarcasm about to escape Salladhor's lips. He nudged him imperceptibly with his elbow and flashed a humble, sincere smile at the Myr merchant first.
"Yes, sir. We... are also here to ask a favor of the Lord."