BlurryDream
patreon
Chapter 230: Cannibal Pirate
🕑 Added 2025-03-26 13:20:02 +0000 UTC"Are you sure it will work?" Maester Hugh asked with some concern as they left the manor.
Lynd smiled. "Don't worry. That will be enough to keep him alive."
Originally, he had only expected Maester Hugh to help relocate the Sphinx Academy to Summerhall. He never imagined Hugh would give him such a significant surprise—an entire town falling into his lap.
Now, the only thing Lynd needed to consider was where to pull troops from to garrison Ghoyan Drohe and how to go about rebuilding the city.
Kevira, having been driven to the brink of collapse by the Faceless Men's threats, had no choice but to agree to Lynd’s terms. He quickly pledged the floating fortress and his people to Summerhall, as long as Lynd could save him from assassination.
Lynd's method of saving him was straightforward: he handed him several iron coins with special properties, given to him by Jaqen. These coins were different from the ones Arya would obtain in later years—they were used to buy a life from the Faceless Men.
Lynd instructed Kevira to dismiss all the guards from the manor that night, keep the iron coins on his person, and sleep without fear. If the coins were gone by morning, it would mean the danger had passed.
While the issue of the Faceless Men could be dealt with easily, the situation surrounding Ghoyan Drohe was far from resolved. According to Kevira, a powerful noble from Norvos had targeted the floating fortress, seeking to claim its lucrative trade, going so far as to hire the Faceless Men for assassination. But something about this didn't add up.
Although the floating fortress was the largest hub for smuggled goods and stolen property on the Rhoyne, such contraband rarely sold for high prices. The smugglers didn’t make vast fortunes, and the trade taxes collected by the fortress were relatively minor.
Furthermore, transactions were infrequent—only three or four significant trades took place each month. The total revenue from these deals likely amounted to less than what Miracle Harbor generated in a single day. And the share that actually reached Kevira as Magister was even smaller.
It seemed absurd for a noble from Norvos to go to such lengths for the supposed profits of the smuggling trade.
After all, hiring a Faceless Man was incredibly expensive. The price for assassinating a mere merchant could finance a mercenary company of several hundred men. The cost of targeting a river magistrate like Kevira—who controlled an entire region—was high enough to raise an army of thousands, possibly even tens of thousands.
Even if the floating fortress accumulated wealth over decades, it still wouldn’t come close to covering the price of hiring the Faceless Men.
Lynd suspected there was another reason behind the Norvos noble’s attack on Kevira.
Regardless of the true motive, Lynd had already claimed Ghoyan Drohe as his own. He needed to put an end to this threat once and for all. That meant altering his course—traveling along the Valyrian road toward Norvos.
Even without the matter of the Norvos noble, Lynd likely would have made his way toward Norvos anyway. From Kevira, he had learned that the Dothraki hired by Norvos were currently roaming the middle of the Valyrian road on their way to the city. Lynd strongly suspected that this Dothraki warband was secretly controlled by House Soyed of Qohor.
"Do you need anything prepared?" Maester Hugh asked after they returned to the manor.
"No, just get me a boat," Lynd said after a moment’s thought. "Also, tell Kevira to take control of Udawu’s fleet tomorrow—and deal with their bodies while he’s at it."
...
East of Ghoyan Drohe, at the confluence of the Little Rhoyne and the Rhoyne, a makeshift river camp lay along the shore. More than twenty punted boats, the preferred vessels of river pirates, were moored there. Inside the camp, five to six hundred men—dressed in crude leather armor and covered in white powder—were dividing up the spoils from their latest raid. Nearby, the youngest member of the captured crew was being roasted over a fire, his flesh soon to be eaten in a ritual sacrifice before the pirates set off to attack the floating fortress of Ghoyan Drohe.
Their leader, White Skull Udawu, was a native of Qohor. His mother had been a slave, and when he was just a child, he had watched as she was sacrificed to the Black Goat. Instead of hating the god that had taken her, he claimed to have received a divine revelation, becoming one of the Black Goat’s most zealous followers.
If he had been a follower of the mainstream Black Goat faith, it would have been one thing. But the sect he worshipped had long been condemned as a forbidden cult. They adhered to ancient sacrificial rites, where initiates had to offer a family member to the Black Goat and consume their flesh to symbolically merge with their god.
In other words, Udawu not only witnessed his mother’s sacrifice—he ate her flesh as well.
When the Black Goat priesthood of Qohor learned of this heretical sect operating within the city, they launched a purge. Udawu’s entire family was slaughtered. Only he survived, fleeing to Dagger Lake, where he became a river pirate.
As a pirate, Udawu raided ships while also spreading his dark faith. Before long, he had gathered a devoted following, and his influence grew. In time, he became one of the most feared river lords on Dagger Lake.
He had accepted the contract from the Norvos noble, Quinon Tashi, because he had been promised a reward far greater than mere gold—if he successfully captured Ghoyan Drohe, he would be allowed to establish a temple to the Black Goat there, where he could openly spread his teachings.
It was an offer he could not refuse, especially since he had long set his sights on plundering the floating fortress. This was simply an opportunity to act with noble backing.
He had already slain half of Kevira’s forces, making the upcoming assault much easier. On top of that, there was a planted agent inside the fortress. Once Udawu reached the gates, this traitor would turn on Kevira and open the doors from within. In Udawu’s mind, the conquest of the fortress was a certainty.
As he sat by the fire, he contemplated whether he should hold a grand human sacrifice to honor the Black Goat once the fortress was his. But then—something felt wrong.
He stiffened and rose to his feet, his sharp eyes scanning the river and the forest beyond. An eerie sensation crawled up his spine.
"Stay alert!" he bellowed.
The camp fell silent. Confused, his men turned toward him.
"Fools! The fog—something’s wrong!" Udawu unsheathed his weapon and pointed toward the mist creeping in from the river.
Only then did the pirates realize what he meant. At some point, the entire river had been swallowed by thick, rolling fog. The mist was moving—slowly but steadily—engulfing the camp. The surrounding forests were also shrouded, the fog closing in from all directions, tightening around them like a noose.
Udawu’s men were no strangers to the dangers of the Rhoyne. They were ruthless, hardened criminals who had survived countless ambushes and battles. Their instincts had kept them alive for years.
And now, those instincts screamed at them that something was very, very wrong.
Almost instantly, the pirates drew their weapons. Some, overcome by fear, bolted toward the boats, hoping to escape across the river.
None of Udawu’s loyalists stopped them. Instead, they watched, waiting to see if the deserters would return—testing the fog’s danger with the lives of cowards.
But as the boats drifted into the mist, not a single cry or splash was heard. No screams, no sounds of struggle—only silence. As if the fog had swallowed them whole.
"Set fire to the camp! Fire will keep the fog at bay!" Udawu roared.
His men obeyed at once, throwing everything flammable into the flames. Several bonfires blazed to life, their heat licking at the cold night air.
But to their horror, the moment the fog reached the fires, the flames flickered and weakened. Within seconds, they were snuffed out entirely. Even the wood that had been burning moments before was now coated in frost.
A few men, unable to withstand the rising panic, shouted and charged into the mist with their weapons drawn.
The instant they crossed into the fog, their voices went silent.
Just like the others, they were gone.
Although the dense fog advanced slowly, it never stopped. Before long, the river pirates found their space shrinking, forced closer and closer together. Those on the outer edges were already engulfed, and at last, they understood why no cries had come from those swallowed by the mist.
They hadn’t simply disappeared. They had all, without exception, been frozen into ice statues in an instant.
The horrifying sight shattered what little courage remained in these hardened killers. Fear overtook them. Faced with the prospect of freezing to death, some chose to end their own lives. Others, lacking the resolve, begged for help—but no one paid them any mind. They could only watch as the fog closed in, consuming them one by one, turning them into lifeless sculptures of ice.
Udawu stood motionless, staring in despair at the catastrophe unfolding around him. He could not understand why such a terrifying calamity had descended upon him. His mind went blank, incapable of issuing a single command. He could do nothing but watch as his men fell—some taking their own lives, others succumbing to the creeping frost.
As the mist advanced toward him, however, his panic began to fade. His breathing steadied, and his trembling hand reached for the Black Goat’s sacred emblem hanging from his neck. He clutched it tightly, whispering the same prayer his father had recited when he first witnessed his mother’s sacrifice.
Then, something impossible happened.
The relentless fog—unstoppable until now—halted before him, as if meeting an invisible barrier.
"A sign… a miracle!"
Udawu's eyes widened in astonishment. He believed his prayer had been answered. The despair in his heart gave way to overwhelming devotion. He raised the sacred emblem high and, with fervent reverence, began chanting the ancient rites of his faith.
The mist did not advance. It began to recede.
Tears of relief filled Udawu’s eyes. He had been spared. The Black Goat had heard his plea.
He let out a shaky breath, finally allowing himself to relax.
But the moment he exhaled, the fog swelled violently—rushing forward in an instant.
It engulfed him completely.
Udawu had no time to utter another word. His body froze over in the blink of an eye, just like his men.
...
With Udawu’s death, the dense mist began to dissipate, revealing the devastation it had left behind. The once-rushing waters of the Little Rhoyne had turned solid, a thick sheet of ice stretching as far as the eye could see. The river pirates’ boats, caught mid-escape, were frozen in place, their crews encased in frost. Every living thing within the camp had become a lifeless statue of ice. The ground itself was buried beneath layers of frozen earth and snow, transforming the landscape entirely. What had once been a temperate riverside was now a frozen wasteland—more akin to the lands Beyond the Wall than to the lush Velvet Hills.
Amidst this world of ice and death, a lone figure stood out.
A man with two greatswords at his waist.
Lynd observed the destruction before him. He had anticipated that channeling the Nameless King’s rune to conjure mist and awaken the power of the Frost Dragon rune would yield tremendous results—but even so, the sheer scale of what he had wrought caught him by surprise.
The eerie scene before him reminded him of legends of the White Walkers. It also stirred memories of a long-forgotten game from his past life, where the Wild Hunt rode upon the frost.
But his thoughts did not linger on the devastation. His focus shifted to the figure of Udawu, still frozen in place. More specifically—to the Black Goat’s emblem clutched in his frozen hand.
The mist had halted before advancing again. It was not a trick on Lynd’s part. He had not been toying with Udawu, giving him false hope only to snatch it away in cruelty. No—something had actively resisted the freezing fog. A force had intervened.
And that force had come from the emblem.
Lynd stepped forward, gripping Udawu’s frozen fingers and snapping them apart with ease. He pried the Black Goat’s sacred emblem from the dead man’s grasp and examined it closely.
With his special vision, he searched for traces of magic.
Nothing.
To his sight, the emblem appeared as nothing more than an ordinary piece of metal, devoid of enchantment.
Still, he was not convinced. He reached deeper, channeling the power of the Nameless King’s rune to enhance his perception.
The result was immediate.
Before his eyes, the simple emblem transformed.
It was no longer a metal icon—it had become an eye.
A single, grotesque goat’s eye, surrounded by writhing black tendrils.
And it was alive.
As Lynd stared at it, the eye shifted. Its pupil rolled within its socket, fixing upon him.
A chill ran down his spine.
Then he felt it—a creeping sensation spreading across his hand. The black tendrils from the eye were reaching for him, slithering over his skin, seeping into his flesh.
Lynd knew at once that this was no ordinary relic. It was something much worse.
Instinctively, he tried to sever his connection to the vision—but before he could act, the rune of the Nameless King flared within him.
A sudden force surged from the rune, latching onto the tendrils as they burrowed into his palm.
It did not reject them.
It consumed them.
The rune devoured the tendrils, following them to their source—draining the very essence of the Black Goat’s power.
A guttural, inhuman bleat of rage echoed through his mind.
Then the vision shattered.
Lynd blinked, his senses returning to normal. The emblem, once a sinister eye, had withered in his grasp.
It crumbled away, disintegrating into nothing more than a pile of corroded metal dust.
