The following morning dawned sullen and red, as if the gods themselves had bled into the sky. The Sea Strider was nearly ready to sail. Slaves—the precious glassmakers—were being marched down the quay in chains under Ser Steffon's command, while Thoros of Myr walked ahead, muttering about his head ache. Melisandre and Vaera followed behind Artys, both hooded and veiled four eunuchs attended them, with carts of their belongings. The city felt wrong that morning. The streets were too quiet, the gulls had gone silent. Artys's hand never left the haft of his poleaxe.
Ship had already been provisioned with enough food for the return trip They just needed to refill their fresh water supplies. Sooner they were out the better. Artys mind was a storm ever since he met these fire priestess . If the long night was upon as they claimed.... god like i didnt have enough on my plate. The Vale was were the Andals first landed with their seven gods , There was a fire temple in Old town suspear and even a small shrine in Gull town. But having Sorceresses around would not be good for gallant knightly image he had worked so hard to cultivate.
He had spent the night with the priestess staring into the flames he saw nothing, save cold blue eyes staring back at him . The image had shocked him the first time he saw it. But it meant nothing to him . The great other who shall not be named Melisandre had said . I can think about my problems when i am safely back on my ship Artys resolved.
A horn cut through the harbor's din. From the warehouses poured men in pale leathers, near a hundred strong, faces painted like snarling dogs. Their armor was mismatched, scavenged from a dozen wars. Some carried curved arakhs, others crossbows, all marked by the sigil of a white dog gnawing a black bone.
"The Pale Dogs," Thoros muttered. "Cutthroats out of Tyrosh. They sell to anyone with coin."
At their head rode an albino Dothraki, hair white as frost, eyes red as fresh blood. His arakh shimmered dark and rippling—Valyrian steel, unmistakable even in the morning haze.
"I am Margo of the Silver Sea!" he shouted. "Leave the slaves, Westerosi, and you may yet keep your heads!"
Artys didn't hesitate. He turned to Steffon. "Take the slaves and go. Get them aboard I will be back let no one board ".
Steffon's jaw worked. "My lord—"
"Do it," Artys barked. "That's an order."
Steffon nodded, signaling his men. Chains clattered as the slaves were herded toward the docks.
Thoros drew his sword and spoke a single word. The blade flared to life green flames the heat washing over them. "Best hurry," he muttered.
Melisandre said nothing. Her eyes were on Artys, calm and knowing.
Artys stepped forward, lowering his visor. "Keep the priestesses behind you, Thoros."
Then he moved.
He charged straight into the sellswords before they were ready
He hit them like a hammer.
The first man's chest caved in under a single swing, ribs exploding through his leather cuirass. Artys pivoted on one heel, spinning the poleaxe in a blur — the axe-head caught another man across the throat, the hammer crushed a third's jaw. Blood and Bone sprayed in great arcs as he advanced, A sellsword screamed and lunged. Artys's spike punched through the man's sternum and out his back. Another charged from the side — Artys brought the haft around and shattered his knee, then finished him with a downswing that cracked his skull open like a melon.
They tried to swarm him. Ten men at once.
The poleaxe swept wide, carving through leather and flesh with one brutal stroke. Limbs flew. A backhand swing crushed another man's ribs, and the follow-through sent a third sprawling with a broken neck.
By the time Thoros reached the edge of the melee, half the Pale Dogs were already down. Thoros just opened and closed his mouth like a fish unable to comprehend the violence that one man could unleash .
Melisandre watched, her face illuminated by the flames, eyes bright with awe. "The Lord's hand guides him," she whispered.
Vaera tilted her head, lips curling into a slow, sultry smile. "Guides him? The Lord unleashed him. Look at him — he's will deliver us from the great other ."Artys broke through another knot of men, poleaxe rising and falling with mechanical precision. Each strike ended a life — a throat crushed, a skull split, a spine shattered. His armor was slick with blood, his breath steady, his movements fluid and inhuman.
Panic spread through the mercenaries. Some dropped their weapons and fled. The rest died trying.
Then came Margo.
The albino Dothraki spurred his horse, roaring, his Valyrian arakh flashing black. He swung, the blade hissing past Artys's helm. The second blow struck true, glancing off his pauldron — but Artys barely felt it.
He caught the next swing on the haft of his weapon, twisted hard, and smashed the hammer-end into Margo's ribs. The crack echoed down the pier.
The Dothraki fell from the saddle, rolling, arakh still clutched in hand. He came up screaming and charged again, slashing wildly.
Artys ducked, stepped inside his guard, and drove the spike of the poleaxe straight through his chest. The point burst from his back in a spray of blood.
Margo twitched once and went still.
Artys yanked the weapon free and stared down at the corpse. The Valyrian arakh lay half-buried in bloodied sand. He bent, lifted it, and held it up to the light. Black metal shimmered like liquid shadow.
Behind him, the last of the Pale Dogs broke and ran.
Thoros's flaming sword guttered low, his voice hoarse "By R'hllor's red beard … I've never seen anyone fight like that".
Artys wiped blood from his visor. "They chose the wrong men to rob."
Melisandre stepped forward, her expression radiant, the ruby on her throat glowing brighter. "Do you see now, Thoros? He is the sword the Lord of Light promised."
Vaera brushed a strand of silver hair from her face, her tone soft and knowing. "And the world should tremble when he draws it."
Artys looked between them, jaw tight. "Enough prophecy. We're done here." Board the ship he commanded brusquely. Artys saw the Valyrian steel arakh he had taken, not his style but great sword on horse back and Valryrian steel was not easily discarded , I should name it observing the curve of the blade and then he grinned it will be call Talon.
The Sea Strider was rowing fast on all oars, and with the wind in its sails, had already put long leagues between itself and Myr. Artys was still in his armor, the steel splattered with blood.
"My lord, the water for your bath is ready. Do you need help with the armor?" Shaddrich asked.
"No," Artys heard himself say.
The whole ship had seen the battle—it had been less a fight than a massacre. There's no proof, Artys consoled himself. Sailors and men-at-arms boast and exaggerate. People will write it off.
Thoros had lost his usual jovial manner and now regarded him with something like reverence. Seven hells, Artys thought bitterly. Is he starting to think I'm some damned messiah too?
He shook his head and went to his cabin. "I'm not to be disturbed," he told Shaddrich, then began unfastening his armor piece by piece.
Steam curled through the captain's cabin of the Sea Strider, where a copper tub stood near the porthole, filled with water darkened by the blood and grime from Artys's armor. Melisandre and Vaera entered quietly, their crimson and black robes swaying with the ship's motion. "We will tend to you," Melisandre said. "allow us my lord ." They worked with precision, unbuckling and removing each piece of armor as if it were a holy relic. When Artys was finally naked, he lowered himself into the steaming water, the heat easing the worries of his mind. The priestesses knelt beside the tub, rinsing him with cloths soaked in scented oils, their touches igniting a fire within him.
R18
Melisandre leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. "You are the chosen one, my lord . The Lord of Light has shown us your destiny no lesser man could have done killed fifty men in minutes and put the rest to flight " Vaera, her hands gentle and teasing, washed his body, edging him closer to the brink before pulling back, leaving him aching. Melisandre's fingers dug into his skin, her tongue licking his neck. "Allow us to serve you my lord ." Artys, frustrated and desperate, grabbed Vaera, bending her over the tub. Melisandre urged him on, her voice a sultry whisper. "claim her, my lord " With a fierce rhythm, Artys took Vaera, his body tensing as he reached his peak, spilling into her. Vaera, trembling, turned to face him, her eyes shining with adoration. "thank you my lord, it pleases me to be of service ." Artys just rolled his eyes and slunk back into the bath tub and tried to drown himself .