The sea stretched far and wide, still rough but no longer as wild as before. Stannon sat in his cabin, his body still tense even though the waters had calmed. The ship was about two hours away from land, and the closer they got, the more restless he became.
Stannon leaned forward and pulled a piece of parchment toward him. He had to act now, before they reached the shore. His fingers moved quickly as he wrote, the ink drying fast in the salty air. Once he finished, he folded the parchment and turned to the black-feathered raven sitting on a wooden stand nearby.
"Ghostwing," Stannon murmured, holding up the folded parchment. The bird tilted its head, watching him closely. Carefully, he placed the parchment in its beak, making sure it had a firm grip. Then, he stood up, walked to the small window, and unlatched it. "Go."
Ghostwing flapped its wings and shot into the sky, flying away with strong, steady strokes. Stannon didn't waste any time. Closing his eyes, he focused inward and reached for his ability—Warging.
A familiar sensation washed over him as his mind left his body and merged with Ghostwing's. Suddenly, he could see through the bird's sharp eyes. The ship below became smaller as the raven flew higher, carried by the wind toward the coastline.
Through Ghostwing, Stannon scanned the land below. The rocky shores of Crackclaw Point stretched out, looking empty and unwelcoming. He searched for any signs of movement—hidden figures, campfires, anything that might be an ambush. But unlike Driftmark, there was nothing here. Just rough land and thick forests further inland.
Still, he remained cautious. He guided Ghostwing toward a large, old tree standing taller than the rest. Its twisted roots spread over the ground like dark veins, and its thick branches swayed slightly in the wind. Nearby, he spotted a smaller tree and moved towards a small unnoticeable hollow opening in its trunk.
Carefully, Stannon willed Ghostwing to land on a strong branch. Through the bird's eyes, he checked the surroundings again before nudging the parchment into the hollow, making sure it wouldn't be disturbed by the weather.
Satisfied, he made Ghostwing circle the area a few more times before heading back to the ship. As the raven flew through the sky, Stannon felt exhaustion creeping in. Warging always drained him, especially when he held control for too long. By the time Ghostwing landed on the ship's railing, he let go of the connection.
He sighed deeply, rubbing his temples as he tried to shake off the lingering dizziness from prolonged Warging. The mental toll of guiding Ghostwing over such a distance was manageable, but it was still exhausting. He leaned back in his chair, his mind burdened with the weight of his suspicions.
A traitor.
The very thought of it gnawed at him. He had considered it before, back in Driftmark, but now, after piecing together the details, it seemed all but certain. The ambush was too well-coordinated, too precisely timed. There was no way the Lannisters could have set a trap so perfectly without knowing the exact time of his departure from King's Landing and his intended route. Someone had given them that information.
But who?
His fingers drummed lightly against the wooden table as he considered the possibilities. Only a handful of people had known about his departure: Robert, Jon, and Colen.
Robert was immediately ruled out. If his father had wanted him dead, Stannon would not have made it this far. Robert had no subtlety in him—if he had decided to remove Stannon from the equation, it wouldn't have been through secret betrayals and hidden plots. It would have been through brute force, through an open challenge, or a direct execution.
That left two suspects: Jon and Colen.
Stannon frowned as he thought about Jon Arryn. Lately, Stannon had found himself questioning some of Jon's decisions.
The way Jon had handled Petyr Baelish's affairs had left a bad taste in Stannon's mouth. He had been too lenient, too slow to act. And Littlefinger was not a man to be left unchecked—he was a snake, someone who could manipulate even the most cautious lords. Stannon had suspected Jon of being overly idealistic, perhaps even naive when it came to recognizing threats.
But was that enough to call him a traitor?
He sighed again and turned his thoughts to Colen.
Colen had been with him for years, long before Stannon had grown into the man he was today. The North had been a harsh, unforgiving place, and back then, before his lighting reflexes ability had been honed, before his skills had fully developed, he had been vulnerable. Colen had saved his life not once, not twice, but three times.
Three times.
That fact alone made it difficult—no, impossible—for Stannon to believe that Colen could betray him. If Colen had wanted him dead, he could have let him die in the past. He wouldn't have needed to wait until now.
And yet…
Stannon clenched his jaw. Loyalty was a strange thing in Westeros. It could be true and steadfast for years, even decades, and yet crumble in the span of a single moment when the right pressure was applied. The Lannisters had power, influence, and wealth beyond imagination. They had ways of turning even the most loyal men against their allies.
Had Colen been offered something he couldn't refuse?
Had Jon miscalculated his allegiances?
Stannon hated this uncertainty and now, with so much at stake, he found himself lost in the maze of possibilities.
He stood up abruptly, pacing the cabin as the ship rocked gently with the waves. They were about an hour away from land now. He needed to focus.
For now, Ghostwing's scouting had confirmed that there were no immediate dangers waiting for them on the coast. No ambushes, no hidden forces. That was a relief. The last thing he needed was to step off the ship only to walk straight into another trap.
But that didn't mean he was safe.
Whoever the traitor was—whether it was Colen, Jon, or someone else entirely—they were still out there. They were still working against him. And until he figured out who it was, he couldn't trust anyone completely.
Stannon exhaled slowly and walked over to the window, staring out at the approaching horizon. The distant outline of Crackclaw Point was becoming clearer, a dark shape against the fading storm clouds.
He had a choice to make and he had made that choice the moment he had sent the parchment.
Now he just had to wait.
Patience had never been his strongest trait, but right now, it was the only weapon he had.
The two hours passed quickly, the steady rocking of the ship against the waves marking the time.
But Stannon couldn't relax. Something in his gut told him to check again, just to be sure. He turned to Ghostwing, the raven perched nearby, and whispered a command. The bird ruffled its feathers before spreading its wings and taking off into the sky.
Stannon closed his eyes and reached for his ability. A familiar sensation washed over him as his mind left his body and merged with Ghostwing. Suddenly, he could see through the raven's sharp eyes as it soared high above the ship.
The coastline became clearer as they drew closer. Jagged rocks lined the shore like the bones of a long-dead creature, their edges still wet from the earlier storm. Beyond that, the land was wild, full of twisted trees and thick roots. But something was different this time.
Someone was there.
A woman stood at the edge of the shore, her long red robes moving slightly in the wind. Even from far away, she was impossible to mistake. Her deep red hair flowed over her shoulders, standing out against her pale skin. A bright ruby sat on a choker around her neck, glowing softly as if it was alive.
She didn't move. She just stared out at the sea, as if she had been waiting. The ship's torches couldn't reach her, yet she seemed to shine faintly in the dim evening light.
A cold feeling settled in Stannon's chest.
Melisandre.
The Red Woman. A priestess of R'hllor, the Lord of Light. A shadowbinder, a seer, a woman wrapped in mystery and danger.
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