Matteno of Myr
Standing by the narrow window, Matteno watched as Lenora's son fled the chamber, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. The echo of the slap still seemed to hang in the air, sharp as a cracked whip.
The boy had burst through a side door breathless and bright-eyed, eager to tell his mother something. Instead, he had found her naked and writhing beneath another man.
Wryly, he realized the boy must've thought Matteno had been fighting or strangling his mother, given how he had charged at them with a thin yell, a wooden toy sword still in his hand.
Matteno had jumped away first, then Lenora had rounded on the boy, striking him more out of reflex and panic than any attempt at discipline. The slap had sent him reeling, and the furious words of his mother that followed had driven him out.
"Well," he said at last, breaking the silence, "that was bound to happen sooner or later."
Lenora was already straightening herself, drawing her robe closed with quick, practiced motions.
Lenora was already composing herself. She pulled a robe around her shoulders, tying the cord with fingers that did not shake. If she felt any shame, she hid it well.
No regret either, Matteno noted. Truly, my Westerosi bitch is a cruel woman.
"What he saw does not matter," she said curtly. "He will forget it."
Matteno snorted. "Children forget many things," he said. "But not that."
His mother had been a dockside whore until she died young and poor, and he had not forgotten the times she brought customers to their little shack. He'd killed his first man in one such night. He was nine, then.
She turned on him then, eyes flashing. "He will," she repeated. "And even if he does not, he would never dare tell his father."
Matteno tilted his head, studying her. "Elmar's back from his hunt," he said. "I saw him ride in this morning. Old man still sits a horse better than half the knights in this castle."
That gave her pause, just a flicker. Lord Elmar Whitehead was no fool, nor was he blind. Matteno had seen him train in the yard during his many weeks at Weeping Tower. Not once had the man been defeated by less than three of his men-at-arms.
"Will the boy tell him?" Matteno asked again.
Lenora waved the question away as if it were smoke. "No. The boy is his father's son in that, at least. He will be too afraid to speak of it."
Matteno raised an eyebrow, but chose not to comment on it. Calling the boy a coward was ill done. He had been brave enough to charge a grown man to save his mother.
"And even if he did, Elmar would not care," she continued, her mouth tightened by bitterness. "He has never looked at me as a man should look at his wife. Never wanted me as a man should want a woman."
He tried not to smile. Lenora Whitehead had this queer quality about her, where she loved to pretend to be uncaring and unfeeling, but was never skilled enough to truly hide it. His was a bitch of many amusing traits.
"So what you're saying is," he drawled, smiling crookedly at her, "little Addam's some other sellsail's get?"
The slap came fast, but not fast enough to land. Matteno caught her wrist in his hand and twisted, stepping into her space. She gasped, more in fury than pain, as he used her momentum to throw her back onto the bed.
He followed, looming over her, one knee between her legs, their faces close enough that he could feel her breath on his lips.
"Do not," she hissed, eyes blazing, "ever say that again." Her free hand clawed at his arm, nails biting into skin, but he did not release her. "The boy is no bastard from the likes of you. Elmar may be weak. He may see me as a girl even now. But he is still a man with a cock between his legs."
She laughed bitterly. "The night we made the boy, he was drunk enough to call me Selira, that dry old cunt. I let him. Gods help me, I let him."
Matteno barked a rough laugh. His hand slid along her thigh, possessive. "Well," he said, "being a dry old cunt is one thing you'll not have to worry about for may years still, my fair lady."
They kissed then, hard and angry and desperate. Matteno smiled into the kiss. Lenora was always at her most randy after bitching about someone, her husband or son or anyone belonging to House Tarth.
They shared nothing but spite and debts between them, but damn him if it didn't make for the hottest sex of his life.
He pulled her further up the bed, growing in anticipation. Her legs widened around him. Nails raked at his back with want.
Then came the knock.
"My lady," a voice called from the other side of the door. "Urgent news."
Matteno cursed in Valyrian and pushed himself back as Lenora disentangled herself, smoothing her robe once more, her expression already shifting into something colder.
"Speak," she said as she opened the door a crack.
A guard stood there, helmet tucked under his arm. "A ship flying Tarth colors has been sighted, my lady. Three hours out."
Another kind of heat spread through him then. At his advice, Lenora had ordered watchers posted along the coast weeks ago, ravens ready, eyes trained for sails bearing the quartered sun-and-moon.
She nodded once. "You did well," she said. "Go."
When the door closed again, Matteno was already putting on his clothes. He had another kind of lust to sate now.
xxx
They met Selwyn Tarth on a stretch of open coast, a beach flat and bare of any coverage, chosen deliberately to deny either side an advantage. The Tarth ship had not entered the bay. Instead, it cautiously anchored beyond it, then sent a single boat ashore to request parlay.
Lenora had granted it eagerly, while her lord husband was conspicuously absent. Ashamed, Lenora had said, of facing another Stormlord after all that's been done.
Half a dozen guards stood some fifty feet behind them, hands resting on spear hafts. Selwyn Tarth had brought the same, though he had no guards immediately with him. His men stood by the boat that brought them ashore.
On account of her sex, Lenora was allowed one man to guard her as they talked, and Matteno had taken the place at her side.
"You truly have lost your mind, Lenora," Selwyn Tarth said, his voice carrying easily across the open ground.
Color crept up Lenora's neck, staining her cheeks red. He could not tell if it was anger or embarrassment or a blend of both.
She had offered Selwyn a way out. An end to it all. Their spouses to be put aside. Quiet deaths, hunting accidents. Followed by a marriage that would bind Whitehead and Tarth together into the only ports worth naming in the Stormlands, the naval power of an entire kingdom shared between them.
Lord Selwyn Tarth had looked at her as if she were filth.
"Enough of this nonsense," the lord went on. "I will sign nothing until I see my wife. Where is she?"
Lenora's control slipped then, just enough for that familiar bitterness to bleed through her words. "Where is my son's bride?" she shot back. "And your son, Selwyn? Do not think I miss his absence. His and my messenger's. You will not see so much as a strand of Addison's hair until I know they are here."
Selwyn's expression did not change. Stone-faced, he simply looked at her for a long moment, then he turned back toward the boat, the parlay ending without another word.
Matteno suppressed a smile as they rode back toward Weeping Town beneath a sky already darkening, the wind tugging at cloaks and skirts alike. It had been a shame that the Tarth boy had not come with his father from their ship, but Matteno was an old hand at waiting.
As any good pirate could tell, the expectation of a raid was just as sweet as the deed itself.
Lenora's hands were white-knuckled on the reins, her jaw clenched so tightly he could see the muscle jumping beneath her skin.
"He's stalling," he told her. Sometimes his bitch failed to see what was right in front of her.
She shot him a glare. She always glared when he interrupted her sulking time.
"Perhaps," she managed to hiss out. She was quiet for a moment, then her lips curved. "Then let us make it easier for him to decide."
Matteno glanced at her, curiosity piqued.
"I will send him a gift, a sign of my noble will." Her eyes gleamed. "A strand of his wife's hair. Wrapped around one of her fingers. That will be enough, will it not? He will have seen her then."
His smile came out then, wide and sharp. Truly, his was a most cruel bitch.
xxx
Galladon
We rode hard back to camp on the horses we'd taken from the Whitehead guards, pushing them until their breath came ragged and foamy. To one side, Hugh kept one of the prisoners bound across a saddle in front of him, eyes covered, his wrists tied so tight his hands had gone purple.
The other, poor Arrec, rode between two of my men, slumped and silent. The third we'd taken captive, the one Jack had found pinned beneath his own horse, did not make it more than a few minutes after we pulled him out from under the beast. His left leg had turned to mush and he'd lost too much blood.
Jack gave him a swift end then and there. Better than to suffer for longer, maybe even hours. With no maester we could take him to, not without jeopardizing our own safety, it was the only mercy we could give.
Because of the guards that escaped and the horses that fell in the ambush, two of our men had to make do with the mules, so they lagged behind our little column, carrying on their saddlebags the striped off surcoats and helmets of the dead guards.
I kept glancing back, counting heads, forcing myself to remember who was still with us.
There were only nine of us now. We'd left two of our own dead behind at the quarry, along with my mother's retinue laid out in their half-dug graves. The place was choked with bodies now. More than I'd expected. More than made sense.
I finally understood why the Whiteheads had sent such a large party to dig. It hadn't been for a single grave like I first suspected, or even a handful. The carts they'd brought had carried more than a half a dozen corpses apiece.
Killing my mother and burying her in a random ditch should've been out of the question, but I had stopped expecting the Whiteheads to hold to rationality, so I still went up to check who was on the carts once the fighting was done, just to be sure.
What had struck me hardest was not the number, but the sigils. Small houses of the Stormlands. Knightly arms I half-remembered from my lessons, sworn to Whitehead, holding little keeps and poorer lands nearby.
It was madness. Utter madness. Kidnapping noble ladies was one thing. Evil enough, yes, but killing their own sworn vassals? I could not see how Lord Elmar or Lady Lenora thought this would ever end in anything but ruin. Whatever game they believed they were playing, it had already slipped beyond their control.
I just wished my family hadn't been caught up in the middle of it.
Nearly an hour later, we reached camp.
I swung down from the saddle and started giving orders at once. Our wounded first. Anyone bleeding went to the few men who knew how to bind wounds, no matter how small the cut looked.
I caught Jack by the arm as he passed.
"You're seeing to that back," I told him. "Properly. I don't want to hear a word of protest."
He grimaced, but nodded and let himself be steered away. I would not lose my finest men to some stupid graze gone bad.
Another priority were the prisoners. I had them separated immediately, each quartered under guard and well away from one another.
The older man was to be brought to the command tent first. He had the look of a deputy to him, his armor a little shinier before he got dunked into the mud, so he'd be the most likely to know what I needed.
I would deal with Arrec last. Perhaps I would not need to deal with him at all. The thought of it sat like a stone in my gut. If they spoke freely, then no one had to suffer. That was the hope I clung to.
If they didn't…
I was running on borrowed time now. Word would reach the Weeping Town about the ambush soon. Perhaps it already had.
We were wearing no colors or arms to identify us during the ambush, but the Whiteheads would have to be blind not to connect the force in their backyard to their current ploy against the Tarths. That meant if I took too long, Mother might pay the price for my mistake, and I couldn't live with myself if that happened.
We had dealt a serious blow to their numbers, so I needed to strike before they could organize themselves, get into the castle, get my mother out, and live to tell the tale. To do that, I needed information.
Jace was already back from town when I found him near my tent. He looked worn and dust-streaked from the road, but his eyes were still alert.
"I saw Lord Selwyn's ship," he said quietly. "Further out beyond the bay. She didn't come in. A party rode out from the castle to meet him but they turned back less than half an hour later. I didn't see the lord, but Lady Lenora rode with them, and she looked wroth when she returned."
I nodded. "Father will stall as long as he thinks prudent." If we struck tonight, I would need to get a message to coordinate with him. We could pincer them from both ends of the town.
Before I could make my way into the large tent, Arianne strode up to me. I had set her up on the most sheltered spot in camp, beneath a hanging ledge on the boulder, with a makeshift cot of straw and linen my men had prepared for me in advance.
She was looking around the bloodied faces of the Companions and the obvious Whitehead guards that did not belong.
"What's going on?" she asked.
I gave her the short version. The quarry. The graves. The ambush. Her mouth tightened as I spoke, but she did not interrupt, which was rare. Who knew it'd take kidnappings and secret missions to get my sister to be less immature.
When I finished, I turned and caught Pate's eye, her ever-present shadow, along with one of my father's men. "Take her out of camp," I said. "Not far. A minute or two at most. Stay close until I send for you."
If it came to torture, they would scream.
"What? Why?" Arianne looked at me, then at the captured older guard being escorted into the tent. Her eyes swivelled back with a glare. "Is this because they'll be questioned? I'm not squeamish. I don't need to be sent away."
She stepped closer then, lowering her voice, eyes locked on mine. "And I can help. I can tell if they're lying. You know I can."
I shook my head. "No. That's too much. Not with this, I can't ask—"
"You're not asking," she cut in sharply. "And that's why I came, isn't it? To help in the way only I can."
I bit my lip, hard enough to taste blood. She wasn't wrong, I knew that. I had brought her along because her powers could give us the edge we needed to pull off the rescue. Long-range scouting, checking in on our mother. Anything that could help.
But I wanted to use that as a last resort. Ever since that night in the ship where she looked half-dead after using the candle, I had turned my mind away from magic. Too risky. I knew that Lady Addison herself would rather die a thousand deaths than sacrifice her daughter in pursuit of her own release.
If I could help it, men and steel would win us the day.
I looked at her again and took a breath to settle myself. She was not asking to use the candle, though. Her aura vision would be invaluable during an interrogation, and the prisoners were not set to be tortured quite yet.
"So be it," I said. "But if they refuse to answer and must be more thoroughly encouraged, I will send you away."
She gave me a reluctant nod, one I knew would mean more complaining if it came to it. We stepped inside without further delay. Jace followed behind, and Grey was already inside with the guard.
I looked straight at him as I stepped into the tent. He sat bound to a low camp chair, wrists roped tight, ankles tied, bonds wrapped around his shoulders. His face was swollen on one side, dried blood crusted along his mouth.
He looked up as we walked in. Despite his wounds, he watched us with sharp eyes. Measuring eyes. His lips curled into a sneer when he recognized me as the leader of the group back in the quarry.
Then his gaze slid past me.
Arianne followed a step behind, the canvas falling shut behind her. Wrapped in a plain cloak, she looked so much smaller than everyone else in the tent. She had a look of determination in her face, lips thinned, her hands folded tight at her waist.
When the man saw her, the sneer faltered. He frowned instead, brow creasing.
"Never knew no bandits to go about with a noble lady," he said.
I stiffened at that. She wore nothing fine, nothing that marked her station, yet his eye had found her all the same. He studied her again, slower now, then looked back to me. His eyes narrowed.
"Aye," he muttered, nodding to himself. "Not bandits then. You have her eyes, boy. And the girl her nose. I can see it now."
My jaw tightened. So he'd at least seen her before, then.
"If you know we're her children," I said, keeping my voice even, "then you know why we're here. Make this easy for all of us."
He spat to the side. The sound was wet, the gob of it streaked red where it struck the dirt floor. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, then gave a humorless chuckle.
"Aye lad. Easy would be good." He shook his head slowly. "Ain't ever had nothin' easy in me life, though. Won't start today. Let me say clear for you, boy. You won't get anything out of me. No matter what."
"We just want our mother back," Arianne said.
The words were out before I could stop her. I shot her a sharp glare, my heart leaping into my throat just for hearing her voice in a situation like this, but the man was already looking at her. Something in his face shifted then. The hardness eased, just a little.
"Lady Addison was about your age when she came to foster here, girl," he said softly. "Mayhaps a little younger. I remember her runnin' around with the Lady when they were both little. Always laughin'. Always in trouble." His eyes dimmed. "Shame it came to this, aye. But it makes no difference. I'm Lord Elmar's sworn man. Won't break that vow for a sob story, even if it stirs my old heart."
I stepped forward before Arianne could speak again, placing myself between them as much as the tent allowed.
"I'm not asking you to break your vow, ser," I said. "I seek not the destruction of House Whitehead."
From the corner of my eye, I saw Arianne's gaze flicker to me. Just for a heartbeat. What had she seen then? What color had my words painted me in her sight?
"All I need to know is how to get my mother out," I went on. "A way in and out of the castle. I need not kill anyone. Just take my mother and leave."
He laughed then, weak and breathless, the sound ending in a cough.
"Not how vows work, boy," he said. "I won't say no word, no matter what. Fought for the Whiteheads me whole life. Got no children of me own. No one to wake up to in the mornin'. My sword is my wife. My word, my only pride."
He lifted his chin as much as the ropes allowed.
"I'd rather take both to the grave than live as a traitor."
I glanced at Arianne again, careful this time. She gave me the smallest nod. He meant it. At the very least, he believed every word he said.
I almost groaned aloud. Of all the men we could have taken, of all the cruel, grasping bastards in House Whitehead's service, we had captured this one. An honest man. The fucking Ned Stark of the Southern Stormlands.
My fists clenched at my sides. For a mad moment, I wanted to beg him. To ask him to spare me this. To do me a kindness and give me what I needed so I would not have to break him, even if he cared nothing for his own fate.
It would have done no good.
"I see," I said at last.
I turned to Grey and gave him a nod.
He hesitated for a second. His eyes flicked to Arianne, then back to me, worry settling into his brow. He probably didn't understand why I had allowed my sister inside in the first place, much less to begin the questioning with her still here.
But as much as this man was Lord Elmar's sworn sword, Grey was mine. He inclined his head and stepped out of the tent to follow my orders.
Silence stretched after he left. The man watched me, curiosity creeping in now, as if he were trying to guess what shape his end would take.
Grey returned less than a minute later, carrying two full buckets of water. They sloshed as he set them down, darkening the packed earth. The prisoner frowned, tugging once at his bonds, clearly puzzled.
My gaze went to Arianne.
For one terrible second, I considered it. Letting her stay. Letting her watch and read the truth of his aura as it spilled out of him under pain. It was the rational thing to do. Clean, in its own awful way. It would save time. It might save our mother's life.
The thought made my stomach twist.
I could hardly bear the weight of what I was about to do, and I could not bear doing it in front of her. I didn't know which frightened me more—that she would see a man tortured, or that she would see me doing it.
"Time to leave," I told her.
She protested as I expected, shaking her head, arguments pouring out of her mouth. In truth, I barely heard her. My ears were buzzing. The tent felt too small, the air too thick.
"Leave," I snapped again, sharper.
She didn't move.
Something broke loose in my chest then, something black and angry.
"Leave now!" I shouted at her, and I surprised even myself at how furious I sounded.
The words rang against the canvas. Arianne's eyes widened in fear. Whether she was looking at me or at whatever my aura had become, I didn't know, and the not knowing hurt almost as much as the rest.
"Pate!" I called. He rushed in at once, startled. I pointed at my sister. "Take her out. Now."
This time, Arianne didn't argue as he led her away. She didn't look back either. I saw her hands shaking before the tent flap fell shut behind her.
I clenched my teeth until my jaw ached. If I had to become a monster in her eyes to keep her innocent a little while longer, then so be it.
I turned back to Grey and Jace. They stood on either side of the bound man. Grey held the bucket now, knuckles white around the handle. Jace had the rag folded in his hands.
Neither of them met my eyes at first. When they did, I saw it plainly. The hesitancy. The fear. The tight, coiled nerves of men standing at the edge of something they had never done before.
None of us had.
I had spoken of this a few times, months ago. All in the abstract. Theory, I had called it. What to do if ever we were forced to break a man for information. I had explained the mechanics then, clinically, as if it were no different from describing how to set a bone or cauterize a wound. Water, cloth, breath. No lasting marks if done carefully. No blood, if one were disciplined.
Standing there now, with the tent quiet except for the prisoner's labored breathing, all that theory rang hollow.
They were my soldiers. My Companions. They had followed me into mud and blood, had killed and suffered wounds at my word. And they would follow this order too. I could see that as clearly as I saw their dread.
I nodded.
Grey swallowed, then tipped the bucket just enough to wet the rag fully. Jace stepped closer to the prisoner, hands trembling despite his effort to still them. The man watched us without panic, his earlier defiance settled into something calmer now. Resigned, perhaps. Or resolved.
I did not give him time to speak.
"Do it," I said.
The rag went over his face. Jace pressed it down, almost careful at first, as if afraid of hurting him. Grey poured.
The change was immediate. The man bucked in his bonds, shoulders straining against the ropes, legs kicking hard enough to scrape the chair across the dirt. A muffled sound tore from his throat, half wet cough, half scream, swallowed by the cloth and the water.
His chest heaved uselessly, breath turning into frantic spasms.
"Enough," I said after only a few seconds.
Grey righted the bucket. Jace tore the rag away.
The man sucked in air like a drowning swimmer breaking the surface, coughing violently, water spilling from his mouth and nose. His whole body shook. Spittle and blood flecked his beard.
I leaned forward. "Which room is she in?" I asked. My voice sounded distant to my own ears. "My mother. Where is she being held?"
He coughed again, dragged in another breath, then shook his head once. "Don't know," he rasped. "Truly."
Arianne's nod flashed through my mind. Truth, I thought. But I could never really know without her, could I?
My teeth ground against each other. "Again," I said.
This time there was no hesitation. The rag went back over his face. Water followed. He convulsed harder now, boots kicking furrows into the ground. The chair tipped, then steadied as Jace braced it with his knee, jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack.
I watched his hands. Watched his chest. Counted the seconds even as bile rose in my throat.
"Enough."
They pulled back again. The man gagged, retching water and foam, breath coming in ragged, broken pulls.
"Guard rotations," I said. "Near her room. How many? How often?"
His eyes rolled toward me, unfocused for a moment. Then he managed a weak, humorless huff.
"Varies," he said. "More since she was taken. That's all I know."
Again, the nod in my memory. Truth. Something in me twisted tighter. I would not bring her.
"How do you get inside the castle without raising alarm?" I pressed. "Postern gates. Tunnels. Servants' ways. Anything."
The man laughed, or tried to. It ended in another cough. "You don't. We Hold Firm," he said, the Whitehead words.
"Again."
I heard my own voice then, really heard it, and it startled me. It was harsher now. Sharper.
The third time lasted longer. I let it happen. Told myself I had to. Every second counted. Every breath he stole was a breath my mother might not have.
I saw her face in my mind—drawn, frightened, stubborn even in captivity. I thought of her alone in stone walls, of men who had already proven themselves capable of madness having ready access to her. I thought of time slipping through my fingers like sand. It made me sick.
When they pulled the rag away, the man sagged in his bonds, barely holding himself upright.
"How many guards?" I demanded. "In the castle. Give me a number."
He blinked at me, slowly. "Hundreds," he whispered. "Thousands. More than you can bring."
I didn't need Arianne to divine this one as a lie. My patience snapped. I stepped forward and drove my fist into his stomach.
The sound it made was dull and awful. He folded around the blow, breath bursting from him in a wet gasp. Grey swore under his breath. Jace flinched but did not move.
"Don't lie to me," I said. I struck him again, higher this time, my knuckles cracking against bone. His head snapped to the side, blood spraying from his mouth.
Something hot and ugly surged up inside me then. Rage, fear, desperation, all knotted together until I could barely tell them apart.
I drew my dagger.
The blade looked strange in my hand, smaller than I remembered, as if it did not belong to me anymore. My fingers shook as I brought it up, the tip pressing lightly against his arm.
"Talk," I said. "Please." The word slipped out before I could stop it.
He looked at me then, really looked at me, through swollen eyes and blood. There was no hatred there. No fear, either. Only a weary sort of sadness.
I slashed him. It didn't go deep. My arms felt weak. But it was enough to open flesh, enough to make him jerk and hiss through clenched teeth. Blood ran down his arm in a thin, dark line.
"Where is she?" I shouted. "Tell me!"
He didn't, so I cut him again, and again. My hands were shaking so badly now that the lines were crooked, ugly. This was not clean or controlled. Nothing like the careful theory I had once taught.
I drew back at last, breath coming fast, my chest aching as if I had been the one drowning.
The man lifted his head with effort. Blood dripped from his mouth. His nose was crooked from one of my blows, already darkening to purple. He met my gaze with glassy eyes.
"I'll make this easier for you, boy," he said.
Before I understood what he meant, he bit down hard.
There was a sound. A wet tearing.
Grey cursed and stumbled back. Jace lurched forward to stop him, to force his mouth open with the gag.
I just froze.
The man did not scream. He did not cry out at all. Blood poured from his mouth in a thick, choking flood. His body convulsed against the ropes, once, twice. Jace managed to force his jaw open, and a red, thick piece of muscle flopped down to fall on the ground.
"No," I breathed, though I did not know why.
We stood there as he bled out, the life draining from him in front of us. It was not fast, but we could not stop that kind of bleeding. His skin went pale first, then grey. His eyes stared past me, unfocused. The convulsions slowed, then stopped altogether and he slackened against the chair.
I did not move. I did not speak. I simply stared at him, at what we had done and what he had chosen. Grey set the bucket down with shaking hands. Jace wiped his face with his sleeve, eyes hollow.
He was dead. And something inside me died with him, died with this honest, loyal guard, bound to a chair in my tent, having kept his vow to the very end.
xxx
POWER STONES PLEASE!
Full chapter today. I wonder if you prefer 2 long chapters a week (as in other sites), or 4/5 broken up over the week.
Read ahead if you want. Chapters on [PATREON] are longer than on Webnovel, which are divided in 2 or 3. Patreon is roughly 25-30 Webnovel chapters ahead, or 10 regular (longer) chapters.
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