A living vampire! Nearly everyone in Storm's End had heard of the rumors from Tyrosh, and now Lord Wright had captured the monster alive and was taking it to King's Landing. Stopping at Storm's End for three days to resupply, the creature was put on display in the fenced-off tourney grounds.
The event organizers borrowed an extra-large tent from a traveling circus, securing the vampire to an iron frame at the center. Silver nails pierced its body, preventing it from returning to human form. Ever since its capture, it had remained in its monstrous state—blue-skinned with fangs bared.
With the exhibit lasting only three days, the crowd—men, women, and children alike—had to shuffle along quickly, getting only a brief glimpse before being ushered out. Many complained about the short viewing time, especially since each person had to pay a copper star. But children clamored to see the monster again, forcing parents to line up once more and pay again.
Storm's End had a vast rookery, expanded by Wright himself after earning his maester's chain in the Citadel. The ravens housed there could fly to any southern lord's castle. With four more vampires still at large in Westeros, the Tyroshi incident was sure to rouse them. To flush them out from the masses as quickly as possible, letters were sent in the name of the Magic administration Committee to King's Landing. Before departing, Wright consulted with Renly, and the two decided that, as a Lord and the realm's Archmage, they would first distribute blueprints for undead detection devices to mages across the land.
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"Donnel!"
After a brief pause, a hoarse voice called out again.
"Donnel, wake up!"
"Call me Prince Joffrey!"
Donnel Sarsfield muttered in his sleep.
"Wake up, damn you!"
The Hound, Sandor, grabbed Donnel by the left arm and hoisted him up.
"Ow~~~"
Jolted awake by the pain, Donnel staggered and dropped to one knee. He didn't curse but instead shuffled on his knees toward the window and gazed at the sky. "Hound, when can we go back to the Westerlands?"
"I don't know! Addam ran off to get help almost a month ago." Sandor wasn't sure if Addam had escaped at all. With no word for so long, he might have died along the way.
Still kneeling, Donnel turned to Sandor, his voice quivering. "I want roasted meat!"
Sandor let out a bitter chuckle. He rummaged through the straw pile and pulled out two fist-sized roasted potatoes, handing them to Donnel. "Close your eyes, breathe in the outside air, and keep telling yourself it's roast meat. Then it will be."
"Mmm!"
Donnel carefully cradled the potatoes, unwilling even to peel the charred skin. With devout reverence, he stuffed both into his mouth.
"Cough! Cough! Cough!"
After just a couple of chews, Donnel's face turned red. He clutched his throat and started choking.
Seeing this, Sandor hurried over, flipped Donnel onto his knee, and gave him a hard slap on the back. A mouthful of half-chewed potato mush shot out of Donnel's mouth.
"Phew… phew…"
Gasping for fresh air, Donnel lay sprawled across Sandor's lap. His eyes fell on the mess of potato on the ground. After a brief hesitation of less than three seconds, he scooped it up and shoved it back into his mouth.
Sandor set Donnel down and walked over to the window, licking his cracked lips as the scent of roasted meat wafted in from outside.
Their small hut had no flooring—built from freshly cut logs placed directly atop stone. The flattest area was where Donnel lay, with a thin layer of dried grass spread over it. Once accustomed to wearing fine clothes, Donnel was now shirtless, with nothing but a loincloth to cover him.
Huddled on the ground, Donnel looked no better than Sandor, who stood by the window. Both were filthy. Their hair, unwashed for gods knew how long, was matted with grease and dirt. Donnel's once-golden locks had hardened into clumps, resembling a crude helmet. Sandor occasionally rubbed at his hair, dislodging larger chunks of grime.
The hut was no more than three or four square meters in size. Other than the tightly shut wooden door, the only opening was the small window Sandor stood by. It had no proper walls—just logs stacked with gaps the size of a clenched fist, letting wind blow freely through. The small window was the only place where one could stick their head out. Calling it a hut was generous—it was more of a wooden cage.
"Ohhh~~~"
"Ho~~ Ha~~"
Outside, the open space bustled with noise. A crowd gathered on a natural stone platform, dancing and singing around a bonfire, shouting words Sandor couldn't understand. Surrounding the platform were wooden houses—some built on stone, others suspended from massive trees.
"Wala~~~ Wuu~~"
A tall woman, clad in animal pelts, approached their cage, carrying a bowl made from hollowed-out wood.
"Donnel! Get up, it's time to eat!" Sandor nudged Donnel.
This place had drawn many people today, but Sandor had never seen this woman before.
She had long brown hair braided tightly and a muscular build. Even at a glance, Sandor could tell she was stronger than most women. To him, she was quite beautiful. Her clothes, stitched together from leopard or some other beast's hide, were more elaborate than those of the others. Sandor figured she held some status among them.
She stopped before the cage.
Even without understanding the language, human emotions were universal. The woman studied Sandor and Donnel through the wooden bars and smiled.
Sandor smelled vegetable soup. Seeing the food, he immediately pressed up against the bars, gripping them with both hands and forcing a grin—his most amiable expression.
But the woman seemed unfazed by his half-scarred face. If anything, she looked intrigued.
After carefully observing the Hound for a moment, the brown-haired woman lifted the wooden basin, wedging one side of it against the small window, preparing to pour the wild vegetable soup for him.
After a month of eating nothing but roasted potatoes, finally having a sip of vegetable soup made the Hound truly grateful to this kind and beautiful woman.
The window was too small, and the basin was a bit too large. Neither he nor Donnel had anything to catch the soup with, so they gestured frantically through the wooden bars, trying to indicate that she should pour slowly while they cupped their hands to catch it.
The two of them held their hands together under the window, waiting for a moment. Yet the wooden basin remained level, and not a single drop of soup fell.
The Hound tilted his head to look at the woman, and she simply smiled at him.
"Hound, say something! Tell her to pour it down!" Donnel was growing frantic with hunger.
"I don't speak wildling talk! I don't even know if she understood all my gestures!" The Hound was equally frustrated.
The woman withdrew the wooden basin, cradling it in her arms.
"Oh—!"
The hundred or so people around the distant bonfire had finished their dance and were now holding roasted meat in their hands, looking in their direction while howling and cheering.
"Oh—!"
The woman raised one arm high and shouted along with them, her face beaming with joy.
Donnel watched as the wildlings suddenly burst into cheers. "What's going on?"
The Hound didn't answer him, only gazed at the beautiful woman with pleading eyes. If he weren't so dehydrated, he might have been able to squeeze out a few tears.
The woman placed the wooden basin on the ground. The eyes of the Hound and Donnel followed it down to the rocky ground. Donnel licked his lips as he stared at the basin, while the Hound lifted his gaze, confused.
Amidst the cheers of the wildlings, the woman turned to face them directly, spread her legs to straddle the basin, and squatted down, lifting her leather skirt.
"Awooooo!"
Seeing the woman's broad, full hips from behind, the men in the distance howled even louder.
"I'm going to kill you! I swear, I'll kill you!"
Donnel grabbed the wooden bars in a frenzy, shaking them violently. His eyes were bloodshot, and his hoarse voice roared with fury.
"It's useless. She doesn't understand what you're saying." The Hound, though physically weak, remained calm.
What was left on the ground was no longer food. Donnel continued to roar, "Just wait! My father will come with hundreds of soldiers to save me! My grandfather will bring thousands! You'll all die! I swear not a single one of you will live!"
The Hound used his foot to kick the filth out of the cage, then gathered whatever food remained and placed it in a sunnier corner of the cage. Once dried, it could still be eaten.
"What are you doing? I order you to throw that filth away!"
The louder Donnel yelled, the more the wildlings enjoyed it. His throat raw from shouting, he turned to see the Hound scraping at the scraps on the ground. Instantly enraged, he reached out with his foot to kick them out of the cage.
The Hound quickly grabbed Donnel's leg and shoved him to the ground. Even in his weakened state, he was still stronger than Donnel. Straddling him, he pressed a hand to his chest. "Starve to death, or live long enough to take revenge?"
Donnel's furious expression gradually faded, replaced by helpless terror. Then, in a voice thick with tears, he muttered, "I'll kill them... I'll kill them all..."
As the Hound and Donnel argued, the shouts from the stone plaza stirred another prisoner awake.
The camp was built against a mountain. The Hound and Donnel's cage sat level with the plaza, while the other cages were higher up, close enough to hear each other but not to see.
Lancel Lannister and Osmund Kettleblack were in the same predicament, stripped naked and locked in a cage together. When they had first been captured a month ago, they could at least call out to the Hound and Donnel, since the wildlings didn't understand their language.
They had attempted to escape twice. Without weapons or clothing, they could only gnaw at the thick wooden bars with their teeth. But the wildlings were no savages—they simply weren't skilled at farming or crafting, but in battle, they were as capable as anyone in Westeros.
This was a wildling camp, teeming with people. The first escape attempt had barely lasted before they were caught, and several prisoners were executed as a warning.
Unwilling to give up, the Westerlanders tried a second time. That time, the wildling chief had been in camp. He hadn't bothered chasing them down, merely had his warriors follow along, laughing as they trailed behind the fleeing captives, axes in hand.
When the prisoners finally reached the edge of camp and saw nothing but rocky mountains and sheer cliffs dropping hundreds of feet, they gave up.
Osmund Kettleblack, the first to bite through the wooden bars and free the Westerlanders, had his teeth knocked out by the wildlings. Now, Lancel had to chew his food for him, spit it into his hands, and feed him. Some wildling had even drilled holes in his teeth and turned them into a necklace.
Once the proud captain of the Gold Cloaks in King's Landing, he now curled up on the ground like a worm, wishing for death. His father had been captured along with him but was later killed by the wildlings—his head was now impaled on a tree branch beside the cage, stripped of flesh by birds and rats, leaving only a bleached skull.
Lancel, once described as a golden-haired beauty as flawless as carved jade, was faring slightly better than the others. He still managed to eat a full meal every few days, but that was little comfort. The wildlings often dragged him out of the cage, using him as they pleased, and when they were done, they would toss him back inside, leaving him to sob helplessly on the ground.
Donnel and the other men had been imprisoned in this nameless place, while Cersei and her handmaids, who had also been captured by the wildlings, were taken elsewhere. Women were different from men in the wildlings' eyes—they could be traded for more valuable goods or, if not exchanged, used within the tribe itself.
A black raven perched on a nearby tree branch, preening its feathers with its sharp beak before scanning its surroundings. Then, spreading its wings, it took flight, circling above the camp before catching a gust of wind and gliding westward.
This place was within the Vale, somewhere in the northern reaches of the endless Mountains of the Moon—a land of steep cliffs and jagged peaks stretching as far as the eye could see. Sparse patches of greenery dotted the rocky summits, but civilization had long forgotten this region. The treacherous terrain, despite lying between the Riverlands and the Vale, had prevented any true settlement from taking root. Those who lived here still clung to the ways of ancient tribal civilizations. They did not farm, nor did they craft anything of worth. Their lives revolved around raiding—stealing food, weapons, and women. The more a man could take, the greater his honor.
It was estimated by nobles and maesters in the surrounding lands that dozens of large and small tribes dwelled in these mountains. However, the tribal system, built entirely on plunder, was doomed to be short-lived. When a man strong enough in both might and leadership emerged, he would unite the smaller clans under his banner, his name echoing through the Mountains of the Moon. Yet, when he inevitably fell, the distant highlands would fracture once more, birthing new warbands as the old name faded into history.
Half a year ago, Ser Addam Marbrand had secretly led a rescue mission into King's Landing to save Cersei and Donnel. As Jaime's childhood companion and closest friend, he had executed the plan flawlessly—ensuring that all those meant to be rescued escaped without a scratch.
So many Gold Cloaks had died in the process, including the Lord Commander of the City Watch, that even the least military-minded among them knew returning west by land was out of the question.
Addam had devised the perfect escape route: sailing northward from King's Landing on a merchant vessel, rounding the Vale's coastline, and landing at the Neck, the narrowest stretch of land in Westeros. From there, they would cross the swamps before taking another ship down the western coast, returning safely to Lannisport.
Since no open war had yet erupted, there was little chance that the events in King's Landing would be traced back to them—perhaps not for a long time, perhaps never. Those fleeing north could have even treated the journey as a scenic tour on their way home.
But then, disaster struck shortly after they landed in the Neck. Only Addam and a handful of his men managed to break through and escape, returning west to call for reinforcements.
And the one responsible for turning this near-perfect escape into a massacre—where some died and others were taken captive—was none other than Ser Donnel Sarsfield.