TRISTAN

"It was a keep, once. Likely to spot pirates operating on the sea."

Ser Lucan Wylde stood at the head of the small, hastily built table, the reverse of one of the Reaper's Wind's charts held down with stones from the rocky shore. Tristan studied the crudely drawn map Ser Lucan provided, then looked up to the open archway that was once a gate. Amory Lorch scratched at his chin, observing the map.

"As you can see," Ser Lucan continued, pulling Tristan's attention back from the open gate, "it is not nearly as defensible as it may have once been."

"There is no place to attack from," Amory noted. Ser Lucan nodded reluctantly.

"We have the courtyard and the shore," he said. "But there is no cover for us, no trees to build siege engines from, and no land to forage."

"We use the Reaper's Wind for our siege engines," Tristan said. "She will never sail again. We have provisions, we will use them. We control the beaches beyond the wall, the docks, and the walls themselves. We have cover."

"What we have will never avail us for a siege of more than a week," Ser Lucan countered. Tristan looked to Shanna Blacktyde; the Ironborn was standing atop one of the walls, playing her fiddle in the setting sun. She practically dared the Dornish to shoot her from the parapet. The lingering, haunting tune carried across the barren walls and beaches of the tiny island. "Ser Tristan."

"What is it?" Tristan asked, looking back to the Stormland knight.

"We will never be able to besiege them," Ser Lucan tried again. "Even with my marines, we do not have enough men to break down their gates, and we do not have the supplies to force them out!"

"Or the time," Ser Amory added.

"Then find us a way in," Ser Tristan growled, turning back on the pair. "Prisons are meant to keep people in, not out. This… keep is in a shambles. There will be holes."

"We have already taken the largest of these holes," Ser Lucan pointed out with a jab of his finger to the open gate. "Their inner keep is defensible. The doors are stout. The walls lead up to doors that are locked and barred. They have high ground upon which to rain crossbow bolts while we try to batter their main doors. The opposite side of their tower is a drop into the sea."

Tristan looked at the inner keep for a moment, its little tower the only thing they did not control on this desolate island. He looked back to the map; it showed little more than the decayed outer wall, the inner keep, and the ocean beyond.

"Where is the prison?" he asked.

"Below," Ser Lucan answered. "Over the years the guards have dug new passages and maintained many of the old stores as dungeons. There are as many prisoners as there are Dornish."

"More now, with the losses they have taken," Amory assumed.

"Can we use these dungeons to gain access to the keep?" Ser Tristan asked.

"I do not know," Ser Lucan answered. "I would think the Dornish have sealed their tower off, in case their prisoners somehow take the courtyard. From what I have ever seen here, the prisoners are taken in through the walls, such as where… Axell went in."

"There must be some way in," Tristan reiterated. Ser Lucan shook his head.

"Perhaps you wish to climb the wall on the seaward side," he suggested, a mocking tone to his voice.

"It has already succeeded once," Ser Amory stated, a trace of a smug smile on his porcine face. Ser Lucan turned to him. "We climbed the Red Keep," the Westerland knight continued, "or did you think we grew wings?"

"I would have thought the Kingsl… Ser Jaime Lannister had let you in," Ser Lucan said. He turned to Tristan. "Is this true?"

"It was a difficult climb, during the sack, under cover of darkness," the Brash Lion said cautiously.

"I have done so once," Ser Amory said. "I will do it again. If for no other reason than to repay the bastard."

"It will only work if we can distract them," Ser Lucan said. "And even if you do gain the keep, we will not have enough men to fight our way in."

Tristan looked at the map again, then to the heavily listing Reaper's Wind. The Maiden of Rain could still sail, but leaving would give the princess a chance to leave, or at least receive reinforcements…

A sudden clamor arose from the courtyard. Tristan and the others turned as crossbow bolts clattered off of the courtyard. Before they could move to counter an attack, Axell, Priano, and Gnipho rushed through the gate, a fourth man with them. He was dressed in little more than drab brown rags, his chestnut hair wild and an unruly beard covering most of his face. On his wrists…

"Ser Tristan," Axell said, spotting the small group around their makeshift table. He waved the unkempt man along as he descended the gentle slope to the knights. "This man may be of help to us."

"A prisoner?" Ser Lucan said. The man with Axell smirked through his beard, holding up his chained hands.

"You should remember me, Ser Lucan," the prisoner said. Lucan studied him for a moment, but a look of realization finally reached his face.

"Huon Storm," the captain of the Maiden of Rain said. "I should have known that you would end up in a place like this."

"Only for my part in running the Redwyne Blockade," Huon Storm said. The prisoner smiled, but Ser Lucan folded his arms across his chest.

"That is not the only reason you are here," he stated. Then he turned to Tristan. "This… bastard has been responsible for every kind of corsair attack on the Sea of Dorne for almost a decade. He may have aided Storm's End, but he was black long before that."
"Yes, but I have men," Huon said.

"Tell them how many," Axell prompted. Huon ignored Ser Lucan, turning to Tristan as well.

"I have a dozen men in this prison," the corsair explained, bordering on smug. "And some others that will listen to me, as well. I am certain you will find a score or more reinforcements in the dungeons below. Many would join you if only to seek revenge on the cruel Dornish."

"This one is bad enough without resorting to corsairs and criminals," Ser Lucan countered. "Ser Tristan, we cannot let these men free!"

"Do you have reinforcements to call upon?" Tristan inquired, turning to Ser Lucan. The Stormland knight flushed with anger. "You have told me already, we do not have the men for a siege, we do not have the supplies to wait them out, and even if we open the gate, we cannot take the keep. Shall we wait for ships from Sunspear, Ghost Hill, or the Tor? There is little doubt that the keep's maester has already sent at least one raven."

"I would rather try without," Ser Lucan hissed.

"And I would rather bring this war to an end as quickly as possible," Tristan countered, "before the Dornish rally, the Reach declares again for the Targaryen line, and more people die. When night falls, we will free Huon Storm's men, and any other prisoner who wishes a chance at freedom."

"My lord, you have made the right decision," Huon Storm said happily. Tristan turned to him.

"I hope your men know how to fight," he said. "Your men will lead the van against the gate."

Huon's mood darkened, but only slightly.

"A death in battle is better than rotting forever in the dark," the bastard finally decided. "Arm us, and we will take the fight to those Dornish dogs."

"You will be armed," Tristan promised. He turned to Amory. "Ser Amory," he said, "perhaps we will make use of you skill at climbing after all."

"As you will, Ser Tristan," Amory said with a faint grin. Tristan looked back to Huon.

"Take the chains off of him," he directed. He looked to the bastard. "What do you know of the dungeons below the keep?"

"They are dark and cramped," Huon Storm answered. "The Dornish do little to keep us in any comfort at all. Their chief torturer, Nabon, commits unspeakable deeds."

"I care nothing for their chief torturer," Tristan countered. "I need to know if we can breach the castle from below."

"They do have passages," Huon explained. "But I know that they have gates and guards. To fight down a long, narrow corridor through a steel gate…"

"With crossbows upon us," Gnipho finished. "No. We will never break them from below."

"Smoke them from below, and take the walls," Axell said. Tristan looked to him.

"What do you mean?" Ser Lucan asked. Huon smiled.

"Pitch will burn," the corsair said, "and I suppose you have much of it in supply on your foundering ship."

"Start a fire in the passages below," Tristan said.

"We cannot burn them out," Ser Lucan countered.

"Not burn them out," Axell clarified. Tristan nodded. "Smoke them out."

"Even if they have oak doors to close over the passages, they cannot seal out all of the smoke," Tristan concluded. He turned to the sellsword. "Make preparations. When night falls we will move the pitch in and arm any prisoner who wishes to fight for his freedom."

"You have made the right choice, Lord Tristan," Huon Storm said, a broad smile growing beneath his beard. The smile left, however, as he looked past the Brash Lion. "Well, well," the corsair said. "The Ironborn witch."

"This is your hope for victory?" Shanna inquired with a huff, coming up behind Tristan. "Huon Storm? We are doomed, indeed."

"You did not think so when I came near enough to sending you to your drowned god," Huon quipped. He looked to Tristan. "My lord, I did not know you traveled with such company. Shanna Blacktyde sent no less than five Vale ships to their end, before I put a stop to her."

"You fought for the Targaryens?" Axell concluded, turning on Shanna.

"I took ships that were worth taking," Shanna countered evenly. "Ships from the Vale carried far more worth taking than any Redwyne picket ship. And they were poorly crewed."

"Who is less trustworthy now, Lord Tristan?" Huon inquired. "Me? A good man of the Stormlands, loyal to our new king, or her? An Ironborn witch who would take the side of dragons?"

"I took no side," Shanna said, "except my own."

"She will charm you with her words and song, Ser Tristan," Huon warned. "She will plant that sword in your back when you least-"

Tristan moved in a heartbeat, grabbing the corsair by the throat. His warning ended in a strangled gasp.

"If you think I will trust someone I have just released from prison over the captain who has taken me from Westeros to Tyrosh and back, you are mistaken," he snarled. "Now shut your mouth."

Huon nodded quickly. Tristan released him, his green eyes lingering in a cold glare a moment longer.

"My lord," Axell said. "Perhaps I can take you below with me now? There is something I wish you to see."

"What is it?" Tristan asked. He looked down the beach, where Abriana stood at a distance, watching the interplay. Kerrick remained by her side, as ordered. Axell stepped into his line of view.

"Below," he reiterated. Tristan looked one last time to Abriana, but the girl had already turned away.

"Very well," Tristan said.

Axell said not another word, but moved to the corner of the open gate. Tristan waited with him, then the two sprinted for the safety of the dungeon.

Only one or two crossbow bolts clattered off the ground behind them, allowing the pair to descend into the dungeon easily. Axell took up a torch from near the entrance, and led the Brash Lion down into the darkness.

"Why are we here?" Tristan asked. Axell glanced over his shoulder as he passed rows of cells, some empty and some holding men that watched the pair with eager curiosity.

"This princess business, it is most… unsavory," the sellsword said, moving down the passage. "But I think I may have found a solution to our problem. One that we may be able to use. One that may keep your hands clean."

"Explain yourself," Tristan said. Axell cast a smile back to him, then stopped in front of a cell. With his stump, he gestured through the bars.

The man inside was heavily bearded, his back covered in scars and his inky black hair wild. He was stocky and tall, his dark eyes glittering in the torchlight as he turned to them.

"Who is this?" Tristan asked.

"Bernal," a voice said from the opposite side of the hall. Tristan turned on a lanky, dark haired man leaning on the bars of his cell. "That's Bernal," he said again. "Bernal the Butcher."

"Bernal the Butcher?" Tristan repeated. The other prisoner nodded.

"According to Martan Sand," Axell began, gesturing to the more talkative prisoner, "Bernal earned his name murdering Orphans along the Greenblood. He is not bothered by questions of conscience like you, or I."

"No," Tristan said, realizing Axell's plan. "Not this. Not a murderer!"

"Do you wish her blood on your hands?" Axell asked in reply. "Can you do it? Set the Butcher loose, and see it done! Gain your Castamere, end this war! And then…" Axell lowered his voice, and stepped back, "and then see justice done."

"I will gladly lend my assistance, if you let me out," Martan Sand added. Tristan looked back to him.

"Whose bastard are you?" the Brash Lion inquired. Martan smiled, a disarming gesture.

"Well, let us say that I have some Wyl blood in me," he answered.

"And why are you here?" Tristan asked. Martan smiled again, and shrugged.

"I was unjustly accused of murdering my cousin, Idres Wyl," he answered. "They have allowed me to take time to choose. Take the black, or die beneath Lord Wyl's sword." Martan paused, and chuckled. "I think I would rather fight for Lord Lannister."

"I am not loosing a murderer," Tristan said, ignoring the Dornish bastard and turning back to Axell. The northman stepped closer to him.

"Will you kill the child? Hmm?" he asked sternly. "Set the Butcher free, and cut him down afterward. That should soothe your troubled conscience, my lord. Because you must find someone to do the deed itself."

Tristan glared at him, but said nothing as he turned back down the passage.

"My lord," Martan Sand called out after him. "My lord! I am an excellent blade, I will fight for you!"

"You will," Axell promised, still at the cells. Tristan hurried his pace as he heard the jangle of keys in the locks.

The sooner this ended, the better.