A Feast for Dragons

laughter. Even the monkeys
were amused. They chattered overhead, and one flung down a handful of his own
shit to spatter on the boards.
    Victarion Greyjoy mistrusted laughter. The sound of it
always left him with the uneasy feeling that he was the butt of some jape he
did not understand. Euron Crow’s Eye had oft made mock of him when they were
boys. So had Aeron, before he had become the Damphair. Their mockery oft came
disguised as praise, and sometimes Victarion had not even realized he was being
mocked. Not until he heard the laughter. Then came the anger, boiling up in the
back of his throat until he was like to choke upon the taste. That was how he
felt about the monkeys. Their antics never brought so much as a smile to the
captain’s face, though his crew would roar and hoot and whistle.
    “Send him down to the Drowned God before he brings a curse
upon us,” urged Burton Humble.
    “A ship gone down, and only him clinging to the wreckage,”
said Wulfe One-Ear. “Where’s the crew? Did he call down demons to devour them?
What happened to this ship?”
    “A storm.” Moqorro crossed his arms against his chest. He
did not appear frightened, though all around him men were calling for his
death. Even the monkeys did not seem to like this wizard. They leapt from line
to line overhead, screaming.
    Victarion was uncertain.
He came out of the sea. Why
would the Drowned God cast him up unless he meant for us to find him?
His brother Euron had his pet wizards. Perhaps the Drowned God meant for
Victarion to have one too. “Why do you say this man is a wizard?” he asked the
Vole. “I see only a ragged red priest.”
    “I thought the same, lord Captain … but he
knows
things. He knew that we made for Slaver’s Bay before any man could tell him,
and he knew you would be here, off this island.” The small man hesitated. “Lord
Captain, he told me … he told me you would surely die unless we
brought him to you.”
    “That
I
would die?” Victarion snorted.
Cut
his throat and throw him in the sea
, he was about to say, until a
throb of pain in his bad hand went stabbing up his arm almost to the elbow, the
agony so intense that his words turned to bile in his throat. He stumbled and
seized the rail to keep from falling.
    “The sorcerer’s cursed the captain,” a voice said.
    Other men took up the cry. “Cut
his throat! Kill him
before he calls his demons down on us!”
Longwater Pyke was the first
to draw his dirk.
“NO!”
Victarion bellowed. “Stand back! All of
you. Pyke, put up your steel. Vole, back to your ship. Humble, take the wizard
to my cabin. The rest of you, about your duties.” For half a heartbeat he was
not certain they would obey. They stood about muttering, half with blades to
hand, each looking to the others for resolve. Monkey shit rained down around
them all,
splat splat splat
. No one moved until Victarion
seized the sorcerer by the arm and pulled him to the hatchway.
    As he opened the door to the captain’s cabin, the dusky
woman turned toward him, silent and smiling … but when she saw the
red priest at his side her lips drew back from her teeth, and she
hisssss
ed
in sudden fury, like a snake. Victarion gave her the back of his good hand and
knocked her to the deck. “Be quiet, woman. Wine for both of us.” He turned to
the black man. “Did the Vole speak true? You saw my death?”
    “That, and more.”
    “Where? When? Will I die in battle?” His good hand opened
and closed. “If you lie to me, I will split your head open like a melon and let
the monkeys eat your brains.”
    “Your death is with us now, my lord. Give me your hand.”
    “My hand. What do you know of my hand?”
    “I have seen you in the nightfires, Victarion Greyjoy. You
come striding through the flames stern and fierce, your great axe dripping
blood, blind to the tentacles that grasp you at wrist and neck and ankle, the
black strings that make you dance.”
    “Dance?”
Victarion bristled. “Your
nightfires lie. I was not made for dancing, and I am no man’s puppet.” He
yanked off his glove and shoved his bad hand at the priest’s face. “Here. Is
this what you wanted?” The new linen was already discolored by blood and pus.
“He had a rose on his shield, the man who gave this to me. I scratched my hand
on a thorn.”
    “Even the smallest scratch can prove mortal, lord Captain,
but if you will allow me, I will heal this. I will need a blade. Silver would
be best, but iron will serve.