Strange Places

Alone in his feelings, Joe wandered the city.

One step at a time, he followed his nose.

But no matter how hard he tried to shake it, he could not get the words of Lucas out of his mind.

["Are you mad? This kind of shit happens everywhere, all the time. Don't be a hero."]

"A hero. . ."

The notion was laughable. He knew the events of Game of Thrones up to the end of season 5. If Joe were a 'hero,' he would have moved heaven and earth to prevent what would transpire: the war of the five kings, the death of his loved ones, the suffering of the North. . . The list goes on.

Yet, Joe could feel it.

It. It. The elusive 'it.'

Like a blood of liquid flame, there was something in the water. A surge within, a vibration in his bones, a phantom limb that could never be scratched but was always there — itching always.

Never in reach and yet burning, a sun ever close behind a cloud of his own creation.

Thoughts plagued. His mind: a fog of puzzle pieces. If he weren't careful, they'd scatter into black.

He paused in the middle of the street and massaged his brow.

['I need to stop thinking that I need to do everything at once. One step at a time.']

Joe took a deep breath. The east side of Tyrosh smelt like an armpit that perspired death and strife.

With dark purpose, he strode onward.

And clouds rolled swiftly from distant skies.

***

Meanwhile, in a not-so-secret tavern, where all the not-so-secret big names of the underworld meet, Lucas shared a drink.

"Hmph. You want inside the auction, do you?"

The one-eyed shady bartender observed Lucas with curiosity.

Shady, they called him. The presence of numerous warts surrounding the empty eye socket on the other side perplexed Lucas, leaving him wondering what could have caused its disappearance. Shady made no effort to cover his empty socket.

Lucas leaned back in his chair and sipped his rum. "Of course. What pirate wouldn't?"

"You're not fooling me, Lucas Leonard," said the one-eyed Shady, "Everyone knows what happened to your father."

"Which is why I need the gold," lied Lucas, "It's all business at the end of the day."

"To think the young and promising Lucas would lower himself to the slave trade. Let's say I believe you: what merchandise do you offer? As you know, the Great Auction is where the best slaves in all the world are sold."

Lucas breathed an inner sigh of relief. The first part of his deception was done. But these folk of the underworld were as selfish as they came.

'Sly bastard. . ,' thought Lucas.

'If I get overzealous with my lie, Shady will try to sniff out as much profit from me as possible.'

'Promise too little, and he will realize that Bluebeard is my target. I need the perfect balancing act that portrays a level of selfishness that Shady would trust in me but not so much that he tries to seize my so-called cargo of slaves.'

'In times like these, it's best to improvise with a half lie. . .'

"I have women," said Lucas.

". . . Go on," urged Shady.

"Ten in total," said Lucas, in reference to the harem of Hookhands, "Each with their own special descent. The purest of blood."

"That's a start."

". . . And I also have perhaps the greatest warrior in history. A living god of war."

Shady did his best to hide his interest, "Oh? If that's the case, how did you capture him?"

"That's a secret of the trade," said Lucas, "You'll have to trust me on this."

Shady scoffed at the idea of trust, "If he's a god of war, then surely I've heard of him."

"You might have," said Lucas, thinking quick on his feet.

"Well? Who is he?"

It was then that Lucas knew he found his mark.

"Tell me. Have you heard of the one who defeated Ser Jaime Lannister?"

Shady's remaining eye damn near bulged out of its socket, "I-I-I might have. . ?"

Lucas smiled, "You fool. I told you I had the goods."

The way inside the Great Auction appeared to show itself. The details could be ironed out later.

'Forgive me, Joe,' thought Lucas. Half of him wagered that Joe would be ecstatic at such a plan, but the other half feared his childish retribution.

'It doesn't matter. This is our way in!'

***

When everyone went their separate ways, Hookhands opted to stroll the east side and continue his debauched pilgrimage.

This was because, for the first time in a long while, Hookhands no longer had a crew.

Being a pirate captain was like the mafia in the respect that once you were in, it was difficult to get out. You had to always embody strength, remain vigilant against mutiny, and appear competent through plunder and pillage.

As soon as one haul was cashed out, the greed of men drove you to set sail again as quickly as possible.

But Joe had single-handedly slaughtered the reason that kept Hookhands in his vicious cycle. Not having to enforce his authority with displays of cruelty had eased his heart.

Furthermore, his time aboard their ship opened his eyes to different, more relaxed ways to traverse the seas. And he had no doubt that with Joe on board, his bloodthirsty blade and Shadowcat companion would make even the most tricky of bastards stay their hand.

'Might is right, eh? Maybe I should jump ship.'

The thought of it made Hookhands laugh. A man's ship is his castle. He would never relinquish that freedom.

And so, Hookhands found a not-so-secret tavern of his own with money on his mind. Some things never change.

"How much could a Knight earn me at the Great Auction?" he asked the information broker.

He licked his lips with a sinister smile. "Tell it to me true, and I might throw in a Shadowcat for free~"

***

The alleyways of east Tyrosh were dark and treacherous even in the light of day. If you asked any of the locals you got the same sentiment: 'Enter at your own peril.'

But for some, namely the weak and powerless, it was peril that forced their entry.

"WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!"

"Look at this mangy mutt. The damn thing has a death wish!"

A gang of hoodlums cackled at the mangy mutt. With its left paw missing, it stood defiantly on three legs, barking at his attackers.

Behind the mutt, backed into a corner and curled in the fetal position, a little girl cowered in fear. She wore a potato sack as a garment, with holes cut for her arms, and her dark hair was clotted in knots.

Each time one of the hoodlums tried to get to the little girl, the mutt would snap with its sharp teeth. They seemed to enjoy the terror inflicted by dragging this process out.

"Come with us, street rat. Or I'll stomp this mutt to death."

The girl dared not. She knew what awaited her if she went with them. Fear turned her body to stone. She watched like a pigeon, petrified as her dog valiantly put his life on the line.

And then, just as despair was about to win, a shining voice came to save her. A voice she recognized.

"Stop right there!"

The hoodlums turned to find a little boy holding a dagger. His legs trembled as he imagined the things they would do to him. But he had no choice. All that mattered was saving his friend.

"Blake!" the girl cried.

"Don't worry, Clare. I'll save you no matter what!"

With a grunted roar, Blake clutched his dagger with both hands and charged.

The whole thing looked so feeble. The hoodlums scoffed as the boy charged with determination fixed in his dark eyes.

But it was a failed attempt. Someone whacked him on the head with a wooden club before Blake could reach his target.

Blake fell in a daze, yet his consciousness remained. Was it willpower that kept him going?

"Look at this," the ringleader of the hoodlums laughed, "Still awake after a hit like that. Pretty tough for a street rat."

Blake gritted his teeth. He dug his fingers into the dirt and tried to crawl to Clare's side. At this, a hoodlum stomped on his hand.

"Argh!!"

"What? Still think you can win?"

"Maybe we should break in his friend and force him to watch?"

"Absolutely not. We don't want to lessen her value."

"WOOF WOOF WOOF!"

The horrifying brainstorm was drowned out by the brave barks of the mutt.

"Shut that fucking thing up!" the ringleader said.

"No!!!" Blake cried with all his might. "Don't! I'll do anything you ask. Please!!"

"Anything? Hmm. . ," the ringleader liked that sound, "In that case. Stand up and kill the dog."

"W-what?"

To that question, Blakes's other hand was stamped on.

"ARGHH!!"

"I won't repeat myself again. Kill the dog, or your friend gets it."

They laughed at the pathetic sight of Blake trying to stand. Tears flowed and snot ran as he gripped the dagger with his shattered hands. The pain seared, but what hurt more was the thought of his cruel task.

The mutt didn't bark at Blake. It looked at the boy with trusting eyes, almost trying to communicate that it was all okay.

In that final moment when Blake honestly thought he was about to do it, a rage flamed his heart.

"Tch—!"

'I'm sorry, Clare. There's no way out of this.'

Blake turned and, together with the mutt, stood defiantly in the way of the hoodlums.

"If you want Clare, you gotta kill me first!"

"WOOF!"

The ringleader laughed. "Wrong choice!"

The hoodlums advanced. This time they weren't playing games. Death was in their steps.

Steps that weren't alone~

"Bahahaha! You got guts, kid. I'll give you that!"

Who should come strolling down the alley but a man with eyes of amber.

"What do we have here?" Joe said.

The ringleader did not like how Joe so contemptuously regarded them. It was as if he conversed with cockroaches.

"Who are you, bastard? And how long have you been there?"

Joe's hand rested on the hilt of Icebreaker.

"Move along, pal. You lost this fight."

"Lost?" the hoodlums cackled, "The boy got his ass beat."

Joe scoffed, "The kid fought with all he had, no matter the outcome. So long as you do that, hope can come from the strangest places."

The ringleader snapped. "Fuck this guy! Let's get him!"

"Kid!" Joe yelled as he unsheathed Icebreaker, "Cover her eyes!"

For a moment, Blake did not comprehend the request. But when that scarlet blade spun and twirled, he realized.

Body parts went flying as blood sprayed against the walls. Heads were decapitated before they could scream in pain. Joe was like a painter. Blood was his ink.

Despite the gruesome scene, his movements had a strange beauty, like a moon goddess who danced on the shimmering water.

It was over in a flash. Blake snapped out of his daze. He didn't want Joe to turn around to see that he failed his task.

Thankfully, Clare was still curled in the corner with her eyes forcefully shut. Blake covered them anyway.

"Don't worry, it's all over now."

Blake's shattered hands did not grant him the strength to help Clare stand.

Joe flicked the blood off Icebreaker and approached. He knelt on one knee and let the mutt sniff before scratching its head. "Is she okay? That would have been quite the scare."

"She will be," said Blake, "I'll make sure of it."

"Here," Joe untied the string of his cloak and handed it to Blake, "Wrap her in this. Trauma blankets always work like a charm."

Blake put the cloak on Clare, ensuring it covered her vision as he led her out of the alleyway.

Once back on the street, they sat with their backs against the wall of a building. If they had a bowl, you'd mistake them for beggars. The mutt sat next to Joe and enjoyed the scratches.

"What's his name?" asked Joe.

"Courage," Blake replied.

"A fitting name. Courage, huh? Who's a good boy?"

"WOOF!"

". . . Thanks," said Blake.

"For back there? Don't mention it. But what the hell was that all about?"

Blake stroked the bundled mass of Clare's head under the cloak. Before long, the soothing rhythm calmed her.

"It's hard to explain," said Blake, "What about you? You must not be from around here."

"Did my charm and good looks give it away?"

"Well, the only people that use the alleys are idiots or foreigners. . ."

Joe chuckled, "Only idiots would waste a good shortcut! Lucky for you. Or else your ass would be dead as fried chicken right now."

Joe touched his rumbling stomach and groaned, "Speaking of which. If we're done here, hurry up and return my cloak."

"Wait!" Blake said, "At least let us thank you somehow."

"You can thank me by pointing toward the spice market."

"That's easy! We can tell you at our hideout. It's on the way. We're not supposed to bring strangers, but they'll understand. We can tell you everything!"

Joe looked down at the battered boy. A determined gaze beamed on a face that was swollen and purplish.

['How honorable. The fact he can ignore those injuries just so he can thank me. . . Jon would like him.']

Joe sighed with annoyance. It felt like side quests were trying to lead him astray. A hunch told him that Blake's hideout was, in fact, not the way to his desired location.

Instead, some form of selfishness had compelled the boy to thank Joe in whatever way could quench his tiny ego.

['Still, it would be good to get information from different sources.']

"Fine," Joe relented

"Lead the way."