Saviours and Sellsails

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the ASOIAF universe. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of GRRM; I make no claim to ownership.

Acknowledgements: This chapter has not been edited by anyone but sleepy ole me, so beware. Cheers to Bub3loka, my beta reader, who helped me immensely. There's also some possible graphic/disturbing content not for the faint of heart, but nothing explicit.

Also, if you're feeling generous and want to support me, you can find me on P*T*E*N under the same name to read five chapters ahead of Discord.

Warning! There's also some possibly graphic/disturbing content not for the faint of heart, but nothing explicit.

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Lysara Liddle

Her heart sang with joy as the young man heroically leapt and drove his spear through the gigantic beast's eye. The beast instantly slumped, but the titanic paw that was already in motion still struck him. Lysara froze as her saviour's body rolled through the packed ground like a ragdoll.

A moment later, he finally stopped at the roots of an ancient oak. After a few moments, the young maiden got out of her stupor and cautiously eyed the sprawled snow bear, spear sticking out of its skull.

It was not moving at all.

Fear completely forgotten, Lysara quickly climbed down the tilted sentinel tree and dashed towards her fallen saviour as fast as her legs could carry her.

A relieved sigh escaped her; his eyes were still open, and he struggled to get up. But it was short-lived as her eyes glanced towards his ribs. His brigandine was torn open, a few plates of steel were bent like straws, and there was blood. Gods, what would she do now?! Lysara shook her head furiously, trying to remember old Lena's lessons.

"Hey," her eyes goggled as the man greeted her with a strained voice, face contorted by pain. "Are you unharmed, my lady?"

For a short moment, she stood there, stunned. He finally sat up, back to the oaken tree, and unsheathed a dagger from his belt after a short struggle. Before Lysara could find her words, the man cut a large strip from his grey cloak and pressed it on his bloody torso.

"I'm fine," she barely mumbled. "But-"

Unable to articulate herself, she just timidly gestured towards the injury.

"Ah, 'tis but a flesh wound, no need to worry. Might leave a scar, but I'll be fine," he quickly waved her concerns away.

"There was blood!"

"Well, that happens when you get wounded, my lady," he chuckled weakly, but she was not feeling amused one bit! Yet Lysara did notice that his face was no longer too pained nor his voice as strained. "I was lucky. My armour took the brunt of the strike, which lost its strength after the bear died. After going through the brigandine, the chainshirt, and the arming doublet, there wasn't much power left in the claws. But I'm certainly bruised and might've cracked a rib or two."

Lysara's worries subsided at his now confident voice. Bruises and cracked ribs were far from lethal, so he would definitely be fine! She finally took a careful look at his features and blushed. Gods, he was pretty, even with the dirt and beads of sweat running down his face! Her saviour had soft grey eyes, high cheekbones and a sharp, sculpted face. His comely face was surrounded by damp, dark hair reaching his broad shoulders. Wait, she had completely forgotten her manners!

"Ah, thank you for saving me, ser-" Lysara paused when she realised he had not given his name. She had not even introduced herself either!

Her cheeks reddened.

"Name's Jon," her pretty saviour took mercy on her and responded with a pained chuckle. "I'm not a knight either, just a Northern bastard."

But he was so heroic and pretty! How was he not a knight?! At that moment, she heard a faint shuffling behind her. She instinctively turned around and froze.

She was surrounded by four vicious-looking hounds; one was as white as snow, one dirty red, one brown, and the last had grey fur. A few fearful heartbeats passed, but nothing happened. Lysara noticed that none of them were standing aggressively, nor were their teeth bared and began to calm.

"Ah, those are my companions," the young man voiced behind her. "They are harmless, don't worry. Give them your hand to take your scent."

A breath she did not remember holding was released, and she hesitantly offered her right hand, making the pack approach and inspect it with their wet noses.

"LYSARA!" a mighty cry tore through the air, startling both her and the dogs, making her pale. The hounds instantly turned towards the source of the cry; four tails rose in the air as they crouched defensively in front of her and her saviour.

That was her father's voice, and she was going to be in so much trouble…

And there he was. Atop the northern rocky ridge, her father, Torren Liddle, along with her brothers, Duncan, Morgan, and Rickard, followed by nearly three dozen hunters and a score of angrily barking hunting hounds. Even from that distance, Lysara could see her father's weary face etched with worry, but she could recognise the storm brewing in his icy eyes.

The hounds in front of her began to growl in warning as the group approached, and her father's wolfhounds barked up a loud racket. All of them looked tense, spears and bows in their arms.

"Down, Ghost. Girls," the voice of the young man behind her was almost drowned out in the ruckus, but at that moment, the four hunting hounds sat down peacefully, and her father's hunting hounds quieted down as he raised his hand in a fist.

"Hello, Father!" she waved, trying to look cheerful.

It did not work. Torren Liddle did not spare Jon more than a passing glance before pinning her with his icy gaze.

"Lysara," his voice was impassive, slow and measured, his usual northern burr nowhere to be heard; she couldn't help but shrink down. "Did you remember what you promised when I agreed for you to accompany us on the hunt?"

"That I'll make no trouble and listen to your commands?" Lyarra timidly recounted and tried to evade her father's sharp gaze.

"That's right. Look me in the eyes when I speak to ye!" he snapped coldly, and she guiltily looked up to meet his eyes. "And what did you do when I ordered you to stay in the camp with Rickard?"

"I went to look for some yellow caps for the stew?" She offered weakly as she rubbed her neck. "I just wanted to help too…"

"Lysara," Torren's voice was deathly calm, but his icy eyes were filled with worry. "Next time you go to 'help', don't foolishly sneak away, but come to me, and I'll get someone to escort you. You could have been mauled by a wild animal or taken by a daring wilding. We just heard a monstrous roar from this direction not long ago."

She couldn't help but laugh nervously at his words.

"Da, you gotta see this," Rickard, her youngest brother, pointed towards the snow bear's corpse that looked like a small hill from here.

Torren Liddle craned his head and looked at the slain beast. The only reaction he showed was the widening of his eyes before returning his gaze to Lysara. Her brother Morgan and half a dozen hunters went to the corpse to inspect it.

"You'll not only double your lessons with Lena but muck the stables and help in the kitchen for the next three moons without a single complaint." She swallowed down her objection at his stern face and bowed her head in agreement. From experience, Lysara knew there was no point in arguing lest her father decided to lengthen her punishment further. "And who is your companion behind you?"

"That's Jon, father," she explained and stepped away as she realised she was standing in front of her saviour. "He killed the bear to save me."

"Well met, Chief Liddle," Jon bowed his head in acknowledgement with a slight grimace.

Torren Liddle, however, was staring at the young man without saying a word for some reason.

"Gods, father, is that a direwolf?" Duncan, her eldest brother, broke the silence as he pointed towards… the white wolfhound?

At that moment, her father's face softened, and the ice in his blue eyes finally melted.

"That's a direwolf, alright, with its overly large head." Torren Liddle finally agreed as he gazed at Jon. "Yer a Stark. The Ned's boy?"

By the gods, why didn't he tell her he was a Stark?! It took all of Lysara's control not to squeal in delight right here. Starks were even better than knights!

"Aye, I'm Lord Stark's son, but just a Snow."

At that moment, Morgan finally returned, bloody spear in hand. Soft steam arose from the badly twisted leaf-shaped steelhead as it dripped rich black blood.

"Father, that behemoth must be what was driving all the prey away. Methinks it weighs at least four thousand pounds, more than enough to feed us for a whole moon. The hide is unmarred. It took five of us to take the spear out of the eye," her brother looked at Jon with undisguised admiration.

"I apologise for stealing your prey, Lord Torrhen," Jon chimed in with a pained grimace as he pressed the now reddish strip of cloth tighter to his wound. "I relinquish my rights to the carcass to you."

"None of that Southron crap, lad," her father dismissively waved his hand; Lysara noticed his voice had regained its usual brogue. "A tall feat for the songs, slaying a beast so large alone. I would have lost me only daughter and even some of me finest men putting it down. Name or not, The Ned's get is always welcome in me lands. How's yer wound?"

"Bruised heavily, and claws raked my skin, but I'll live," her saviour barely suppressed a groan. "Might need a clean bandage and mayhaps some poultice to ward away any festering."

"We'll get ya to me Hall, lad, and old Lena will patch ya up good," he turned to the rest of the men. "Rodrik, Hrothgar, go fetch the litter for the Ned's son. The rest of ye, skin the beast and harvest everything before it goes bad. Tonight we feast!"

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Tyrosh

Salladhor Saan

The sun was slowly crawling towards the horizon in the west, giving a pinkish hue to the clouds littering the vast sky. Salladhor looked at Zephon Sarrios' enormous manse with a hint of annoyance. The black marble walls were nearly twenty feet tall, and he could see Unsullied patrolling along the ramparts above. The gates, made of solid ebony lined with silver and gold, were also manned by four Unsullied, who stood as still as statues.

The whole place could easily qualify as a fortress if it wasn't for the excessive amount of luxury. He had no idea why the richest magister in Tyrosh had summoned him, but Salladhor was never one to pass up an opportunity to make some gold. In fact, he could practically hear the sweet clinks of coin filling his purse. He just hoped that the magister would not make him wait until dawn. That bad business with the sack forty years ago dragged the Saan name through the mud in this city because of his greedy uncle.

Thankfully, Salladhor did not have to wait long. A buxom blonde with long, flowing hair and pale skin, dressed in scant silk, scarcely covering her ample teats and shapely hips, haughtily walked out of the ebony door next to the gate and looked at him. With her lithe waist and heart-shaped face, the woman would easily be the top courtesan in the best pillow houses in Lys!

"Magister Sarrios will see you now, Master Saan," she spoke in a melodic voice, beckoning him with a smooth, elegant gesture.

He took an appreciative glance at her swaying hips and, a moment later, followed. She moved so lightly and gracefully that the only sound he could hear was the rustling of her dress. To his chagrin, none of Salladhor's concubines could hold a candle to the alluring messenger before him. Ynanna's holy teats, he'd have to visit a pillow house to vent after this.

The courtyard was vast and opulent. A broad walkway was paved in white marble, and exotic trees, plants, and flowers of myriad colours were lined around the path. Salladhor was a well-travelled explorer, but he could only recognise a scant few like Goldenheart, Ebony, Nightwood, and even Black-barked trees! Not only that but there was a giant statue of a pair of naked lovers made entirely out of jade. He could also spot a gilded fountain surrounded by four silver sculptures of bare maidens.

His gaze now slid forward to the manse where the prodigal magister resided. It was a tall thing of white marble, with a tall round tower at every corner. It had a wing on each side, and large glass windows littered the facade. Pillars of black marble with the shapes of dancing bodies supported the elongated parts of the silvery roof.

At that moment, Salladhor couldn't help but envy Magister Sarrios. Alas, men like him had to break their backs and brave the seas to get a small fraction of the riches the Tyroshi Magister possessed.

They finally arrived at the entrance of the manse. The large goldenheart door was inlaid with silver and was guarded by yet another pair of Unsullied.

The magnificent display of wealth became even more luxurious inside, but Salladhor was now too numb to care; silk, jade, gold, and marble were as common as dirt. After a walk down a wide, ornate hallway, he was led into a large hall.

At the corner, a completely naked maiden pleasantly ran her delicate fingers on a large golden harp lined with rubies. His eyes slid over the few unsullied that stood like statues along the walls towards the numerous bare maids running around with gilded platters heavy with food or silver-bound pitchers of wine. They all had the red anemone tattooed on their belly, signifying their status as pleasure slaves. To Salladhor's surprise, none were lesser in looks than the fair messenger. The woman led him towards the centre, where a large mahogany table lined with jade, surrounded by ebony chairs tapered with crimson velvet.

Magister Zephon Sarrios stood on a large ebony throne lined with gold and encrusted emeralds. Tall yet plump, with olive skin, dyed blue hair, and a round face, the man didn't look too impressive. Clad in a loose robe of purple silk emblazoned with gold, his fingers were adorned in valyrian steel rings bejewelled with large diamonds and emeralds. A slender, naked, silver-haired valyrian beauty with purple eyes was feeding him grapes while a second, buxom and just as naked, was massaging his neck and shoulders.

It took every last ounce of Salladhor's self-control not to stare at their rosy nipples but at the unappealing magister instead. Even in Lys, one would be hard-pressed to see so much naked flesh, let alone one of such quality.

"Ah, Captain Saan," Zephon Sarrios smiled widely, blinding the Lyseni Captain with a flash of gold. He almost tripped on the jade stairs up the dais as he saw that all of the teeth of the magister were golden. "Just the man I was looking for. Take a seat, and do not be afraid to fill your belly or soothe your parched throat."

"Magister Sarrios, it's an honour to meet you," Salladhor bowed his head and sat across the table.

One of the naked maids with red hair and an ample bosom came over and filled his goblet with a dark purple liquid, and an exquisite scent teased his nostrils. Ynanna's holy teats! Was this from the legendary exclusive stash of Lord Redwyne?! Then he noticed that all the cutlery on the table was made from dark, rippled steel and gaped. Salladhor did not know what to do for the first time in his life. His desire to bury his face into the ample bosom of the naked redhead beside him warred with his admiration for the opulent cutlery and the need to drown the cup filled with the wine of legend.

With titanic effort, he shook his head and forced himself to focus on the Magister, who had a sly, knowing smile on his face.

"I take it you're in agreement with my meagre bounty, Captain," pride was evident in the tyroshi's voice. "I am in need of your services."

"What do you require of me, Magister?"

The merchant prince's jovial expression melted away and turned blank. He slapped the arse of the lithe beauty next to him, and she lifted one of the pitchers and filled his valyrian steel goblet studded with rubies.

"My eldest daughter, Melyta, is to marry Archon Varonar as his main wife," he slowly began before taking a generous gulp from his goblet. "I've prepared to add the grandest dowry of the Free Cities, so all would know House Sarrios is the richest and most powerful of them all! Countless treasured materials have been prepared, from imperial jade from Yi Ti to valyrian steel armaments for the Archon. I shall gift every priceless treasure from the four corners of the world!" He grandly waved his hand, but then his face soured. "But I am unable to find anyone to procure weirwood and mammoth ivory!"

Salladhor opened his mouth to agree but then halted. Something was wrong; this wouldn't be too hard for any run-of-the-mill smuggler to procure!

"It should be simple to get some weirwood or ivory from the Night's Watch for a man of your calibre, Magister," he cautiously replied.

Zephon Sarrios was not only the most powerful head of the Tyroshi cartels, the owner of the most developed harbour in the city, but also the sole distributor of the luxurious purple dye, the biggest banker, and the head of the chattel slavery in the city. He bred and trained the finest slaves, be it pleasure, fighting, serving, or craftsmen. While the Archon ruled in Tyrosh in the open, Zephon Sarrios was the hidden power of the city.

"Ah, my friend Saan. Usually, you would be right!" Zephon's smiling face then twisted into an angry grimace. "But that cretin Arvaad bought out all the mammoth ivory off the market and refuses to sell to me no matter the price! And I need not the measly branches of the weirwoods but thick trunks to make a grand statue of my daughter so her beauty will be remembered for eternity! I need a brave man to go north of that icy Wall and procure me the goods."

It took a moment for Salladhor to remember who Arvaad was. Another rich and powerful magister, second only to Sarrios. He commanded the largest portion of the Tyroshi fleet and had a lot of connections in Westeros.

"Why me?" he found himself asking suspiciously. Something did not add up here; plenty of skilled smugglers and pirates in Tyrosh would jump to earn the Magister's favour. "Surely, Tyrosh does not lack capable sellsails eager to do your bidding."

Zephon Sarrios then pulled the lithe, naked serving girl into his lap. Ignoring her yelp, his dark hands began to rove eagerly over her pale flesh.

"Ah, my friend, normally you would be right," the magister nodded jovially. "Given enough time, I can surely procure the ivory one way or another. But the wedding is in less than three moons! All the men I send north of the Wall never returned. That damned Cotter Pyke and his black sails would let them go up and catches them on their way down when they're weakened, slow, and heavy with spoils! You're the only one alive that has sailed past the Wall and returned. It does help that you have ample skill and experience."

Salladhor frowned; he could remember at least three other Captains who had made the trip north of the Wall and returned.

"What about Ardo the Earless?"

"I already sent him! The Blacksail caught him, lopped his head off and confiscated his men, ships, and my goods! That fiend Arvaad bought the taken ivory already. The weirwood was not even half large enough for my goals! And he's the fourth one that went and did not return! Red Hydalf also went, but..."

The magister needed not finish; Red Hydalf was a far poorer sellsail than Ardo; fools would not succeed where the seasoned veterans failed.

It seemed like Cotter Pyke had only grown more savage during his stay at the Wall. Salladhor finally took a sip from his cup, and his mouth almost went numb with pleasure. He found himself gulping more and more, and before he knew it, the goblet was empty, yet his newfound thirst was unquenched. The red-haired servant came over and instantly refilled it. Ah, this damned Tyorshi! He had ruined other wine for Salladhor…

He lifted his newly filled cup and, this time, with titanic effort, managed not to drink it all in one go. The Lyseni smuggler slowly took a small gulp and twirled the liquid around his mouth, sending slivers of pleasure down his spine. How was Salladhor supposed to drink normal wine after this?!

He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He looked at the vast array of delicacies in front of him, half of which even he did not even recognise and groaned. It took Salladhor Saan all his focus to force himself to think.

The last time he had gone to smuggle past Eastwatch was eighteen years ago when the infamous Blacksail Cotter was only just caught for fucking some iron lord's daughter and sent to the Wall. His skill in sailing was matched only by his ferocity, and his fame had just begun to spread across the sea. It was a great jape back in the day for a lusty pirate of renown to be forced to take vows of celibacy.

Baelor Morrigen, the commander of Eastwatch back then, was like a sundered sieve, and unless you were stupid or too greedy, you could come and go as you wished.

But now, if he wanted to sail North, he would have to brave the Shivering Sea east of Skagos to avoid the Bay of Seals and the Blacksail. Dangerous, but well within the capabilities of someone like Salladhor Saan!

Salladhor finally stopped mulling and reluctantly forced himself to tear his eyes from the godly wine and look at the Magister, who was eagerly exploring every part of the slave in his lap, both with his hands and tongue. Sarrios suddenly squeezed the girl's bare teats with a savage scowl as Salladhor took his sweet time to reply. She did not dare make a sound, but her face contorted into a pained grimace, and tears began to run down from her amethyst eyes.

"So, you want me to sail north of the Wall, chop off a gigantic sacred tree, hunt down some mammoths, avoid the Blacksail, Lord of the Ships, the Braavosi, and come back here in about fifty days?"

"Indeed, Captain Saan," the magister confirmed and pushed the pleasure slave off his lap, making her fall onto the floor with a pained cry before lifting his goblet and taking a generous gulp. "But worry not about the Lord of Ships. After a fire at Dragonstone, none has seen or heard from him for a moon now!"

Truth be told, Salladhor did not fear the Blacksail or the Braavosi too much, but Stannis Baratheon was a terrifying man. You could not bribe him with anything, and he was just and fair and could even turn smugglers into honest men! Such vile sorcery was too dangerous; he would rather not risk getting captured and somehow turning over a new leaf.

"It will still cost you heavily, Magister Sarrios," Salladhor finally responded, and he took a bite from a juicy piece of meat covered with reddish sauce. "The Northmen hate it when people cut down their sacred trees!"

Gods, even the food here was to die for. The meat was soft and succulent and melted in his mouth, leaving a pleasantly spicy feeling on his tongue.

"Just a bunch of savages worshipping trees," the Tyroshi waved away his concerns without a care in the world. The buxom valyrian slave was still kneading the man's shoulders relentlessly. "The price is not an issue, my friend. I will pay you thrice the weight in gold for the mammoth ivory and weirwood trunks. If you deliver everything, I'll even gift you half a dozen of my finest slaves of your choosing!"

Salladhor Saan quickly ran the numbers through his head. He could make plenty of coin by selling silk, dyes, oranges and lemons in Gulltown and White Harbour. Cheap fur and wool clothing could be stocked up in White Harbour for an easy bargain, as those would be needed North of the Wall if one did not want to freeze to death. The route north of the Wall was not too difficult either, and returning would be easy if Stannis Baratheon and his men were not active. North of the Wall, he could sell steel armaments and acquire valuables and assistance from the wildlings. Even if he went with ten ships and paid all their crews handsomely, Salladhor would still be rich enough to be considered an important Magister in Lys afterwards. Yet, there were some problems.

"I'd do it, Magister, but I know nothing of mammoth tracking or hunting," he cautiously admitted.

"Don't worry, I will send Denzo Hartys and his men with you. He's an experienced elephant and man hunter. If you two bring me some exotic savages, I shall not be stingy either."

Bah, now he had to split his reward with another, and a slaver at that. Manhunters were all nasty ilk and difficult to deal with. Although that was not truly a problem, after the job was done, this Denzo Hartys and his men needed not reach Tyrosh.

"I'll take him with me," Salladhor finally confirmed with a vigorous nod.

After this, he could retire and live like a king for the rest of his days.

"Good, good," Magister Sarrios's face split into a broad smile, blinding him with its golden shine. The Tyroshi then stood up and, with a gesture, the buxom valyrian beauty massaging his shoulders bent over the tapered throne's armrest, leaving her naked pale arse hanging in the air. "Mayhaps it's time to sample what my slaves have to offer. Senerra, attend our guest."

The flame-haired beauty that had served him the wine came over and began unlacing his breeches. The Magister pushed aside his robe, revealing his naked body, and directly mounted the bent-over silver-haired slave.