Heron Beach was a sea of mud, reeking of foul, earthy decay.
Sawane Botley drained the last drop of plundered wine from his cup. It was harsh and fiery, burning down his throat.
He slammed the heavy cup onto the rough wooden table with a dull thud. "Damn Goodwyne Goodbrother."
That fool from Hammerhorn had used his connection to Victarion Greyjoy to become fleet commander on the Green Fork. Then he had sent Sawane Botley—the lord of Kingsport, no less—to this godforsaken backwater, to raid scattered, impoverished villages where there wasn't even a decent woman to be found. Sawane still remembered the undisguised sneer on Goodwyne's face when he'd said, "Ferret out the rats." Any Ironborn with eyes could see this was an effort to push them aside and humiliate them, to keep them from claiming their fair share of the glory and wealth from this great expedition.
Suddenly, the tent flap was yanked open. "Lord!"
Two tall Ironborn dragged in a half-dead man. He could hardly be called walking; they were carrying him, his feet trailing two long furrows through the mud.
"We found him by the river while on patrol. He's one of the men from Lord Harren's ship."
The young Ironborn they dragged inside trembled like a leaf in the autumn wind. He was soaked through, covered in mud and clotted blood. Beneath his tattered leather armor, a wound deep enough to expose bone ran from his shoulder to his chest. His teeth chattered.
Sawane raised his eyelids. A flicker of impatience passed through his cloudy eyes as he recognized the man: no outstanding warrior, but good at pleasing his son and unfailingly obedient to him. That was why he was always at Harren's side. "Amek?"
"Where's Harren?"
Sawane's voice was low and hoarse. He didn't understand