Salt crouched low in the dim belly of the ship, chalk in one hand, tally sheet in the other. Sweat clung to his neck despite the sea breeze slipping through the warped slats in the hull. The hold stank of fish oil, smoke, and damp wood — same as always — but something felt off.
He counted the crates again.
Six crates bore the Braavosi stamp. One had cracked during the raid. Four with silk, one with silver, and the sixth...
Salt ran his fingers along the wood. The seal was disturbed. Not shattered — just wrong. Wax uneven and soft like it had been re-melted. It was a lazy reseal—the kind done by someone rushing, or someone who thought no one would check.
He didn't touch it again. Just stared for a long moment, then climbed up through the deck hatch, the chalk still clenched in his hand.
The afternoon sun bled red across the sails. The crew moved like they were half-drunk already — hauling, swearing, stacking, laughing. Kreeg stood at the rail, barking at two boys scrubbing dried blood off a coil of rope. They were doing a shit job of it. No one really cared.
Brune leaned against the mast with a pipe at his lip, the smoke curling around his greying beard. He nodded once when Salt approached.
"Six crates, like we counted," Salt said. "But one's been opened. Bad seal. Someone's been in it."
Brune didn't react at first. He pulled the pipe from his mouth and tapped it once against the wood.
"You sure?"
Salt nodded. "Wax is soft. Smeared."
Brune shrugged. "Maybe it got jostled."
"It didn't get jostled," Salt said, quiet.
Brune watched him for a long second. "And what would you have me do? Shake down every drunk bastard in the cove? It's silver. Some always vanishes."
"I thought you should know," Salt replied, evenly.
"Now I do." Brune turned back toward the docks. "Good eye."
By the time evening settled, the tide had rolled in thick and slow, lapping at the barnacle-covered posts beneath the dock. Tide's Rest came alive with lamplight and movement. Dogs barked. Fish guts were dumped in the shallows. Smoke lifted from the Grubpot's crooked chimney in a lazy spiral.
Inside, the Grubpot Inn was already full — hotter than a smithy and louder than a storm.
Salt slipped in through the back, where the sea air mixed with the scent of boiled stew and pipe ash. He passed through the kitchen, where Jorey was elbow-deep in something that may have been octopus, arguing with one of his nieces about the merits of cooking with seawater.
The main room was packed elbow-to-elbow. Brune's crew — the Grinners — had staked out their usual corner. They weren't many these days, but they made up for it in noise. Dice clattered across tables. Mugs slammed down with foam spilling over the edges. The air was thick with sweat, salt, and lies.
Salt drifted along the edge of the room, staying out of arm's reach. He found a quiet seat near the hearth and nursed a mug of watered ale. From here, he could watch everything — the buyers in the far corner whispering over ledgers, the Lyseni captain counting coins beneath the table, the old Volantene drunk humming to himself while tracing shapes in the spilled grog.
A sharp voice broke through the din.
"Oi! Thought the little reef-rat wasn't meant to come back."
Salt didn't turn. He didn't need to.
That was Torric — big, broad-shouldered, and twice as drunk as he should've been. He came from some Westerosi backwater and always looked like he was smelling something sour.
"Probably hid below deck while the real men fought," someone else snorted.
Salt sipped his drink.
Torric slammed a hand on the table. "You checking crates now, Salt? Gonna write a letter to the Braavosi? Tell 'em sorry for nicking their silver?"
That drew a few laughs from the nearby tables.
Salt looked up, calmly. "You're missing a tooth."
"What?"
"Back left. Gone. I saw it this morning. You didn't notice?"
Torric blinked, confused. "What the fuck does—"
"You didn't notice," Salt said again. "Like you didn't notice that crate was already gone before you touched it."
That silenced him.
Across the room, Brune turned his head just enough to catch the exchange, but didn't move. He let it simmer.
Torric grunted something and turned back to his drink. No one laughed this time.
A few minutes later, a boy plopped into the seat beside Salt, fast and loud as always.
"You made him shut up," Tern whispered, grinning. "That was good."
Salt gave a faint shake of his head. "He'll remember it."
"Hope so. He nearly kicked me last week for dropping a rope."
Tern was wiry, brown-haired, and too clever for his own good. Brune used him for chores and messages. Salt used him for practice — watching, teaching, keeping the boy just enough on edge to stay sharp.
The kid pulled a coin from behind Salt's ear like it was a stage trick. "Found this under the table. Reckon it's yours."
Salt took the coin, flipped it between his fingers, and handed it back. "Buy stew."
"I already ate."
"Buy more. You're still small."
Tern stuck out his tongue and darted away into the crowd.
---
The wind outside had turned sharp. Salt walked up the narrow path past the storerooms and the old net racks, up toward the crumbling watchtower above the cliffs. The sea below was black now, just movement and noise and endless cold.
He liked it up here — far enough from the noise to think, but not so far the sea didn't reach him.
His hands were still tense, fingers curling and uncurling. That feeling — the weight in his gut, the pressure behind his ribs — hadn't passed. It was the same one he'd felt right before the Braavosi swung. The same one he'd felt before they spotted the reef ahead of the storm last month.
It wasn't fear. It was something else. A stillness before motion.
Behind him, boots on gravel.
Salt didn't turn.
Brune came to stand beside him, pipe already lit, its ember dull in the wind. He didn't speak at first. Just stared out at the water, like he could read something in the waves.
"Torric's a fool," he said finally. "But fools bruise easier than they bleed. You knew not to rise to it."
Salt shrugged. "Wasn't worth it."
Brune gave a small nod. "Smart. That's rarer than brave."
They stood in silence for a long moment, the waves crashing in low rhythm below.
Brune shifted the pipe between his teeth. "You see things, Salt. Not just what's in front of you."
Salt glanced sideways at him. "You sound like Vanna."
"She's not wrong." He exhaled smoke through his nose. "Half the men I've lost thought swords were the only language worth knowing."
He let the smoke drift, then turned to go.
"But there are other kinds of sharp," he said over his shoulder. "Keep yours close."
Salt stayed behind, watching the sea.
Below, the buyers were likely still haggling. Above, the gulls circled the tower ruins.
And inside him, that quiet pull hadn't gone away. It was still there, just beneath the surface.
Waiting.