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Goranelos appraises the Westerosi from your side, echoing your own sentiments. He thinks as little of them as you do, but also takes note of the girl with the insolent look about her. You watch Gwynfryd for a time while the cog’s crew readies the sail. She and the two children sit across from the newcomers. Your own prisoners are not bruised and fettered in the manner of the Myrmen’s prisoners. Some words are exchanged between them, but there is no tearful reunion of the sort that the young Joslyn inspired. Or they just don’t want to appear to be stepping out of line.
The cog strikes east trying to pick up a northerly headwind, but the pace feels like a crawl. Likely for the best. You’re no navigator, but the area has a well-deserved reputation for the treacherous rocks jutting up between the waves. Regardless of the winds, it should be a short journey to Tyrosh. You must admit to feeling rather excited at the prospect of your return. It is a city of means for you. Your father owns his own shop trading in silks and dyes and other curiosities when it strikes him. He is no magister, but he makes a comfortable living. Your mother and brother would be there as well. Your brother is set to inherit the family business, though you bear him no ill will for your fate as a second son. Your sudden appearance would be a welcome sight if not for all the sullen company you currently find yourself in.
But Tyrosh reunions are not yet your priority. Night is falling. You step into the hull where the prisoners are trying to find comfort in leaning against wooden crates. A bit of seawater has leaked in from above. It’s made floor unpleasant enough to cause even the broken girl to sit up in search of some semblance of dryness. Had this been winter, they would all be on their way to catching a deep chill. Most take note of your appearance, as they should with your new fine traveling attire.