Game of Thrones

[Ruby]

Game of Thrones OOC
The IRC (Chat) For the RP

"How dare you question me, you--"

He sounded like a monster come to life. His once beautiful eyes were black, hard chips swallowed in the whites of his eyes as his fury bulged them. Naerys understood the nature of his rage, but for once in her life understanding something in a mental capacity and coming to terms with something in a physical capacity were so two vastly different things that all she seemed capable of...was shivering and shaking.

"Get out."

It was her last, best, attempt at sounding resolute and firm. The sight and sound of his response to her own outrage had left her unstable, her mind grasping for her thoughts as if they were handholds that might save her. But she found nothing, only nothing to save her and no one around to tempt him into a less primal behavior. There were moments when she had for him nothing but sadness in her heart. And there were moments when there was not but contempt.

And then moments when none of that mattered, and she wanted him away from her forever. Away from Daeron, away from Aemon.

She felt the glass leave the table, into her hand, and from her hand...flight.

Never once did the thoughts come to her in any orderly fashion. In fact for one of the first times in her life, Naerys Targaryen acted without forethought or a care to measured behavior. It was impulse, instinct. It was hot, feeling like fire had seeped into her very veins and come alive in a fury. It was under her skin, but she was certain that she was still in control of her hands.

She was wrong.

It was a wine glass, with thin tall sides and a heavy bass. There was no wine left in it, but she wasn't trying to humiliate him. She had been trying to hurt the twisted little--

The sound of wood cracking and splintering split through the shadow and haze of the violence that King Aegon the Unworthy was preparing to bring down upon her head. One moment she watched, her body withdrawing out of pure instinct, as Aegon prepared to bring a balled fist down onto her body. It wouldn't have been the first time. On their wedding night her brother and husband and King had thought to make clear to her what her place was in his court, and their life.

The next moment, Aegon was gone. Naerys heard him scream, as her head snapped platinum locks away from her eyes, revealing the white knight holding their brother by the throat and bent over a table centered upon the royal apartment common room. What Prince Aemon said to his King...not even Naerys could guess. Even she rarely saw Aemon angry. No one controlled their emotions like their brother.

There were no checked emotions in that second. Just a younger brother bullied and tormented in his youth that had grown bigger and stronger, a younger brother that would take a lot, it seemed, but not this. Aemon caught Aegon's eyes drift towards the shadow along the far wall that was their sister and his Queen. Aemon responded with a violent 'reapplying' of Aegon's body to the table's sharp edge. The Dragonknight's voice was sharp, and angry.

Like Naerys hadn't heard it since they were children.

"So sorry to break your concentration, sire. Allow me the opportunity to re-educate you on our last talk on this subject O' King."

King Aegon IV Targaryen, King of the First Men, the Andals and the Rhoynar, screamed when his younger brother took his right arm, yanked, and twisted violently. Aegon hadn't been a fighter since Aemon was ten, and Aegon was three and ten. Since that day in the courtyard between the Holdfast and the Outer Bailey, the place where Naerys had taken Aemon to show him the blossoming roses, there had been a land in the sand drawn by Aemon.

"If you touch her, I'll kill you." Aemon's words were too quiet for Naerys to hear. But she knew what was being said, and was happily spared the details. Aegon's throne was a birthright, an entitlement due to him since the moment he was born. But where the Dragonknight would let Aegon do as he like with the rest of the Realm, that sense of entitlement ended when it to the other members of their Royal House.

At least, Aemon had spent a life time making sure, it ended where their sister was concerned. "You're a fool, Aegon. What Bittersteel did to that Lannister girl is on your head. You allowed them to act like this. You even sent the insult to add upon their injury."

"Don't touch her again." Naerys had stopped shaking, stopped shivering. She stood where Aegon had once hulked over her, her eyes no more than lavender colored daggers. "Ser Heyton will be with the girl night and day. Maester Alladale will be staying with her, as well. If Waters or Bittersteel are seen near that part of the Keep, they'll be ended. I assume they have more pressing matters, what with an army bearing down on the city."

Aegon Targaryen smiled as his brother took a half-step back. The King straightened his velvet doublet, and locked eyes with the Dragonknight for half a heart beat before rolling them towards their sister. His smile sharpened. "Indeed. Don't worry, brother, you may guard the women and children here at the Keep. Daemon will act as my sworn shield. Maybe the world will see it isn't just the Dragonknight that can handle a sword for the Dragon."

It was meant to wound. But Aegon had lost touch with what mattered to Aemon so long ago that Naerys wasn't even sure the insult registered with Aemon. A moment later and the King was pushing himself out the door, the perfume of women and wine holding in the air for a few breaths even after their elder brother had left the room itself.

"He could have you killed for that, Aemon."

There was fear and reservation in the voice of his sister. Prince Aemon straightened and turned his body towards her, their eyes locking, the passion of her concern coming to bear upon him. "No, he couldn't. He might make the order...but not a man would stand between us in this castle should it come to it. At least," The Dragonknight said, offering her a small smile, "not a man would get in my way. Throwing wine glasses?"

She frowned. "I was angry."

The tallest of the three siblings stood with his knuckles pressed against his hips, his lilac and purple eyes scanning the area of debris. A slow sigh coming from under the man's breath. "I'll ask Mariya to find someone to get it cleaned up. You should ask me before assinging one of my men, Naerys."

"She's scared and hurt, Aemon. She's been..."

Her voice trailed off as he nodded and held up a hand. No, she thought, Aemon wouldn't want those details again. She didn't blame him. It had been Aemon who had found the girl, a mess of torn fabric and bruises and tears. "I understand. I'll see to Ser Heyton and the Maester, then."

There was nothing but silence and shared looks as Prince Aemon left his sister. There were no lamps in the room, and no fire currently lit. All that remained of the day's light was a pink light that stretched across half the room, and left the other half to shadow. There was nothing for Naerys but silence and solitude as she stood at the balcony and watched the Narrow Sea toil in the distance.

Silence and solitude, and one repeating thought. A thought that would bring a smile to her half sunset, half shadow covered features.

They're coming for you, Aegon.

[Sinistred]

The famine had hit the Westerlands hard. The price of bread had skyrocketed, causing the poor to turn on themselves. Children and old people were dying in the streets of Lannisport, though there had been reports from the countryside as well. Hunger swept over the land, causing an increase in criminal affairs and a decrease in profit and gain. On top of that, the harvest had been less than expected so the people were mostly dependent on what the fishermen and merchants could bring in.

However, the Ironborn were ever present. Reaving along the coastline, keeping a lot of ships from rolling in the Westerland port towns and Lannisport itself. No matter how many longboats the Lannister ships took out, there always seemed to be more of the sailing vermin.

All this had not made Douglas a happy man. He was seldomly a happy man. It seemed the absence of his only daughter, Elysa, had caused the little joy he had from her radiance to seep out, like snow under summer sun. She had said she would go to King’s Landing, in spite of his protests. Father and daughter were both known to be stubborn, obstinate even. It had been more of a notification than a request. The Lord of Casterly Rock had wanted to send a complement of knights or guards with, yet Elysa had refused. However, Elysa’s leaving had brought an opportunity to remove that abomination Maylark Swyft from Alester’s side.

The Old Lion was gritting his fangs. Aegon, fourth of his name, had insulted him for the last time. This time it was personal… Lord Douglas crumpled the piece of paper the raven had brought from the capital.
“You wanted to speak to me, father,” Alester said, entering the room situated in one of the higher solars of Casterly Rock. Recently, events had spiraled out of control. It was time to take action.

Lord Douglas offered his son, modestly dressed, a seat and poured him a cup of golden wine from the Arbor; golden wine for a golden lion.
Alester took a sip, furrowing his forehead lightly as he tried to assess what went on in his lord father’s head.

The Lord of Casterly Rock sucked on his molars. “Read.” His voice was grisly and Alester took hold of the paper.

“To my Lord Douglas Lannister of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West,

We have still not received the tithes entitled to Us. Yet We would think that the lovely lioness at Our court is as much a token of thine continued service as well as an incentive to adhere to thine obligations as Our vassal. We encourage you to heed our call.

Aegon IV of House Targaryen, King of the First Men, the Andals and the Rhoynar.”

Alester took a couple of sips from his silver cup, savouring the drink. Was he distilling the right message from between the lines? This was extremely… indecent. Unacceptable even, to the Lannister honour. What Aegon was implying was horrendous, despicable and Alester found his temper slipping him. His hands were new fists and he trembled with disbelief.

“Calm yourself, son.” Douglas said, seeming like an old inflexible branch defying a storm.

“Calm myself?” Alester asked incredulously. They had Elysa… and, by the Seven, Maylark. “The Tyrant threatens our sister’s wellbeing, demands tribute though he knows of our tribulations… He does nothing against the scum harrying our coasts while the corpses of starved children rot in the streets!” Alester’s youth made him dynamic and passionate, even in his anger. Douglas had not yet made his mind up if that was a forte or a weakness. His son spoke the truth though.

“I am aware of everything. However, now he has forced our hand. We cannot sit idly by and suffer this injustice toward our house any longer. I shall not allow it.” Lord Douglas’ blue eyes were cold as steel and his words were said almost devoid of emotion, which made them all the more ominous.

Ser Alester stood up, emptied the chalice of its contents. The wine tasted more like vinegar now though and his face was distorted in a silent sneer. The young lion took a few breaths to get rid of the feeling that his blood was boiling syrup. He wanted to blame his father for allowing his sister and Maylark to leave… Yet he knew he hadn’t been able to do anything about it. Once Elysa’s mind was made up…
“So, you are saying that…”


“They will hear my… our roar.”


Maester Elrik had a busy night ahead of him. A Lannister always paid his debts, now it was time for Aegon to pay his.

[Phoebas]

King’s Landing

Maylark Swyft and Lady Elysa Lannister (aka, collab post Sini & me)

The day had been a scorcher, the sun blisteringly hot, leaving the earth steamy even as the fiery orb began to dip below the horizon. And yet, despite the heat, Maylark could not help but to shiver from an inner cold. How could I let this happen? she berated herself, her hands clenching into tight fists from where they rested on her knees, so tight that her nails cut like blades into her calloused palms. Elysa had been in her charge, her charge. By the Seven, what was she going to tell Lord Douglas? What was she going to tell Alester?

“Shit!” she cursed, burying her face deeply in her hands. “It’s my fault,” she moaned under her breath, her gaze drifting to the immense oak door that separated her from her charge. It was not simply a door, but a barrier that represented her failure, a failure that had resulted in the ruination of someone she loved. No, in the ruin of everyone she loved, for it would not only be Elysa that suffered from this atrocity.

Tremendous guilt swelled in the youth’s breast, driving her to her feet. Her strides were long, aggressive, as she paced the room, her sight slowly growing red with rage. Maylark let loose a heavy below, slamming her fist down on a heavy wooden desk, the impact nearly shattering the bones in her hand. They were dead men. All of them. Not only Bittersteel, but every single one of the bastards that had held Maylark down and made her watch.

Trying to compose herself, the youth swallowed her volcanic anger, her attention once again returning to the door. Approaching the panel, she knocked once solidly before stepping into Elysa’s chamber, closing the oak door firm behind her.

She was hurting. Extremely hurting... everywhere. Covered in bruises and scratches, with her lip split and a soon to be black eye she was lying on the bed, curled up in a miserable ball. In spite of the layer of cloth on her, she felt naked, exposed... vulnerable. Blood stained the white sheets, confirming that it had not been a dream... or a nightmare, rather. She couldn’t stop trembling like a cracked reed. The world appeared to be a distant hue, misty, something she tried to distance herself from as far as possible. She had cried before, she thought... though it was difficult to remember anything else than that horrendous... Elysa started to cry again, yet her face was unsettlingly neutral.

At the sight of the proud lioness broken and torn Maylark’s guilt and shame redoubled, manifesting itself in a sharp pain that pierced her gut, making her want to double over in agony. Instead she approached the soiled bed upon which Elysa lay prone, her face tight with fury and pain. Maylark, lowered herself onto the bed beside the girl, her eyes filled with nothing short of torture. Unsure of what to do, she attempted to place a hand on the girl’s shoulder only to recoil when she flinched away.

Maylark swallowed thickly. Now was not a time to be unsure; she would protect her now, as she had failed to do before. Standing, Maylark left the room, stepping outside the apartment altogether. The knight on duty seemed startled by Maylark’s presence, perhaps it was the murder burning in her pretty eyes. “Ser Heyton?” she snapped, her anger making her tone sharp, “I request you find someone to draw a bath for my Lady, and if you could call in the Maester. We’ll need him.”

Ser Heyton stared at her a moment and Maylark lost it. “You’ll have plenty of time to admire the beast later!” she snarled, “Now I suggest you find the Maester or you’ll see just how much of a monster I can really be!” Her tone held the cruel sharpness characteristic of her father, colored with a rage so black it threatened to consume all who heard it. Without waiting for his response, Maylark returned to the room, once again standing beside Elysa’s bed.

She reached for the girl, only to have her whimper in terror and shrink back, her eyes wide, reliving horrors that would plague her for the rest of her life. Maylark gritted her teeth. “I’m sorry Elysa, but it’s for the best.” Reaching down she gently scooped up the noble woman, holding her against her breast. Elysa snapped back into the present, and though she did not scream she fought Maylark like a hell-cat, getting a few bloody scratches on the youth’s beautiful face before Maylark’s strong arms forced her to be still.

It was awkward for her, Maylark was as unused to offering comfort as she was to receiving it, but she tried. She rocked the injured lioness gently, cooing and resting her cheek against the top of the girl’s head. “Shhhh.” she murmured softly, “No one’s going to hurt you.” Elysa stilled and Maylark crossed the floor of Elysa’s chamber into the main apartment where she saw the Maester just entering. She motioned with her head for him to follow her and crossed into the bathing chamber, where a servant had drawn a large bath, filled with steaming water.

The aging Maester urged the young Swyft out of the room, not at the least impressed by the looks she threw at him. He was too old to be impressed by this and he had this soothing aura that seemed to come natural with old people. Maylark decided to trust in him.

Outside she stood next to Ser Heyton, her shoulders hanging slightly going over the options in her head. Her rage was genuine yet a part was caused because she had felt so powerless. Now, by being furious her soul was trying to make up for not being able to intervene earlier. She sighed and marched off, leaving the Kingsguard knight for what he was; a sentry.

Before she had noticed, her booted feet had brought her to the Crow Tower. Apparently her mind had transcended her being, seeming to no longer control her actions. Picking up a feather, she dipped it in pitch black ink and started to scribble on a piece of paper. The smell of bird shit was extremely present and the caw-caw-ing of the ravens battered down on her like a hammer on her skull. She just wanted to scream!

Taking a deep breath she blew on the wet ink, reading her message in her head.

“Al,

I have failed you. I have failed House Lannister. I have failed Elysa. I swore I would protect her, and I have broken that promise. She lives, but what sort of life it will be I am uncertain. Her innocence is stolen. Bittersteel and Waters are responsible. They will die for this, Al. I’ll see them off myself. Probably my last act as your father will doubtlessly and rightfully ask for my head. I am so, so sorry, my lion.

-M.”

The second message was more devoid of emotion, rather a report. Maylark decided, after getting her head straightened out, that Lord Douglas would easier cope with dryer words. Regardless, she could feel the anger of both Lions of the Rock would eclipse hers.

“Lord Douglas Lannister,

I have failed in my responsibilities. Lady Elysa has been compromised by the king’s bastards. I will attempt to avenge her and will accept any punishment you see fit for me. I am sorry, though I know I do not deserve forgiveness.

-Maylark Swyft”

In the end, as she watched the ravens cleave the twilight air with their black wings, she didn’t know why she had written those message. Elysa had asked her not to, and common sense - that is if she would like to keep her head - dictated she wouldn’t and shouldn’t. However, nobody seemed to have stopped her from coming here... “What will be will be,” she muttered, before turning sharply, murder on her thoughts.

She found Ser Heyton where she had left him and stopped dead in her tracks, the gears in her head turning. She looked him up and down, assessing every inch of his tall, athletic form; Ser Heyton shifted uncomfortably under her piercing stare. "Can I help you?" he asked stiffly, a bit of sweat collecting on his upper lip. Maylark straightened.

"You can," she said, her voice oddly calm. In fact, it was so calm it scared him more than it had when it was a roar. "I would like to borrow your sword arm."

Ser Heyton stared at the odd creature before him, stunned to see such violent emotion in such a lovely face. Regaining himself, Heyton frowned. "You do know that what you are suggesting is considered treason?" Maylark didn't so much as blink.

"And what of what happened to her, Ser Knight?" she asked, her voice icy poison, "Did you see what they did to her? If the sight of an innocent girl destroyed at the hands of those... those savages doesn't move you to action... well, then you have no right to call yourself a man of honor. I don't give a flying fuck that they're Aemon the Unworthy's bastards. They will pay for what they have done." Her tone held a promise of a bath of blood as she stared into his brown eyes. "Now are you going to help me or not?"

[Foxes]

Tyr Lannister
The Prodigal Son, the Singing Bravo, the Sellsail of Myr, the Blue Lion
and some other titles

There are storms and there are storms.

His leather boots hit the pier with the slightest sound. They were soft leather, and his feet were quick and light. His pants were black, thick Myrish silk both comfortable and light. His shirt was a shimmery red, also of Myrish silk, but lighter, with loose sleeves and gold thread that glimmered along the cuffs of his sleeves and the edges of the deep ‘v’ shaped neck that exposed his chest to the light wind. His long cloak was also of Myrish silk (he had a fondness for the material), and was two colored. The back was a jet black, the inside a bright gold, and the duality was stunning. It fell to just above his ankles, and was draped over his left shoulder in a way that both exemplified his flair for the dramatic and concealed a black iron Dothraki arakh.

Only part of the weapon’s hilt showed, and he rested a jeweled hand on it as he walked. Two of his fingers glittered with rings. One bore a band of pure sapphire the color of a summer night’s shadow. The other was bedecked with a band of polished dragonglass the color of a winter sky. His other hand, however, stole the show. He cradled a silver harp in his other arm, simple and elegant and with strings as fine as anything. His strange, flamboyant appearance was completed by his shock of light blue hair and an easy smirk.

You would never guess he was a Lannister, or as coinless as the poorest of King’s Landing’s paupers.

But not a coin did he have in his pockets, and a Lannister he was. He was surely the strangest Lannister anyone had ever deigned to tell him about, and, in his opinion, the most interesting. He carried an arakh (and could wield it well), he played the harp (he was excellent), he sung (he was very good), he had reaved as the Ironborn do (he was better than average), and wrote poetry (this, he was terrible at, make no mistake). He was also extremely unlucky in his timing, for if he were aware of the political climate of Westeros and the coming storm, if he knew the slightest thing about the hole he was stepping into, he would have known there hadn’t been a more dangerous time to be in King’s Landing in a very, very long time.

There are storms and there are storms. Some storms come with rain and lightning. Some come with great hosts and a thirst for vengeance. And others come with a silver harp and a smile, with half a mind to charm a queen and another half to make a name.

Tyr Lannister’s eyes twinkled as he looked upon the Red Keep. The massive castle was where the next chapter of his story would unfold.

“Destiny waits for no man,” he said lazily. The dockworker he was half-talking to gave him a strange look. He returned it.

“Well, for some of us,” Tyr added. “One day, lad, maybe one day.” The lad, who was a good twenty years Tyr’s senior, went back to pulling a dinghy by its ropes aside the pier. Tyr, after sensing that his audience was less than impressed by his dramatic arrival, started off towards the castle. He strummed a chord on his harp and was off, drawing an eye or two. Absently, he wondered whether or not his father was alive, and if he was alive, if he was particularly put off for the fact that Tyr hadn’t written home in several years.

There are storms and there are storms, and then there are family reunions, which are always messy with little regard for the weather.

[Phoebas]

Mariya Celtigar, the Bird of the Queen

In truth, the dragon knight never had to search for the Queen’s bird. Mariya Celtigar, the Saltflower of Claw Isle, had been standing outside the Queen’s quarters during the altercation, her plump lips drawn into a firm line and her delicate brow creased with worry. As Aemon entered the hall, his sharp gaze found the diminutive girl practically plastered against the wall, her tiny hands clenched in fists so tight the knuckles drained of color, flanked by a terrified looking serving girl. They stared at each other a moment, orbs of regal lavender meeting those of an intelligent, cerulean blue, before Aemon inclined his head toward her, stepping aside to let her pass.

“My Lord,” greeted Mariya quickly, rushing through a half-curtsy before flying past him into the room. It was lushly furnished, as one would expect the chambers of a queen to be. There were tables of exotic polished woods and stones inlaid with every sort of precious metal imaginable, myrish silk draperies, jewel-toned carpets and tapestries imported from Qarth and every other luxury deserved by a woman of such exalted station.

Mariya, however, was blind to such splendors; she only had eyes for the queen. Naerys was standing resolutely on the balcony, her blank gaze fixed absently on the bloody sunset as her fingers lifted to her face, lightly worrying her bottom lip. Mariya stopped a respectful distance away, scanning the woman for injury. It wasn’t until she was sure that Naerys was unharmed that she allowed her usual smirk to color her features, gesturing with a careless hand for the serving girl to clean up the shattered glass.

The lady stepped out onto the balcony, settling herself delicately upon the sun-warmed stone railing. “You grow bold my Queen,” she said dryly, picking idly at her cuticles, “I can only wonder what crime the glass committed to deserve such a fate.” Mariya shifted, resting her forehead against the smooth surface of a pillar, her lips tight.

Naerys, unmoved by Mariya’s weak attempt at humor, cast her violet gaze towards her companion. “Speak, sweet,” she breathed, her voice fluttery after her altercation with her husband, “What troubles your clever thoughts?”

The noble turned to face her friend and queen, crossing her arms tightly across her small frame. “I council caution, my Queen,” she started slowly, a sharp nod telling the serving girl to leave the pair in peace, “I have heard whispers from the Westerlands. The lions are coming to King’s Landing. My Lady, the Lannisters are planning to march to war and they will accept nothing less than your husband’s head. Especially when they receive word of Lady Lannister’s dishonor.”

Naerys cast Mariya a curious glance and the woman answered her unspoken question. “The Lannister’s lap dog, that androgynous Swyft, sent two ravens not an hour ago. The lions will know of their disgrace by the day after tomorrow at the latest.” She approached the Queen, standing at her side.

“There will be no reasoning with them, then,” said Naerys softly.

“I am afraid not, my Queen. They will want blood, and they have the men to get it. If every able bodied man sworn to Lannister takes up arms, and it is possible they will, the lions will have 50,000 swords. That is no silly force.” Naerys was silent a moment.

“Dragons fear no other creature that takes breath,” stated Naerys, her head held high and her tone firm, “But Aegon is not a true dragon. We will have to be vigilant should the lions indeed decide to venture from Casterly Rock. Keep your ears open, dove.” Mariya nodded, sensing dismissal, and slipped from the chamber. There was much she wanted to learn. It was time to write some letters.

[Jorick]

The Iron Islands, Pyke, Dining Hall of the Great Keep - Lord Baelon Greyjoy and Harwyn Greyjoy

Shouts and laughter rang through the hall with a muted undertone of the myriad of sounds that accompanied a large group of people eating and drinking. Three hundred men of some note were gathered there, captains of ships and lords of castles, as well as various wives and women of less permanent couplings brought along for the feast. Baelon grinned at a sharp yelp of pain, a sound that brought a hushed moment to the room before everyone went back to their conversation and consumption, a yell coming from one of the men performing the finger dance for their Lord's amusement. The mistakes were always his favorite part, the sharp scent of blood and the cry of pain that always came with it. Maester Nymos hurried from his place near the side of the room, well accustomed to these incidents and carrying a variety of medical supplies to keep the fools alive when they caught the wrong side of the axe. This one seemed to have gotten off lightly with only the small finger of his left hand lying on the floor.

Though his father was pleased by the proceedings, Harwyn Greyjoy was simply bored and slightly impatient. These feasts were a nightly occurrence now, with almost all of the lords and captains of the Iron Islands present on Pyke. His impatience came from that 'almost,' the fact that some were being so slow and laggardly in responding to their Lord's call for the ironborn to gather. They all knew of the ships sent southward months ago, most of the Iron Fleet and many of the other large ships possessed by the people of the Islands, though they knew not where they had been sent or for what purpose. Couldn't the fools see that this was to be their revelation? Months of secrecy, months of secret planning to show the world that the ironborn were more than an annoyance of piracy, months of preparation for a tactical strike that would shock the world... and a handful of men were holding everything up by being slow and lazy. Harwyn strangely felt more and more impatient the closer it came to revealing their plans to the world, wanting to get it over with now rather than in a few days. But his father, being a stubborn man as always, refused to make his announcement until each and every man he wanted was present. Harwyn toyed with his goblet of wine, ignoring the sounds of the hall in preference of his own thoughts, considering all the possible outcomes of what was to come.

Baelon did not mind his son's lack of revelry, long used to his introspective ways. It made no sense to him, for why would a man want to think when he could instead be enjoying the rowdy fun of a gathering of the ironborn, but the boy had long ago proved that his blood was saltwater and his heart iron just as any true man of the Islands, so he never tried to correct the behavior. Truth be told, Baelon was just as frustrated by the slow response of his men. He'd already promised himself that he would personally deal with whichever man was the last to arrive, drown the bastard in the sea and send the Drowned God a new oarsman. But for now he passed the time with these feasts, not wanting to rush the plans he had concocted with Harwyn. Baelon was not usually a man who had anything to do with waiting and patience, but in this instance he had been convinced by his son, that something of this magnitude could not be entered into with haste. Better to wait and be sure of the situation than to rush things and possibly lose all of the best ships of the Iron Islands in one fell swoop. And so he drank and exchanged friendly insults with other men, watched men try to impress him with the finger dance and mocked those who failed, waiting for a certain message from those sent away months ago and waiting to give the order to attack.


Pentos, the Golden Scales inn - Quellon Greyjoy

Quellon watched the raven flying away with a faint sense of satisfaction. It would arrive in Pyke in a couple weeks with luck, maybe as much as a month with bad weather, and just as long for a response to arrive. This was the third bird sent on the voyage with the same message today, to be sure that it arrived. A man had already been sent to sail home just in case all the messages failed to reach their destination. All of the messages held the same information: a report on the defenses and naval power present in Blackwater Bay and King's Landing. They wouldn't see the attack coming until it was far too late, their ships would be no match for the ironborn. Perhaps once Quellon had led this attack successfully and captured his traitor uncle that was the Master of Ships, once he had shown he was just as good as that infuriating bastard Harwyn, then maybe the Lord Baelon would finally acknowledge his younger son for once. The thought was almost enough to bring a smile to Quellon's normally grim face.


King's Landing - Ser Alesander the Grey, Master of Ships

Waves gently rocked the deck beneath his feet, a pleasing sensation as always to Alesander. He barely paid attention to the captain speaking to him, prattling on with his tale of how he had recovered the ship. It was a somewhat important ship, he supposed, but only for nostalgic reasons. Many months ago it had been stolen by pirates, a not uncommon occurrence in the Narrow Sea; what was of note about this particular ship was that Queen Naerys had used it to test his honesty and loyalty, having one of his underlings of the time say it held a Valyrian artifact and that his order as Master of Ships had caused it to be lost. It was not true, just a test as he later learned, a test that he had passed only by the skin of his teeth, but before he had known that he had promised a hefty reward to whoever returned the ship in one piece. Alesander cut the man off with a vague gesture. "Yes, good work captain. I'll have the reward gold sent to you by tomorrow. And take the week off enjoying it, you've earned it." The Master of Ships left after listening to the man's thanks, thinking of the gold he would be losing as payment for not living up to his Queen's expectations in that test, though he had been making up for that in recent times.

Alesander mounted his horse, a fine stallion with a coat of grey like storm clouds on the horizon, and made for the Red Keep. With his chosen direction came a change of thoughts, a recollection of the rumors that had already circulated down to the docks, tales of rape in the Keep. Depending on ones definition of rape, this was not an uncommon event in the seat of Aegon IV's power, since the man himself was known to pressure all manner of women into bed with him. But with the talk of the perpetrators, the brutality, the fact that it was well known and nobody was doing anything about it... Alesander had to unclench his hands on the reins. He was a man who knew well the pleasures of the flesh, who often chased women far out of his reach simply for the fun of the game, but never would he condone anything of this nature. The moment a woman made clear her dislike for Ser Alesander's attentions was the very same moment he stopped giving them, he respected women in general despite his ongoing quest to lay with as many as he could, and knowing such an incident had occurred without any punishment for the wrongdoers was enough to make a man consider taking up a career in vigilante justice. Not that Alesander was enough of a fool to do so, of course, but a man could think anything he liked in the privacy of his own mind.

After a somewhat slow ride through the crowds, the Master of Ships was handing his horse off to a stable boy just inside the gates of the Keep. The entrance to Maegor's Holdfast was guarded by a pair of men Alesander knew fairly well by now, the regular guards on duty at this hour, and he greeted them with a smile. "You remember how I told you this city was getting stranger by the day, my friends? I saw a man with blue hair walking through the city today, bedecked in silk and carrying a harp. Blue hair!" They shared a laugh as he walked between them into the building. By this point Alesander was still unsure what he intended to do. Should he seek out the Queen and ask her what he should do? Should he go to the poor Lannister woman and offer his services to see justice done to her attackers? Should he simply go to the small chambers provided for the Master of Ships, which he'd been living in for well over a year now, and leave the issue to everyone else?

Feeling indecisive and wishing time to think, Alesander simply prowled the halls of the castle for a while. He gave his courtesies to those lords and ladies he passed, a grin and a wink to prettier maids about their duties, a nod and perhaps a ribald joke for those guardsmen he was familiar with, but the greater part of his mind was occupied with other things. With a vague surprise he noticed the sun beginning to sink as he passed a window; he had been walking around aimlessly for at least an hour now and still he lacked a firm plan of action. It was damnably frustrating. Though Alesander knew he couldn't simply go and lop heads off of the King's bastard children, he also couldn't bear being seen to condone the atrocity by doing nothing against it. He found himself continuing his walk, irritated and distracted, his left hand gripping the hilt of his sword. Just as it had done a hundred times before, a single question ran through Alesander's mind: what in the seven hells should I do?

[dauricha]

Jon Storarch, Hill Hold

'The stores are more then full. Each and every man woman and child who holds loyalty to House Storarch will be fed and cared for. Half field workers will remain there, tending to what crops there are, and keeping the land ready for the next growing season, purchases have been made for winter crops to be grown. The other half will be working here at High Hold, or across the villages in Storarch land, making building improvements to defenses, wells, and other civil projects. do you elders agree? The village elders, representatives from each that was in Storarch lands, gave ayes and grunts of agreement. Aron Storarch nodded his thanks, and noted it down in his brown book.

Jon was looking out of the window. He could hear the sounds of his men training in the yard, the grunts of men and clash of metals. Here he was, one of the finest blades in the south Stormlands, sitting in his oaken council chair, unable to move since now that he was home he had to sit as lord. Of course his younger brother did all the work. Aron Storarch had kept the Storarch lands strong and thriving, even in these testing times. The fact that they had stores of food, and plans to improve the lives of their peasantry was a sing of that. Jon wouldn't have know what to do in any of this. Give him a hunt, or a man to fight, and he would come home a conquering hero. Ask him to plan a summer fair, and you'd might as well ask a Targaryen to be merciful.

His brother cleared his throat loudly, and Jon quickly turned his attention back to his gathered vassals and councilors. It was over for the moment. He nodded his agreement, and ran off the oaths and lines he needed to say. His brother repeated them as did the village representatives. Jon stood smiling, and went amongst them. The peasants were edgy, like startled deer. They knew their lords prowess with the sword and axe, each village bore tokens of his work keeping bandits and wolves at bay. They smiled and laughed though as he spoke to each one of them. It was good to keep the peasants happy, his father had told him this, and Aron reminded him regularly of it.

He was talking with Maester Ornic when the last of the peasants left. Jon went over, straightening his court clothes and thick belt. His brother said keep his axe at his side sent out the wrong image, Jon disagreed. Young Ornic smiled, showing a mouth missing three teeth. When he had been young must have been winters ago. His brother smiled. Aron was the same height as Jon, a healthy strong six feet. His hair however was a light blonde to Jon's brown, Aron having got that from their mother.

The mustache suits you Aron, Maester Ornic, any ravens? Jon rolled his strong shoulders, eager to get out of this hall. His balding Maester gave another toothy grin. No my lord, the one you requested to be sent to Lady Eleanors father flew yesterday. Jon nodded, reminded of something else he would have to attend to. All is in order brother, you can return to the yard now. Aron's tone was calm and collected, as he made further notes in his brown book. Jon smiled, patting him on the shoulder. Thank you brother, reward yourself with another glass of wine. Aron chuckled slightly, calling after him, as Jon left the hall for his chambers. I will need you tomorrow, someone important is arriving. Jon called his agreement, it was probably another Hedge Knight or traveling Septa.

He heard the crows cawing, and the bark of ravens from Ornics small rooms. high up in the new south tower, another of his brothers works. He went down the corridor behind the hall, and turned left to his own comfortable rooms. He wind blew through the open windows, an unusual crispness to it. He took off his belt, and hung it with his axe on his armor stand. He heard laughter coming from the balcony. Smiling to himself he strode over.

There she was. Eleanor sat with her ladies, the wife of his Master of Arms, Manfric Welns, and her cousin from her fathers holds to the south. Jo laughed as he went over to pick up his daughter from his wife's arms. Little Sash giggled, as he kissed her on the cheek. How is my little bear today? He asked as he sat with the three of them. Eleanor groaned. Don't call her that, she is a lady, not a great brute like you. Jon chuckled, as he rested his sleeping daughter on his lap. He had Eleanor had never been in love, but this beautiful girl had brought them closer together. They were married because of land and other more political things, but their relationship had grown since. He was a providing and good husband, and she was a kind and devoted wife. He handed Sasha to Eleanors cousin, asking her to take her to her room, with Ser Welns wife. They both curtsied as they left.

He and Eleanor sat in peaceful silence for a few moments. From here they could see the village surrounding High Hold, the fields after that, and the river that ran to the west of that, then green forests beyond. The Stormlands were a hard place, but they served well, and bred strong men. Eleanor gave a light sigh as she stood. So Aron told you of the plans he has for High Hold? She asked moving to the bed chamber. Aye, and the villages by the sounds of it, soon you'll have a home as grand as Kings Landing by the sounds of it. She laughed and he smiled as he took off his court clothes, dumping them on the wooden floor. She picked them up and folded them neatly, as he got into bed.

Maybe not Kings Landing, but it will be nice. He even set aside funds for better armor for you and your boys. She took off her dress, hanging that. She was a beauty. Slim figure, strong hips, and long red hair. He grinned roguishly, pulling her onto the bed, she gasped in delighted surprise. Boys? We are noble knights your lady, of good Stormland stock. He kissed her, and they both enjoyed it. She pulled away with a grin of her own. Fine Ser knight, but let us make you a son.

[King Olaf]

Lord Edric sat upon his throne at starfall, brooding. Dawn was slung upon his back, glimmering as he thought to himself what to do about the famine. It had not hit Starfall or High Hermitage particularly hard, but without the food exports from Highgarden, House Dayne was beginning to struggle. Food was rationed and shared amongst the populace, and lord Edric no longer held feasts. Edric was forced to rely solely on the free cities for grain and other plants, which fortunately they traded for Dornish Wine, which was relatively commonplace. As a consequence however, Edric forbade the eating of grapes in order to keep up the exports. He wondered whether to head to King's Landing and take it up with the King, to help solve the problem, ,but he doubted the lazy fart would ever do anything more than whore and drink. Edric was greeted by a messenger who slowly approached the throne where he sat. The essosite was short and stocky, with a closely cropped chin and fuzzy hair. He bowed awkwardly and opened the scroll which he carried, which he passed to lord Edric. Edric stroked his chin as he read, then put down the scroll and looked towards one of his attendants. He whispered to the man; who disappeared, but quickly returned with a sealed note. He passed it to the messenger along with a sack of coins, and he immediately bowed again and walked back out.
So far, so good.
Lord Edric thought. He should arrange an audience with the Prince of Dorne, perhaps he would heed what he has to say; then come up with a solution. He did not want to go to King's Landing and get tied up in the petty squabbles, not now. Besides, his wife hated them with a passion; all the High lords of the north. He would have to go eventually though, he knew he would. But for now, he would bide his time, and wait.

[Foxes]

Foxes and Ruby
Tyr Lannister and Naerys Targaryen
The Red Keep

The Red Keep was easy enough to gain access to. All it took to circumvent the guards was his signet ring. He had shown it to them and was surprised to find that, instead of doubting that he was, in fact, a Lannister, they quickly straightened up and muttered almost shamefaced apologies. He caught something along the lines of “terrible what happened to that girl” between what were almost pleas for forgiveness, but (wrongly) thought nothing of it. He was just happy to have someone show him his birthright’s respect.

He made his way through the Keep, a little lost and a little inquisitive. He had been here twice in his life, both times as a child, but could not remember anything about it for the life of him. The halls were unfamiliar, strange. The architecture was interesting, of that indescribable Westerosi style that so differentiated itself from the exotic but familiar styles of the Free Cities. He ran a hand along a wall, the smooth stone cool to his touch. He had been a long way from home, he realized. This place felt like home in a way Braavos, Qarth, Volantis, the entire eastern world had never felt. Another, more abstract part of his mind wondered at this feeling, that eleven years abroad could not make him forget the sixteen years of his upbringing. Or had it been twelve years, he wondered. Time flew so quickly.

Someone grabbed his arm quite handily, and suddenly he found himself looking eye to eye with a guardsman. He smiled politely. The guardsman did not.

“You’re the Lannister?”

“Yes,” Tyr replied. There was a short pause as a pair of washerwomen walked past, giggling about something or other and shooting him a curious look. The silver harp was a huge hit with women, Tyr knew.

“Come with me. In front of me. Don’t try anything stupid,” the guard sadly, with haste and gruffness enough for two people. Tyr got the vague sense that he was either being gently kidnapped, relatively speaking, or under arrest, and wondered what kind of punishment would be incurred for killing a guard inside the Red Keep. Probably severe enough to make someone think twice about it, he decided, and he let his hand stray from the hilt of his sword. He had once heard two drunken patrons of a tavern arguing whether the arakh was superior to the Westerosi longsword, or vice versa, and as he walked according to the guard’s directives he sincerely hoped the champion of the arakh was correct.

Their walk was long and winding. The Red Keep, Tyr reasoned, was a massive structure from the outside, and it only followed that it was great inside as well. Tyr decided that he didn’t like it much, and was pleased when they came to the end of this journey.

“In here,” the guardsman muttered, pushing open the door and directing Tyr inside. Tyr came to the conclusion that if there was ever a time to speak up, now was the hour. He wheeled on him then, hand outstretched, and put a step or two’s worth of distance between the guard and his person. He did his best to look non-threatening but assertive. The last thing he needed was a blade in his gut.

“Not another step until you tell me where, exactly-” The guard gave him a short, sharp shove. Tyr was caught off balance and tripped backwards into the room. Through watered eyes (he had bit his tongue quite hard as his rear had hit the floor), he watched the door slam shut and heard the click of the lock. He wiped the water from his eyes and swallowed the blood from his new tongue wound before standing.

“Well,” he said, considering the door, “fuck.”

“Ahem.”

Tyr Lannister became very much aware that someone was in the room with him, and that someone had just cleared her throat.

"Lord Tyrill of House Lannister," She began, her voice musical and carried as gently as a snowflake on a winter breeze. But her's was not a cold voice. Not now, not regarding the man she found herself regarding. She was standing next to the fire place, her eyes big and purple and bright, her skin so pale and fine it looked near godly, her body a suggestion of curves under a gown of lavender colored silk, a small black cloak fastened around her shoulders providing an outline and artificial shadow to the current Queen of Westeros.

"Your cousin, Lady Elysa, Lord Douglas' daughter, has been assaulted within the walls of the Red Keep. I'm told Maylark Swyft is currently looking for vengeance within the castle, and that one of the White Brothers has decided to assist her. So it appears." She stopped, her eyes shining with secrets and the power behind them. Tyr Lannister wouldn't have caught it just yet, but there was a chance it would hit him exactly what she was saying:

She was telling what was going on within the castle...as it was currently happening.

The Red Keep sees all.

"We're not for certain who was behind it yet, but it would seem my brother and our King gave his blessing to the rape and beating. My brother represents only the madness of House Targaryen, and no more." For a moment there was a sign of a crack along the cool and measured facade of Queen Naerys Targaryen; of anger, and disgust. Normally that was not such a dangerous prospect...unless they were feelings of anger and disgust towards their King.

Then it was treason.

But as soon as the crack appeared, it was gone, washed away in a chilly exercise in courtly restraint. "You can imagine the shock of the entire Red Keep when word spread that a Lannister had shown up. You have...interesting timing, Lord Tyrill. Look at the door again." She said, motioning at the door behind him with a nod of her head. When he turned, Tyrill Lannister would hear an undeniable click, and then the rustling of stone sliding against stone as the barren and dark fireplace in the room within the Tower of the Hand opened, revealing black passage beyond.

"The Hand of the King, Lord Butterwell, has been attempting to cover the incident. You appeared and met Guardsman obviously loyal to Aegon, not Prince Aemon. They took you here, likely with the intent to question you...sharply. I was told when you entered the Red Keep, and had my spies follow to see where they would take you. Lord Butterwell is predictable, thank the Father, and knows nothing of the secrets of House Targaryen." She said, sweeping her hand over the sudden entrance into...the wall. Over one such secret of House Targaryen.

"If you enjoy such questioning, please remain where you are. If not..." Her body turned, her back and the cut of the silk halfway down her shoulderblades shown to him. Those ancient purple eyes glowing in the dim light of the room over her shoulder at him, "...follow me."

For once in his life, Tyr Lannister (or Lord Tyrill of House Lannister, if you’re the Queen of Westeros), was stunned and speechless. He marveled at her beauty, was humbled by her grace and courtly manner, and was shocked at her words. Every word in every tongue he knew washed over him, and like a drowning man he frantically flailed in his attempt to reach the surface. It was like drowning in thoughts.

Elysa.

He could barely remember her face. She had been pretty, if he recalled right, and happy. Rape. It was a difficult word to swallow no matter how it was phrased. The Queen had the good grace to keep from feeble attempts to sugarcoat the truth. And though it was true he had barely known Elysa, as he stepped after Naerys Targaryen into the secret, fireplace tunnel and escaped the Tower of the Hand with her he felt anger. Not anger for a personal offense, but anger of a stranger, broader kind. It was the anger of a slighted Lannister. His words returned to him.

“Ironic. I was actually here looking for you, Your Grace, though for different reasons than you seem to have for finding me. My timing is coincidental, nothing more. I’ve been abroad for some twelve years and endeavored to return to impress Your Grace as the greatest harpist of the Free Cities,” Tyr said, regaining his verbal footing and letting loose with an elegant flash of his vocabulary. “Tell me, are there any other Lannisters in the Red Keep, Your Grace?” he asked, easing his white knuckled grips on his harp and sword’s hilt. It was a strangely comfortable tunnel, he noticed, large enough for them to walk comfortably. Granted, neither Queen Naerys nor Lord Tyrill were particularly tall individuals, but the fact remains that Tyr had never imagined the rumored secret passages within the Red Keep to be so spacious. She gave him a quick glance as they walked.

“No, save for Maylark Swyft, the Lannisters have no men here,” she replied with even keeling. “Why do you ask?”

Because Lannisters, not Swyfts, pay the debts of House Lannister.

“I was just wondering if I were the only one to receive such a warm welcome from the Queen Herself. It’s an honor, circumstances aside. Tales of your beauty and grace can be heard from Volantis to Braavos, though I believed it all to be exaggeration until I laid eyes upon you,” he said, smilng lightly at her. To have a jape with a Queen is a rare opportunity, something, even with these dark tidings, Tyr was keenly aware of. “May my heart stop should I ever doubt the word of a Westerosi sellsword again,” he said. She smiled thinly, perhaps honestly, perhaps merely politely.

“You’re very kind, Lord Tyrill.”

“I’m also in your debt and an excellent harpist, Your Grace. If you have an ear for it, perhaps I could play you something joyous enough to make even these bleak times seem a little brighter in your eyes,” he replied. And maybe in mine, as well, he thought, though he dared not vocalize it. To converse casually with a Queen is an awkward thing, he decided, but she smiled at his offer, and perhaps, he thought, a little more earnestly this time.

[HeySeuss]

The Son of Exile

A sellsword captain's role, at least when one was competent, was the understanding of politics and one's own place in politics -- discretion. There were a number of reasons to hire a sellsword, such as incompetent preparation, lack of certain resources or being caught unawares, or simply that the army was hungry for more men to fight in it. A sellsword captain had to know what to make of each situation and how to protect their livelihood, their command that is, discharge the contract faithfully and keep an eye out for betrayal and know what to do when it came.

There were other reasons to hire a sellsword, and that was because they were in turns expendable, skilled, risky or not associated with the person doing the hiring, not known to be in that person's service.

Here, as the dawning sun's radiance pierced the maritime morning mist and crept along along the canal street of Braavos, under the unseeing, stony eyes of previous First Sealords, Captain Eddard Yew, 'Eddard the Green' or 'Green Ned' or the variations thereof, found himself faced with one of the current Sealord's unofficial representatives, a man by the name of Alandro Mivash, dressed in the finery of a bravo, a doublet of cyan with lace at the cuffs, and a short cape of sea-green to cover the top of a slender blade and a matched dagger, armament that indicated fighting style that the more skilled often favored that made the off hand a second option for any number of tactics one might favor. Eddard knew Alandro Mivash and his abilities, but would have named him skilled from the poise and presentation alone -- a reckless fighter might also adopt such a style, but they'd act rashly, and Alandro Mivash was as reserved a water dancer, as quiet a Braavosi as Eddard ever knew. But these distinctions were not so apparent that the appearance was ruined -- they both fit in well here.

The city crawled with such, and one speaking to a sellsword captain would elicit no particular comment -- such were seeking work all the time. The feel of the stones of the street, slicked slightly with the moisture of the canals and the sea in this morning, before the sun rose entirely, was familiar. He was no sailor, not as the Braavosi were, but he had good footing here in the city itself. Once, as a child, he'd played in these canals with the street kids, because his family were not rich. He was, in truth, very Braavosi at heart, though his father tried hard to make him more Westerosi in manner.

The gulls flew overhead and the ocean crashed in from a distance, and the smell of the sea was strong here, ever present. It was Braavos' guardian, garden, mother and nemesis, though far less of the latter, for strong rock protected much of the city from the wrath of any storm, better than any built wall ever could.

Eddard the Green was dressed in a finery similar to that of his companion of the morn, though his coat was russet wool and his cloak maroon and dark turquoise on the inside, though the pin was a crimson rooster upon a field of buff, and that was his sole adornment. His sword was heavier than the Braavosi favored, his shoulders thick with the muscle necessary to use it properly from a childhood of preparation to bear such arms. The weapon was carried comfortably, unconsciously, and the man moved lithely, used to armor and curiously light on his feet when clad only in the sober wool that a merchant might appreciate -- in his own way, he was a merchant, a tradesman. He found that it was more reassuring than the bluster and flamboyance of the typical sellsword; to appear as a man of business was to reassure the client that he was solid and reliable, and he was aware of the value of appearances.

In the Free Cities, he viewed his training to be a knight, a heritage in Westeros, to simply be a commercial asset. The sword was his birthright, but it was also his bread-winner, though it was hardly his preferred weapon in a fight. Still, one couldn't just stride along streets with a pollaxe -- that signaled trouble in any city. But an arming sword, even of the heavier variety a Westerosi knight would prefer, was acceptable, even if such a choice might draw sneers from bravos. He'd based his operations out of here for years, in proximity to the Iron Bank, though. The bravos of Braavos knew the name Eddard Yew, and knew well that he was no man to be trifled with, however much one might think it possible to dance around him.

Few did, he was well respected as a sober and moderate man, not given to ostentatious pride or taunts.

Still, to avoid being overheard, the two men strolled along the canal as the oyster-sellers hawked their wares and lost themselves in the anonymity of the district, the press of people.

A few coins to a limping girl pushing a cart ensured she'd call her wares out piercingly and loudly, with a grin at the Westerosi captain's strange instructions -- Braavos was a city of intrigue, and there was no point to making themselves easily overheard in conversation. And so, he sucked the raw oyster right out of the shell while Alandro Mivash told him the details.

"The Sealord, he is getting an unusual request from Westeros, and while a number of companies would like to take such a contract, but there was thinking that perhaps you would wish to perhaps return to Westeros. So we are making the offer first to you, then to others if you pass. Though I see you eating the oysters as we do and think that perhaps you are meant to stay with us in the Bastard Son," Alandro Mivash was a handsome, rail thin man, as a good water dancer ought to be, though he was soft of voice and gregarious of manner; he too understood the limitations of swaggering. Swaggering made a man appear more than he was, men like Alandro Mivash often wished to appear as less.

Eddard gave a small smile to acknowledge the joke as he wiped his fingers, giving Alandro the chance to crack open a fresh oyster or two; "Nothing will taste quite like the bounty of the canals, but no, you surely know that a Westerosi contract, the right sort of contract, is of the highest interest to me."

"Just so," he said once he'd finished his own oyster, "it is known to us that you are interested in such, Ned and the Sealord remembers friendship." There was always a reckoning, and through the long years, Ned's reputation, fidelity and respectability in Braavos helped create a considerable amount of good will. There had been times when discretion and reliability were called for in a stout swordarm, and the current First Sealord was one of the men who'd called for it from time to time. Men died in these canals, small scale engagements between hirelings on behalf of one man of power or another. It was good coin in lean times, particularly when there wasn't an outright war on. It helped pay the bills. Of course, turning cloak also helped pay the bills, but Ned never indulged the temptation to take the bribes, and this was a known thing in Braavos; loyalty, even for coin, was rare.

Mivash wasn't quite finished, though, "Your prospective employer, however, is not whom you might expect."

"Really?" That made him wary; his senses screamed for caution and he usually heeded those senses. It was a sellsword captain's job to keep his wits about him and his head clear, to not allow his desires to do the looking at a situation -- too many fell to such a thing, taking their livelihood with them.

"I know that expression, Ned, but this is not such a venture." Alandro wiped the saltwater from his breakfast off and folded his arms, "This client offers much, though there is no doubt an element of risk."

It was quiet in the Free Cities for once, and while there might have been garrison contracts to take, the years of service out here were beginning to press upon him. He was young and vital for some more years, gods willing, but age would eventually sap the strength from his arm. He was without an heir as yet, but he always held back from siring one with just any girl in the place -- his father had told him on the deathbed to marry well, as well as he could, but he'd never quite gotten around to it. It was the old promise that haunted him.

He wanted to marry properly in Westeros. But now the years drew on and while the Company was stronger than it ever was, husbanded as a resource to be traded in for title and land, there seemed little opportunity for a Free Company in a peaceful Westeros.

"So which house wishes to hire me?" That would explain much about the situation, perhaps. One heard many rumors of things stirring, and any number of houses might have a reason to hire his company.

"House Targaryen." That drew a grunt of surprise from Ned; when his ancestor dwelled in Westeros, they'd served House Lannister and, theoretically, the royal house itself, before Ned the Black jumped the wall for love of a spearwife and set up in these Free Cities, where such an oath was viewed as silly and no one cared that it was broken. Ned the Black was an oathbreaker, but he managed to serve well and was lucky in his years in the Free Cities. But there was never any chance he'd ever return, not after leaving the Wall. His mother was related to the Dornish house of Manwoody through her father, who was a third son turned merchant in the Free Cities, but had little claim to anything from them besides the name-- and that she gave up in marrying another Westerosi exile.

"The Iron Throne needs a sellsword company of what, a mere thousand?" Ned was skeptical, but Mivash shrugged.

"Just so, a contract to the House Targaryen...the royal house, whose favors above all might grant you what your father wanted. You would be ideal, because yours is a Westerosi heritage, but you are known here in the Bastard Son, and you can be vouched for."

Ned grunted as he digested that new information Westeros was simmering at this point under the reign of the current king, but this was the point where knights were just gathering their resources. He might have expected one of the houses to bring in mercenaries to reinforce their numbers, but not the royal house. His eyes crinkled a bit at the corners and his forehead scrunched in concentration; he was still comely, darkly handsome, but he was starting to show some age. It was dignified for now, but he saw a time when he would become palsied with age, and the strength would leave his body even faster than it had before, a slow and gentle process that would accelerate. He was no longer a youth, but he was not yet an old man. He was seasoned and fit.

"King Aegon can summon all the troops he needs from his lords in one part of the Seven Kingdoms or the other, why my company?"

The Titan boomed overhead, a looming figure that had long since become familiar to Ned, just as the blast of sound itself became a second thought; but it bought him enough time to quickly think it through. There was no chance, after all, of being heard over that without being heard all over the street. So silence reigned.

It was now or never, it was time to roll the bones; despite all the caution, all the clever planning, all the husbanding of resources and careful cultivation of a company, he'd drilled them, trained them and led them against such a day when he might use them in Westeros, to reclaim what was theirs. A thousand souls, men, women and children, trusted him to make the right decisions and lead them into prosperity and comfort, or at least a living. What Lord did more?

"Because perhaps your company is not having strong loyalties to regional lords. It is Boreo Balaga, the crown's Master of Coin, and I presume that this was his idea. He wished for a reliable company, one with a leader such as you." Here, read, these are the details. The contract was drawn up by the Iron Bank's solicitors at his request."

"Aegon's reputation is not impeccable. Nor is Boreo Balaga's." The Master of Coin had a reputation for cunning and sharp dealing; Ned wasn't entirely convinced that the man would be honest. And that went doubly for Aegon Targaryen, who was known to be fickle...how many times had the man switched mistresses? And how many vows had he broken? If the man were anything but a king, he'd be hanged for an oathbreaker some time ago. His gut called 'caution!' and he heeded his gut in these things.

A scroll came out of the folds of the man's cape and into his hand with a subtle sort of dexterity; a knife or blade would have, perhaps, gotten under Ned's defenses that quickly, because Alandro Mivash was, after all, a very good water dancer. But there was no lethal intent, even if the movement drew the eye, and a smile from Mivash, who seemed amused at the way Ned's eyes tracked.

"I understand your concern Ned, but Boreo Balaga is trying to hire a company on behalf of a Tagaryen who is not Aegon. One whose reputation is impeccable..."

Ned was used to the legalese of contracts, and this one didn't contain the traps one might expect in this business -- a surprise in print could be as deadly as one in the field; he was no man of letters, no maester, but he could see that the contract was very straightforward. And yet, he wondered, tried to peer into the future of possibilities and gauge where this path would take him. Alandro Mivash seemed content to remain patient while the sellsword read carefully.

"Prince Aemon. The Dragonknight." He realized what Alandro Mivash was referring to; no, that perhaps made a difference in his decision-making process. While it was known that the King and the Dragonknight were at odds in many ways, Ned could rest assured that the latter was, at least, true to his word and commanded a warrior's reputation.

A younger man might leap at the opportunity, as his soul cried out for him to do, and yet he tried to consider the ramifications, the dangers of this hiring and what it might bode for him and his company, for his father's wishes and dreams. Westeros beckoned, but to take contract with Aegon the Unworthy would mean stepping into a realm of politics far beyond his experience to date, and dealing with the subtle currents of King's Landing, where the sharks were never more than a wrong step away.

The problem was that he'd be working for a monarch detested in his own nation; Ned was closer to information sources among Westerosi traders and the like than even Alandro Mivash or the First Sealord himself, he had a taste of what the subjects thought of their ruler. That House Targaryen was hiring mercenaries, looking for troops that stood outside of the quarrels of the realm, meant that the situation was more than simmering. Mercenaries were expensive, more expensive than raising armies, but they were ready faster and useful when there was actual fighting, but one did not typically hire on mercenaries unless one was expecting war. And if that was the political situation, it demanded that he step warily. After all, those sharks were still about. The sharks, the Starks, the Lannisters, the Tyrells, the Martells, the Greyjoys, the Arryns and the Tullys.

And there was another dimension; Aegon might not appreciate that Aemon was raising troops, whatever his intention. The employer was a puzzle.

"Might I first take this to my people before I make a decision?"

"Of course, it is perhaps for the best that you find out the feelings of your men and have time to consider for yourself. But do not be lingering too long upon the decision, apparently events are afoot in Westeros."

"Aye, the rumors of a storm..."

He might have demurred to Alandro Mivash, but his heart was already set. It told him; this is your best toss of the bones. Make the most of it.