Daemon had minted his own coinage; a three-headed dragon on one side, with a rendering of himself on the other. Gold had always been Daemon’s colour, in spite of men calling him the Black. Our Word is as Good as Gold. The currency had survived the Black Dragon’s demise, and that of his sons, at that disaster that men called Redgrass Field. One of such surviving golden coins was being turned round and round in the callous but nimble hands of a large man with sable hair turning grey at the temples. He wore a closely cropped beard with only a few silver hairs noticeable. The insignia on his broad shoulders denoted him as the captain-general of his own free company, one of the youngest but biggest active in Essos. Even those that had not met him, would know him for the man that never smiled; the man that had been born a bastard; the man in love with a beautiful but dangerous silver pearl; the angry man; the man beaten by his brother; the man who had taken up Daemon Blackfyre’s cause after his death, his body feathered with arrows.
The man, who fiddled with the coin, had founded this proud company. It was Aegor Rivers, whom men called Bittersteel. While he kept up the charade of the righteous cause, he made himself believe they were in the right. Often though, doubt crept into his thoughts, and no amount of drinking or fucking pushed it out again. When would they go back? When could they? How? The coin helped him remember. The goal became clear again, in the worn, shiny surface of the golden dragon. Sometimes Daemon spoke to him through the reflection, his rendering coming alive, but not this time.
His death had left a great hole.
Wearing his breastplate, his personal sigil emblazoned into the dun metal, Aegor stepped out of the command tent and into the day. It was already hot out, even though they had only just broken their fasts, water rations were being passed around. A few strides from the command tent, stood a table with foldable chairs. Neat stacks of coins and carefully organised papers laid upon the table. Redtusk stood nearby, encased in his trademark armour with the tusked helmet, his arms resting on that two-handed warhammer of his. Beside him stood Black Byren Flowers, another man of renown, fearsome and tall. Together with three others, they kept the peace as the paymaster handed out the wages. A long line stretched out beyond, comprising of exiles, lost causes and the disinherited, all reduced to the life of sellswords. At least Aegor had managed to give them that rarest of things: an ounce of honour. Men clung to honour like a shipwrecked sailor to a piece of driftwood. Disgraced as they were, it was honour that banded most of them together, not gold.
A small fighting ring had been put up not far from the command tents, and Aegor had purposefully chosen said location. When men wait for their pay, their tongues wander –as do their eyes. He had made sure they had got something to see: the heir to the King Who Bore the Sword. Bittersteel sighed. All men reach and fall… reach and fall.
Daemon’s third son, the eldest surviving one, was the spitting image of his unfortunate father. This came in handy to keep those knights and soldiers loyal who still remembered the Black Dragon and his ways. Bittersteel even felt a tinge of pride when he watched his nephew, swinging his sword expertly in the ring, fighting three men at once. Daemon was bare-chested, sweat glistening on his bronzed skin as he moved as nimble as a panther. He was lean and lithe, with a comely clean-shaved face and fine features, and the hair and eyes of a true Targaryen. Aegor thought everything about him screamed nobility. When he looked at the young man, he saw a man he could follow when the time was ripe; a man he could call king.
He also saw a problem.
For all his qualities, for all his strengths, for all his gifts, Daemon had one major flaw for kingship. Bittersteel spat as he acknowledged the issue for the thousandth time over. Daemon II Blackfyre liked to place his sword in other men’s sheaths. Aegor had little problem what sort of amorous activities his nephew pursued, the lad still had the capacity to father sons and daughters, and even if he did, the Blackfyre line would not die out. The Black Dragon had seen to that, with his notorious fertility. After Redgrass Field, Aegor had fled Westeros with five of Daemon’s sons, not just the one practicing the sword-song in front of the men.
Having strengthened his resolve, Aegor put the coin back into the tiny pouch on the inside of his leather belt. As he made his way to the ring, his boots kicked up dust, making him think he would prefer by far them kicking up Westerosi dust, instead of this.
Daemon laughed when he parried the blow of one of the assailant and dodged another, he then stepped in making Ser Waldon Shawney trip and fall. One of the two standing caught Daemon’s elbow in the face when he lunged forward, the Blackfyre prince deftly pirouetting out of harm’s way.
“Enough,” Bittersteel called out, his voice and tone lending credence to his name. “Daemon, we need to talk.”
A silver-haired brow went up on the young warrior’s face, while maintaining his dashing smile. “Oh? What about this time, uncle?”
Aegor waited until the three knights had gathered their dignity and bearing, rubbing their bruises while taking off. “Baelor is dead.”
“Truly?”
Bittersteel nodded and leaned onto the wooden fence that marked out the circle. “Dead because of a wound taken at a tourney. A blow of Maekar’s mace to the head, cracked his skull like an egg. Report came in the night. Bloodraven is not the only with spies about.” The news had come, borne on raven’s wings, which was an apt considering its source.
“Maekar did it? So…,” Daemon sheathed his sword, looking for words. He only seemed mildly out of breath. “What does that mean for us?”
Aegor Rivers was the man that never smiled, but people thought in extremes. Aegor did smile, every so often, but when he did it was a terrible one. “It means we can finally think about going home.” If Baelor had taken the throne, Westeros would have been far too united to take on. However, the nature of Breakspear’s death by his brother’s hand is what sowed discord in the realm. Bloodraven was trying to pick up the pieces, and so far nobody had come to blows. Bittersteel figured that was merely a matter of time though, since Bloodraven had never been a man of half measures. At least a third of the company’s fighting men were here because the former Hand and Master of Whisperers had proven too uncompromising, too unforgiving. Baelor Breakspear had been different, a man who made allies out of enemies. But Breakspear was dead, and so the company had better prepare. “Daeron mourns. Valarr is young and inexperienced. Aerys is weak and Rhaegel mad. The others are of no import. That only leaves Maeker and Bloodraven to steer the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Maekar killed his brother and Bloodraven is hated and a bastard. Neither of them are loved, you have said so often.”
“They do not inspire confidence the way Baelor did, the way your father did.” Bittersteel let his eyes lock with his nephew for some time before adding: “the way you do.” Daemon cast his eyes down to the disturbed earth –dashing and handsome, that nephew of his, and humble in spite of it. Aegor cleared his throat and tried to adopt a friendlier tone, which was virtually impossible for him. It chafed him. “It also means your times of pillow-biting are over.”
Daemon started, looked up, his purple eyes wide with alarm, horror even perhaps.
“What? You thought I did not know?” Aegor was getting angry in spite of his intentions. “I have been bribing and cajoling men for years. Seven hells, some call you the Brown Dragon! Why do you think that is? Because of your complexion? What I would give for a playboy, who could not keep it in his pants and runs through women like whetstones…” Bittersteel threw his arms up in choler. “Instead… what I have, what the men have, is a prince who shows no interest in women.” The captain-general gripped the wood of the ring so tight he could feel it crack and creak in his hands. Shaking his head he continued. “What you do at night with your boys after your show of skirt-chasing is a disgrace. If it were Haegon or Maegor or any of your younger brothers… or if Aemon and Aegon would have lived, I wouldn’t care. But for a king it,” he struck the wood with each word, “is not possible”. Bittersteel took a deep breath and stared his nephew down. “Not possible.”
Daemon had adopted a bland expression, but Aegor knew him too well and saw through it. He wanted to apologise, but could not, it was just not his nature. The Bracken bastard was angry at the world. “We give up what we want, when we want power. All of us. Now, show us you have the heart to be king. Show me,” Bittersteel tapped his breastplate, baring his teeth, “you can control it. Wrestle it to the ground. Numb it with ice. But you cannot be what the Seven made you. Not if you mean to take your father’s place and ascend to the Iron Throne.” The message had come across, clearly, Aegor saw, for his nephew was trembling. Good, he thought, you’re a dragon, lad. Show me you’ve got the fire.
“Do this,” Bittersteel concluded, “and I will hand you your father’s sword Blackfyre. Do this and we can go home.”
"Another ale..." The prince slurred to the nearest barmaid who bowed then scurried off through the dingy tavern to fetch the drink, his seventh this morning. The Red Horse Inn never really knew what hit it, a place like this could go a hundred years serving nothing more exciting than the odd hedge-knight, when one day a Targaryen Prince and a legendary knight of the kings-guard walk in, it sounded like the start of a bad joke. As it turned out, it was.
Gwayne Corbray eyed Daeron through the slit in his visor, he made no attempt to hide his disdain for the man; blood of the dragon mayhaps, but there was more alcohol than blood in this one. Fortunately only his eyes were visible through the helmet so his contempt was not immediately apparent to Daeron, though he would of been surprised if much was immediately apparent to the man beyond his own thirst.
"Your Grace...what about honour?" Gwayne asked, clearly exasperated. He'd been charged with heading prince Daeron's escort to the Gulltown tournament, and making sure the man didn't run off like at Ashford. During the latest in their routine inn stop-offs the Targaryen had proposed his 'plan' to Gwayne who's protests had fallen upon drunken ears.
"You can keep the honour." Daeron said flatly, setting down his drink. "...so long as I get to keep my head." The barmaid brought his next drink over and began to stammer our how honoured they're humble establishment was to host them. It quickly became apparent that honorifics were like water of a ducks back to Daeron. He gave her a half-hearted smile before turning back to Gwayne which promptly dismissed the woman.
"After the last tourney father sent my younger brothers to exile across the narrow sea and to squire a hedge knight, either of those would be the end of me and no doubt he's working up something else just as unpleasant." The dishevelled man took a long swig of his flagon as if to ease the pain of that thought. "Unless I can show him I'm more worthy. I brought two sets of the same armour, so long as I stay in the pavilion, people won't notice us swap." Gwayne was quiet for a moment as he thought, he had a Valyrian Steel sword but no silver tongue and the right words never came easily to him.
"I know what you must think of me Ser." Daeron murmured meeting his eye for a moment, he had not the taint of madness that took some of his kinsmen, in-fact during his moments of sobriety the Prince showed himself to be quite self-aware, a rare trait in a Targaryen which somehow made him seem all the more worse to Gwayne.
"Your Grace I nearly gave my life for your dynasty." Gwayne said quietly. And killed a great man for it. If the Prince seemed phased by his words then he didn't show it, the knight had a feeling he was trying to convince a man of something he already knew.
"I never asked to be a Prince..." Daeron said mournfully. "The seven know I would've made a fine village drunk."And it seems I'm going to make a better prince thought Gwayne bitterly.It took several more rounds of thanks for their stay and praise for his grandfathers fair rule before the party were finally able to saddle up.
"We shall rename ourselves the 'The Dragon's Roost' in your honour your Grace!" The landlady announced proudly. Gwayne didn't have the heart to tell her every Inn from Summerhall to Gulltown may well be doing the same thing. Daeron gave an appreciative, if intoxicated, nod of approval before spurring his horse onward. Looking at him awkwardly atop the animal it struck Gwayne that the man was everything Blackfyre wasn't. Of those two they'd called one a bastard, the other a prince; one he had killed, the other he was sworn to protect. It was not a just world.
Flowering vines and creepers of every description, some imported from as far away as Yi Ti and Sothyros, flourished in the sun-filled hall, rising from the urns in which they were planted to entwine the great room's marble pillars. Doves and finches fluttered among the greenery, filling the air with their cooing and calls, and speckling the polished floors with their shit.
Guards in the livery of House Tyrell lined the high arcades to the left and the right, their polished halberds gleaming as they stood at rigid attention. Masks of white porcelain covered their faces, painted in vivid floral designs. Only their eyes revealed them to be men and not mannequins.
Lord Eldyn Norridge eyed the motionless guardsmen nervously as he advanced down the throne room's central aisle, careful not to trip over the twisting vines which wound across the floor like rivers across a map. He had been to Highgarden once before- long ago, in the days of old Lord Vyman. It was known throughout the Reach that the Court had since grown strange, but Norridge had not been expecting this.
At the head of the room, the Lord of Highgarden lounged in his throne, a chair of polished oak overgrown with bloodflower tendrils. He was a lean man, with a gaunt face and dark, wild hair. He wore a doublet of deep green silk, with black riding pants and boots. A half-smile played across his mouth, and his pale eyes glittered with suppressed mirth as they dashed endlessly about the room. He was eating a fireplum- the bright red juice dripping in rivulets down his chin- and he seemed unaware of or uninterested his bannerman’s presence.
Norridge stopped before Tyrell’s throne and gave an awkward bow. There was no steward in evidence in the hall, and no one had announced him. When he had arrived at Highgarden he had been directed to report immediately to the Great Hall... and been left to himself to find it.
“My Lord Tyrell,” he stammered, tugging unconsciously at a greying beard, “I come in answer to your summons. It has been some time since last we met, I am Lord Norridge.”
“Hmmm? Porridge, yes, just so. You've been expected.” said Lord Tyrell in a lazy, absent drawl. He was watching the birds flutter and flit among the vaulted ceiling. He flicked away the pit of his plum in the other man's direction.
For a moment, anger overcame Norridge’s nervousness and caution. He had not traveled halfway across the Reach to answer a summons-sent with not even a word explanation!- only to be insulted by some daft boy on a throne!
He spluttered a moment, searching for words, but Tyrell beat him to it.
“Now, now Forage, don't be mad at your rightful liege and master,” he said, eyes wandering over Norridge's reddening face, “After all, it's you who’ve been a bit naughty, no?”
“Naughty?” Norridge spat. He would not be spoken to like this. He was a good lord, and a good bannerman to the Tyrells- he paid his yearly taxes and had rallied his men to the their banner when the Blackfyres rebelled, and sent riders when Highgarden had called for men to put down the Brightwater Brigands.
“Just so, Norton. Quite naughty, in truth.” Tyrell snapped his fingers, and a very small, very bald man in maester's robes shuffled out from beside the throne. Norridge hadn't noticed him there amidst the vines.
“Read the charges,” Tyrell said with a lazy wave of his hand.
Suddenly, Norridge's insides turned to water. This was turning from a fever dream into a nightmare.
"Charges?!"
It could only mean one thing. They knew. Oh, gods...how could they know? He had been so careful....
The maester produced a scroll from the folds of his robe and read, “Lord Eldyn Norridge, You are formally charged with the selling of fifty one men, twenty seven women, and thirteen children into bondage, a crime against the king's justice, the laws of the Reach and Realm. By the authority of Lord Leos Tyrell, Lord of Hi-”
“This is outrageous!” shouted Norridge, stumbling backwards, “What proof have you-”
“The sworn deposition of three Volantese galley captains, and of those whom you sold into slavery, recovered off the coast of the Arbor,” said the maester, in a quiet, clipped voice.
“Mercy,” Norridge whispered, looking at Leos, “I am a loyal bannerman, mercy please...”
“Loyal?” murmured Tyrell, standing. He was a tall man, and thin, and drawing up to his full height resembled a scarecrow come to life, “Loyal?! Selling slaves and keeping secrets- badly! I might add- isn't loyal. It's naughty, it's wicked.”
He advanced on Norridge, who backed away, paling visibly.
“What's more, Drainage, if I can find out about your little business on the side, selling paupers to Volantese pirates, how many other houses in the Reach can? how many of the ones pining for Bittersteel to return and looking for an excuse to defy me?! Not to mention Celena fucking Lannister and that one eyed wonder Brynden Rivers, who will- unless something is done about it!- shortly be appointed hand of the king."
Leos was nose to nose with Norridge, his eyes bright and wild, spittle flying from his lips as he spoke.
“A bannerman selling slaves under my nose? It does not say much for my ability keep the fear of the Stranger in my subjects, does it?! Makes me seem weak. And these are not. People. In front of whom one-should-look-fucking-weak! I should eat your liver on toast!”
He stopped shouting, a smile broke out over his features as suddenly as the sun through clouds.
“Now then.” he cooed, retreating backwards to his throne like a gangly spider to its web, “My men are taking your holdfast. Your son and daughters will be brought here, as wards. Your lands and incomes held in trust by Houses Osgrey and Graves, to be returned to your children in time, should you...comply with my wishes.”
In his peripheral vision, Norridge could see Tyrell's masked guardsmen approaching him on either side.
“Am I not merciful, Norridge, my love, my popingsy, my darling?”
“Y-yes, lordship,” Norridge said. The guards were on either side of him now, one had a gauntleted hand on his shoulder.
“Yes, like the Maiden herself.” rambled Tyrell, “In mercy, not fertility. I don't have womb, Cabbage.”
“O-of course not, lordship.”
Leos Tyrell was back to staring at the birds, and said no more.
The maester at his side glanced at him and at Norridge, and there was a long moment of silence in which the maester seemed to decide that the Lord of Highgarden was no longer deigning to speak.
“His lordship has instructions for you.” said the small man, “You will be taken to the Shield Islands under guard. Your task will be explained on the way.”
He gestured at the guards.
Norridge was led out of the hall as Lord Tyrell of Highgarden, Marshal of the Reach and Warden of the South, began humming a hymn to the maiden and laughing as he watched the birds flutter about his throne.
Willem Morningwood’s walking made a steady rhythm on the flagstones. First the confident click of his left heel, then the tap of his cane, then the endless sliding of his right foot, with the familiar stabbing pains in the ankle and knee joints, arse and back. Click, tap, pain. The dreadful rhythm of his pace was interrupted by the steps. His face drooped for a moment when he gathered his courage.
In the past, when he was young and widely admired, before the misfortune, he had never really noticed them. He had sprung up or down them two at a time and gone blithely on his way. Going down is worse than going up, he had learnt. It was something most did not realise, until they fell.
Willem knew this particular flight of stairs well. There were fifty-five of them, leading up to the Small Council’s meeting room. Grimacing at the enemy in front of him, he commenced the ascent cursing the architects for not including a banister or anything else to cling to. Pain shot up through his leg, along his backbone and into his neck. Hands atremble, he reached the top of the stairs, panting and suffering a horrifying burning sensation in all of his muscles and nerves. Willem felt his neck and knee click back into place, smiled and pressed on, clutching the ledgers in his talons.
“Whom do you support?” An icy voice reached him when Lame Willie limped into the council’s chamber. Dragging his numb right foot, he came forward and deposited the ledger containing parchment and papers onto the table, at the head of which one of the most powerful men of the realm was seated.
Lame Willie had always felt a discomfort when dealing with the Master of Whisperers. That discomfort had only intensified when Brynden Rivers had lost an eye to his half-brother Aegor when the latter had charged his unit of longbowmen at Redgrass Field. Unlike Brynden and the Talons, Aegor had failed to slay his bastard half-brother. “My lord,” Willie grovelled, “I am merely the assistant to the Master of Coin, I-”
“Please, even if I was foolish enough to not realise you indirectly hold the office, then I would still want to know. The Red Keep will be a battlefield soon enough when Daeron has to make his choice.”
The Reachman sat down in a more humble seat, his back aching as he slowly planted his arse. Bloodraven’s red one-eyed stare stayed on him, like a bloodhound on a scent. A comparison with a hawk and mouse came to mind, except that Willie did not much care about what happened. He existed solely to… to what? I’ll have to think on that later. A goal in life… It’s supposed to keep focus. Perhaps it was indeed time to step forward, to move out of the immense shadow that Lord Crab Patty literally cast. His part, and mine as his assistant, has been played out.
“I support those that support me,” he stated plainly.
Bloodraven offered him a cold smile. “Mayhaps I do like you then. A cripple you might be, but slippery as an eel.”
“Takes one to know one,” he gambled. Willie answered the bastard’s smile with his lopsided grin, his tongue flicking over his lips. Bloodraven liked nothing, save for power and that half-Lyseni cunt that bathed in the blood of maidens to stay young. Why were all of these… dragonspawn such vicious twats?
Gulltown was always a bustling city, nothing that could compare to King's Landing, or Lannisport, but it was the only city the Vale could claim. From the port, the fertile valleys of the Vale sent their produce and wares to the rest of the seven kingdoms and received in kind what they lacked. Ships always filled the harbor, most from Westerosi origin, but Essosi ships were still allowed entry. Luxuries from the free cities still found a welcoming market, gold didn't favor Andal blood over the heathens, not yet.
But with Spring finally come and the celebrations for Lord Jasper in full swing, the city overflowed. Camps had been set up outside of the city, tents of all colors and sizes dotted the landscape to house those members of the houses not high enough to warrant rooms in the city. It was alive with more activity than had been seen in many years, and coin flowed into the markets and smiths, to the whorehouses Jasper had not been able to shut down, to the tailors and seamstresses. It was a grand tourney that could not have been held anywhere else in the Vale. The Eyrie had just been reopened for the season, the winter having been spent at the Gates of the Moon. But, it's location was not welcoming to the amount of outsiders who now flocked to the realm. Only Gulltown would do, and so far it had proved a most welcoming city to its visitors.
Inside the Grafton's keep, away from the influx of peers and underlings, Lord Jasper had taken up residence in Lord Grafton's rooms, so generously donated to him for the duration of his stay. The rooms had the feel of each of the seven kingdoms and of the cities of Pentos. The pious lord could not appreciate the beauty in things made by heathens and had had them removed from his sight. There was much to do, even with the tourney and feasts a few days off. Most attendees had arrived already, but stragglers, hopeful hedgeknights and sellswords, still poured in. Details of that nature had been left to a steward to oversee, Jasper's instructions had been clear enough regarding those matters.
The time was drawing near, and today, it was a matter that only he and his septon Uncle knew of that required his attention. The door to the study opened but the young lord's eyes remained on the sheets of parchment.
"You have sent Danwell away, I hear. He caused some commotion in his departure, my lord."
Jasper glanced up to see Septon Gilwood, grandfatherly in appearance, but a harder man than any Jasper had known. The older man came to rest in a seat near the desk, his eyes only flicking briefly to the parchments on it, before continuing to the stained glass windows behind his grandnephew. "Words, rumors, are spreading already, so I must assume it was a completely necessary order."
Youthful and arrogant, his lips pressed together, trying to determine if his mentor was being reproachful. It did not happen often, and for good reason, but from time to time even Gilwood forgot his place. "I sent him to the Bloody Gate. It is unfortunate he should miss the tourney, but he is of better use guarding those gates. It is quite an honor to bestowed the duty, something it appears many have forgotten." He leaned back, blonde hair catching the colored light that streamed in. House Lannister might have had hair the color of beaten gold, but the strong Andal blood of the Arryns often produced flaxen hair. Much preferable in Jasper's opinion. A broad young man, he was an imposing figure already at the age of six and ten, and the maester seemed to think he had another growth period before he would be physically mature. "More to the point, my uncle has proven himself to be most unsupportive of our plans." Jasper was still rankled that the man had wed Marsella to a Tully against his wishes. Had there not be a betrothal in place, he could have overruled the act of insolence. "I could not allow him the chance to interfere, not now." He picked up the sheets that he had been reading for the fourth time since receiving them. "We have our answer, uncle. We will announce our intentions at the final feast."
Septon Gilwood looked back to his young nephew, arm outstretched to receive the papers. He knew what they most hold, but wanted to read them for himself regardless. Much work had gone into this deal, much prayer and fasting to make sure that the Seven approved of their actions. And now, it seemed it had all come together. The contract was long, the negotiations had been arduous at times and many conditions and clauses had needed to be added before both sides were content with the outcome.
It took some time for the old septon to read through everything, and then read it again. The time passed in utter silence between the two. They had a comfortable relationship with each other, loved each other though few outsiders would identify it as such. Jasper was closer to the man than any other of his family, no matter how that seemed to pain his mother. Silence did not disturb the men, there was no need to fill the air with idle words.
"Pentos?" Gilwood spoke at last, choosing his first question carefully. There were many terms he would want to discuss at length, but this seemed the safest to begin with. His eyes were questioning, hard and honest as always.
"It is a heathen city full of debauchery. The gods will favor us, and the city will provide the gold needed to do what we must. The free company will have their share of it as payment, the rest for us to pay our own men and to go to the building of a great Sept. We will take the city easily, uncle, and the other cities will tremble before they think to act out against us." Fire lit up his pale blue eyes, his muscles flexed at the thought of being there to plunder the unholy city. "We will lay waste to it, and move on to ancient Andalos. Repent and convert, or suffer our holy vengeance."
"As the Seven have ordained, so we must act." The septon replied simply. His nephew was blessed by the gods and not one to act without having received a sign and assurance. "Let us discuss the rest of these terms so that I may understand them fully."
The sun had set by the time the two men finished deliberating over every detail. Septon Gilwood excused himself to the Sept that he might give service to the faithful. Jasper remained behind, the many tasks of the day not yet finished. By the tourney's end he needed to have gathered an army of the faithful, a call to arms would be sent out for those who had been unable to attend. Let the Westerori Faith in King's Landing and Oldtown be weary of his actions. They could not easily come out against him, for he did it in their name and the name of the gods, for now at least. Come the future, when he could return to pass judgement on the hypocrites and scoundrels who had infested the clergy, they would fear him, they would answer for their sins.
And yet, somehow more pressing, was the need of a wife. He could not allow Leonella to inherit, woman and wed. Nor was he fond of Danwell standing to inherit should the Stranger take him, everything would be undone. He needed a wife by tourney's end and a babe in her belly before he could leave for Essos. Jasper looked down at the other letters on his desk, many of them invitations to dine with the various lords of the realm who had daughters of suitable age. He had gone through their lineages and had narrowed his options down to just a handful. He would need to pray on it, to seek guidance from the Crone, the Maiden, to know who would be blessed to be his wife.
Accompanied by three bodyguards and four servants, Lord Balfar Brune, his brother Ser Armon and his nephew Ser Oswald proceeded down the waterfront to the ship waiting to bring them to Gulltown. It was still early in the morning but already the waterfront was filled with dockworkers and merchants standing at every pier and warehouse. The harbour of Dyre Den extended for over a mile and was flanked on both sides by tall looming cliffs. Merchant ships brought wares predominantly from the North and King's Landing but many ships would also anchor overnight to seek shelter from rough waters or for the crew to enjoy the local ale and women.To the west lay the road to Maidenpool; to the east high on the cliffs stood the castle Dyre Den with its three crooked towers.
The Houses of Crackclaw Point had always quarrelled over one thing or another and more often than not such disagreements ended in violence. However, for the last few years things had been remarkably quiet. Armed patrols still walked along the pastures in the country side and the quarries hidden in the forests but it has been a long time since the last skirmish. After the Blackfyre Rebellion, with many noble houses still recuperating from their losses, Lord Balfar brune took the opportunity to mend old grievances. Along with his allies by marriage the Pynes, Balfar bribed and intimidated the other Houses into a shaky peace.
Arriving at the ship Balfar and Oswald dismounted and the servants started unloading the cart. Two coursers were brought on board and soon the servants followed carrying gifts, clothes and the armour and weapons of Ser Oswald. Ser Armon would not join on the trip however, choosing to oversee things in Dyre Den rather than deal with stuck up Andals.
“I doubt the little brat even knows who you are.” Ser Armon said as he watched a chest of silks being carried aboard.
“We’re not going for that stuck up Andal whelp” Balfar replied and gestured for Oswald to board the ship. “No one is.”
“You are out of place. You just refuse to see it. In Crackclaw Point we matter. Out there we are alone.”
“You only dream about gold, about your whores in Crackclaw Point, about the Dyre Den… I dream about the Crownlands, about King’s Landing.”
“You only dream of yourself!”
“Because no one else fucking does!” Balfar snapped and turned away. “Nothing is given to me. Everything I leave to my son is what I worked for, what I have bled for. Your son is a knight because of me.”
And your son ran away. Armon almost said but thought better of it.
No more words were exchanged. Armon turned his horse and headed back to the castle. There was work to be done. Lord Balfar used money and political connections to create stability on the Point, or so he convinced himself. Ser Armon used soldiers and thugs to beat people back in line. Perhaps some lords were swayed by Brune gold and promises but if things turn sour, so Armon mused, he would have the support of knights and men-at-arms. While Balfar and Oswald would sail for Gulltown, Armon would pay a visit to a minor lord sworn to the Crabbs. Every man has his price Balfar would argue, but Armon saw that every man also had his limit. A limit to how many soldiers he was prepared to sacrifice… or how many fingers he was prepared to lose.
Just after dawn, belowdecks on the bark Red Star, Bay of Crabs, just off Crackclaw Point --Raymund Storm--
"If you fought the way you fuck, Raymund, you'd've had a knighthood long ago."
It was a grey and numb morn through the porthole; the sky, the shade of iron, appeared to fade formlessly into the gently roiling sea, so that the horizon was listless and imperceptible. A light, misting rain fell, a leitmotif of their voyage since they had cast off at Parchments, escalating its misery to its expected height.
"Your whore kept the whole ship up last night, you know. Perhaps you should introduce a third party into your couplings--I'm certain another cock in her mouth whilst you ream her from behind would make the all of us sleep a little sounder." As if she would accept a twig like yours when she has Blackfyre itself at hand.
Raymund Storm smirked to himself, took a quaff of wine and gnaw of bread, before responding, "My apologies, dear brother, for having disrupted your slumber. Had yourself been abed with a member of the fairer sex last night, mayhaps you would have had worries other than where I was putting my cock. I do know how much you love your brother, and your affection is most appreciated, but such thoughts border on...obsession."
Ser Lyonel "The Laughing Storm" Baratheon had often been called the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms: tall, broad, dark, with luscious sable locks, an effortless smile which would make the Maiden herself to spread her legs, and eyes of molten chestnut which had earned him Lady Lyanna Redfort's maidenhead. Yet in this moment, Raymund thought, he had the look of a jaundiced cabbage. The pleasure of souring Lyonel's countenance had become one which made it easier to wake up in the morning. In truth, he is handsome. But I prefer him like this--truly, it's his natural state.
After giving a feigned chuckle and himself taking a swig of his wine, Lyonel riposted, "My apologies, dear brother, but I do not lay with common whores. That, I fear, is a bastard's lot. I'm sure you would know all about it."
"Oh? Your cock requires a higher premium, then? Perhaps those painted whores, who charge ten gold dragons before they spread their legs, would be more to your liking. After all, who but you would pay so much for a fuck?"
With a roar, Lyonel took up his fork and leapt across the table, overturning the decanter of wine and pushing a tray of sausages to the rushes. In a lightning motion, he grabbed Raymund by the throat, and, with a satisfied grin, poised the fork above his head. His breathing was heavy, his eyes full of molten fury, and body posed for intent, but Raymund couldn't help but let out a hoarse laugh.
Still giggling, Raymund managed, "Ah, feisty this morning, are we? You're riled up after only a few prods...I imagine you would've run me through had I gone any further. Come now, Lyonel, I thought you had a thicker skin" Lyonel, in a rage, tightened his hold on Raymund’s throat. "Stop acting like fucking children, the lot of you," Ser Gulian Buckler growled from the other side of the table, clearing away the wanton sausages he'd been showered with from his jerkin, "Look at yourselves, a man of three and twenty and a man of eight and twenty, a knight and squire, aping around like animals. Seven hells, even little Lyonel Selmy would show some more fucking restraint."
Lyonel, after a few moments of tension, smacked his lips and relaxed his grip around Raymund’s neck, before extricating himself from the tabletop and reclaiming his seat with a dejected thud. Seven hells…Raymund could barely breathe after Lyonel’s assault, but he did admit that it had given him some satisfaction. Be more careful from now on though, Raymund. He might run you through for true before we reach Gulltown. “Apologies, Ser Gulian, for my behavior,” Lyonel said, re-adjusting his disheveled hair and calming himself with more wine, “A fortnight aship with my dear brother, it seems, would push any man to his limits.”
Raymund and Lyonel had never been quite amicable. Then again, Raymund and most of his family had never been on good terms. Corenne, his “mother”, could never reconcile the fact that his father had kept him in the castle—she was of the persuasion entertained by many in the Seven Kingdoms that bastards should be left in the whore’s dens where they were spawned, and treated Raymund accordingly. And despite the fact that his lord father had done everything to change their predilections, she had educated her children with the same prejudice. Between he and his siblings, barring Brandon, there had always been a silent and nearly imperceptible wall, a secret barbican which even behind the warm battlements of Storm’s End composed an atmosphere of coldness and aloofness.
Amongst themselves and the other courtiers, they laughed, curtsied, made nice, drank, shared meat and bread…yet when Raymund entered into this secret realm, immediately, impulsively, nearly instinctively, the shield walls were raised, and their eyes, previously warm and open, took on the pallor of a cool dullness, questioning, threat—all in a moment, he was thrown from the dais, and was forced to comport himself in the realm of the common folk, even if he had not only the blood of a Baratheon in him, but also the blood of a Tarth. It was not as if he had been the product of a whore or a fishmonger’s wife, a frantic coupling in a cool hollow smelling of mildew in a moment of hunger. He was the son of Lord Rynil Baratheon and the Lady Rayela Tarth, two noble Stormland houses, a product of love, not of lust. His lord father had even desired to name Raymund as his heir, and to make Rayela his lady wife, before Lord Stafford intervened—a match between Baratheon and Swann had been promised, and he was not desirous of the stigma of an oathbreaker.
Raymund, of course, had never managed to make his siblings understand this, nor had they wished to. And why should they? They trusted their mother, loved their mother…why should they take heed of Raymund? But Brandon understood, as he understood everything…and Gulian had understood, before the sea took him. But of all his siblings, it was Lyonel who bore him the most vehement dislike, from the very beginning. He was Corenne’s darling. And darling boys, all too often, do not learn humility before it is too late.
He was handsome, he was brave, he was tall, he was charming, he fought like a lion, sang like a nightingale, could quote the histories and the poets…who cared whether or not he gave his bastard brother an ounce of sympathy or not? None but Raymund. He took the tourneys by storm, was a knight before he had reached his seventeenth year, and the next had crowned his first queen of love and beauty. He even earned his own appellative, “The Laughing Storm”, and a great deal of renown for his participation in the notorious Ashford Tourney with Ser Duncan the Tall. And here he was again, off to another tourney, off to achieve new heights of glory, fame, and fortune. Let him have it, the cunt. But only this time, I’ll be there with him.
Lyonel had put the castle into a riot when Lord Rynil had told him that Raymund would be squiring for him at the Gulltown Tourney.
“That imp, my squire?” “Is this a jape?” “I’m in no mood for jests, lord father.” “He fights like he has a cock in his ass.” But Rynil would have none of it, instead dismissing Lyonel without another word.
That gave Raymund satisfaction, that his lord father had not even entertained the notion of Lyonel’s objection. The deal was simple: Raymund had been training for a long while, and had decided that he desired knighthood—certainly, his lord father could have knighted him, but Lord Rynil being Lord Rynil, he believed that Raymund should earn it rather than have it given to him freely, a perspective which Raymund shared: he intended to make something of himself in the Seven Kingdoms, rather than have something made of him. The simplest way to accomplish this end was before them, as Lyonel was a renowned tourney knight, and a tourney was anon—any squire which won the Squire’s Melee and Joust would receive a knighthood. And whether or not Lyonel liked it, having his squire win in the Squire’s Melee and Joust would only bring him greater glory.
Of course there was the issue of the difference in their ages: Lyonel was but three and twenty, and Raymund was eight and twenty, a notion which Lyonel loved to point out without cease. In fact, over the weeks of training and preparation for the tourney, Lyonel even came to enjoy having Raymund as his squire, not because it brought him pleasure to educate another in the martial code or because he enjoyed Raymund’s company, but because it was another way to demean him. “You’re exactly where you belong dear brother, pardon my frankness: beneath me.”
After that, Raymund had leapt upon him, and the two of them went tumbling to the mud, Raymund reaching for a practice sword to beat the Laughing Storm’s face in, and Lyonel jabbing Raymund in the ribs with his gauntlets—it took the efforts of Lynsay Rivers, Ser Gulian, and Ser Paxter to extricate Raymund from atop him. It was a good beginning to what would be a month of hell which was now spilling over into their voyage to Gulltown. Raymund had thought that he had heard every insult leveled at bastards that could be made, and had entertained the notion that he was immune to them, but Lyonel’s creativity surprised him. In a manner of speaking, it was a way for both of them to say the things they had always wanted to say to each other but had never been able to—they were able to express their deepest feelings in the most extravagant and hurtful manner, where previously their abuses had been…crude, malformed, brutish. They were achieving new heights in the unappreciated art of vilification.
Finally, after their period of preparation, the Gulltown Tourney was nigh. On a bleary dawn, their party departed from Storm’s End to ride to Parchments, where their ship lay in wait. Accompanying them: Ser Gulian Buckler, the sharp-tongued knight (previously a tourney knight like Lyonel, his face had been maimed in an ill-fated joust; he was certainly not pleased with the appointment), Ser Chepton Penrose, the drunk knight, and Ser Albos Trant, the old knight; additionally, Lyonel Selmy, Rynil’s ward, a boy of seven (who had begged for the opportunity to attend the tourney), and Ser Selwys Estermont, Lord Rynil’s councilor, who was acting as his ambassador to the tourney, as Rynil himself was not keen on making the journey (he excused himself under the guise of illness), and Brandon was not keen on tourneys at all.
Along with their baggage, servants, and a handful of household guards, their party consisted of around three and twenty. The ride to Parchments was without incident, save for occasional altercations between Raymund and Lyonel—upon arrival to Parchments, they feasted with Lord Felix, and the following dawn boarded the Red Star and girded themselves for the long voyage to Gulltown. In the close confines of the ship, the enmity between Lyonel and Raymund, comparatively in bud previously, burst into bloom. Ser Gulian, Ser Albos, and Ser Selwys took efforts to separate them in order to make the journey a fig less miserable, but eventually it became impossible.
“You lost your wits off of Dragonstone,” Ser Selwys had said one night, “You’re better than this, Raymund, I know it.”
In truth, Raymund did know it. But there was something about it…when he saw Lyonel’s face, his mind went blank, replacing rationality with a kind of blind, white hot rage and a creeping mischief. In a manner of speaking, they were obsessed with one another, or rather, with their hatred of one another. They were like lovers whose history was too long, whose fire had been replaced with loathing, who were ceaselessly on the verge of boiling over.
Thankfully, the journey was almost at its end. It would be a day, maybe two, before they reached Gulltown’s harbor, now that they had entered into the Bay of Crabs. “I believe I’ll go abovedecks. Some fresh air would be…beneficial,” Raymund said, draining his wine to the dregs, grabbing a pomegranate and hunk of bred, and excusing himself from the table.
The waters of the Bay were gentle that morning, and a soft mist lay over the deck. Crewman, being roused much earlier than the party, had already breakfasted and were heavily entrenched in their morning routines: caulking bulkheads, patching sails, wrapping oakum about the beams, mopping the decks, catching a swig of wine where they could. Captain Elrose, a corpulent giant of a man from the Riverlands, was busy at his maps atop the fo’c’s’le. Raymund wrapped his fur mantle more tightly around his shoulders, struck by the penetrating damp of the sea air.
Growing up at Storm’s End, Raymund was not unaccustomed to the cold—but out at sea and getting farther north as they were, the wet was compounded by the chill, and the incessant rain did nothing to avail them of it. At the railing, he spied Lyonel Selmy in the fur cloak which overwhelmed his form, and elected to join him.
“Tidings, little lord,” Raymund said, clapping the boy on the shoulder and offering him his pomegranate, which he refused with a nod, “How do you fare this sunny morning?”
“But Lord Raymund, it’s not sunny,” Lyonel replied, giving Raymund a quizzical look. Already, the boy had the look of his father: the same dark umber locks, rounded nose, black eyes, dark complexion—he was practically Lord Amos in the flesh. Raymund had always liked the boy…he was bright, to be sure, and had a great fascination with knights—he wanted to become one himself one day, he always exclaimed, so that he could be like his father.
Not something most would aspire to…Lord Amos was a controversial character in the Stormlands: he had been a bravo in Essos, and after returning home had become something of a rogue, a dandy, cohorting around Dorne and the Reach, wooing maidens (it’s a marvel that Lady Beatrice had not yet wrung his throat) and challenging knights. Such a challenge had ended Lord Trant, and incited Lord Rynil to claim Lyonel as his ward. Two young men, jumped up on wine. Fools, both. Immediately, he thought of himself and Ser Lyonel.
However, much he liked little Selmy, his sense of sarcasm needed remedying. “I but jape, little lord. I know of course that it’s not sunny,” Raymund remarked, laughing and mouthing a handful of arils, “But no matter. Your first tourney, eh? Are you excited, Lyonel?”
At the mention of the tourney, Lyonel’s eyes immediately brightened, “How much longer until we get there, Lord Raymund?”
“Ah, within a day, maybe two, if the seas get rough. Perhaps even by tonight.”
“I can’t wait to see Ser Lyonel at the joust. I saw his armor once, at the castle, you know…One day, when I’m a knight, I’ll have armor like that, and my own sword. All the best swords have names, and I’ll name mine Stormbreaker. Do you like it, Lord Raymund? Ser Lyonel told me it would be a good name for a sword.” Ah, how typical of him. It seems he’s earned himself another indentured servant.
Raymund grimaced and put on an affected smile, “Indeed, a fine name for a sword, little lord. It would befit you well.”
“Lord Raymund, you’re fighting in the tourney, right?”
“Indeed, I am,” Raymund replied, tossing the empty pomegranate husk into the rolling waters.
“Are you afraid?” Hmm… It was a question Raymund had never in truth considered. Though deaths were not uncommon at tourneys, it was not one of his projected outcomes for Gulltown—if Raymund was afraid of anything, it was the shame of losing, and the lash of Lyonel’s tongue.
However, Raymund gave a nervous laugh, “Maybe a little bit.” Lyonel was quiet for a moment, before asking, “Lord Raymund, do you want to be a knight too?”
All of a sudden, a wind gusted and howled, shaking the eaves and beams of the ship, sluicing the deck with cold rain, and through the iron cloudbanks the bleary vision of the sun winked.
Raymund smiled wrly, placing a hand on the pommel of his sword, and said, with a determination all bastards must learn, “More than anything.” Midnight, A Bedchamber, Storm's End --Brandon Baratheon--
“Still awake, my love?”
Her breath was like cool flame in his ear, as liquid as buttercream yet balmy, overripe, smelling of orange blossoms. A moment later, he felt a warm kiss dapple his cheek, and soft hands smooth over his shoulders, then…the fragrance of jasmine, subtle but supple, nestled itself in his nostrils.
It was warm, that night, unusually so for Storm’s End, though the nigh constant sea breezes, cool off the Narrow Sea, disrupted the lethargy of the heat, not allowing one to forgo one’s cloak. Brandon thought that, from his vantage and on a night as clear as this, if he squinted, he could delineate far on the horizon the distant shores of the isle of Tarth. No cloudbanks crowded the sky, nor did the lamp of the moon dim the coruscating of the stars. Even the waters of Shipbreaker Bay, for eons having convulsed and broken themselves upon the rocks of the cape, were comparatively calm, and further out from the coast they were as quiet and still as if they had been a sheet of glass in which the halos of the stars could be reflected.
“No, not yet,” Brandon sighed, wetting his lips with a draught of water, “I’ve been in the library.”
He felt her hands leave his shoulders, and heard soft footfalls, a sigh, the metallic tinkle of silver and the cool rushing of wine. “Ever the maester. Studying the words of old, dead men?”
Brandon laughed at that. It was what she always said, and perhaps too often, but it gave him peace all the same. He heard her light footsteps come closer once more, before she stepped within his line of sight, leaning against the column of the terrace, cupping a silver goblet to her lips: Lyalla Baratheon, the lady of Yronwood, his wife.
She had not the look of one of the Dornish marches, but the caramel complexion, teak eyes, and deep chestnut hair which spoke of Rhyonish descent—her lord father, Lord Felix, himself Stony Dornish in looks, had wed a Qorgyle of Sandstone, after all. He had been reluctant to give her up, Lord Felix, as any father would have been—he thought her more deserving of a royal match (the prevailing attitudes of the capital at the moment being Dornish, after all), not “a life of impotence on a storm-blasted crag”. Dowries, however, are expensive business, and House Yronwood, though puissant, was not exactly House Martell—Storm’s End was a powerful ally and neighbor, and charged a much lesser premium than the crown. Fathers only want the best for their daughters, and though it was not a wedding having the pomp and splendor of the Sept of Baelor, Lord Felix, crabby old man that he was, seemed satisfied.
She was the most beautiful woman Brandon had ever seen: eyes so lustrous that they seemed to take upon lives of their own, a lithe dancer’s body, skin so hot upon touch it radiated the sunlight trapped inside it, a nose which crinkled when she smiled, cheeks which dimpled when she laughed…I cannot believe I’ve been so lucky, Brandon mused, munching on a date, to have married a woman as wonderful as she.
“Perhaps, my lord, you should spend more of your time studying young women. I assure you, we are very much alive, and would prove much more interesting than the deeds and travels of Jaehaerys the Conciliator,” she suggested, giggling into her wine.
“You do Jaehaerys a disservice, my lady. He was a fascinating man. And just how many rebellions have you put down?” Brandon riposted wryly, inciting a high, clear laugh from Lyalla.
She made her way to the chair where Brandon mused, her white nightgown trailing softly behind her, and kissed his forehead, twining her fingers through his hair.
“You’re silly, Brandon…you’re so very silly. And you need a haircut.” She began to ruffle his locks, twisting them into loops and smoothing them into spires, humming lightly to herself.
In this moment…I pounce! In a lighting movement, he seized her around the waist, inciting a surprised squeak, and plopped her on his lap, holding her close to him and whispering, “Now I’ve got you!”
“Brandon! You beast! You almost made me spill my wine!”
“Apologies, my love, I simply couldn’t help myself,” he said in affected atonement, taking the goblet from her hands and stealing a sip for himself.
Their lover’s play, however, was interrupted by the tattoo of three knocks upon the bedchamber door. In a moment, the reverie was broken, and Lyalla let out a dejected sigh, curling her finger in his hair again.
Irritated, Brandon responded, “You may enter,” as he did his best to extricate himself from the chair.
It was Redmond Toyne, Lord Rynil’s pageboy, who himself had the look of one who had just risen from bed, his hair disheveled and his jerkin unbuttoned.
“Good evening, Lord Brandon,” Redmond began, fingering a loop in his belt, “His Lordship summons you to his chambers.”
“Of course. Father has always loved these midnight rendezvouses. He imagines that it lends them an enigmatic, mysterious atmosphere, but in truth it annoys rather than inspires. Well, did he say anything in regards to the urgency of this summons?”
“His Lordship has instructed me in the past to inform you that any summons of his should be treated with the appropriate amount of urgency.”
“Ah, typically vague,” Brandon replied, sighing and rubbing at his eyes, “Very well. A moment, if you would, I must needs dress.”
Brandon gave Lyalla a backward glance and a light frown, promising, “I’ll return soon.” Previously having only been in a tunic and his smallclothes, Brandon pulled on his breeches, a black velvet doublet, and his tooled leather boots.
Popping one last date in his mouth, he said, “Come, Redmond, let us away.”
***
“Do you know much of ships, Brandon?”
Lord Rynil Baratheon’s chambers were housed in the highest atrium of Storm’s End’s single tower, and despite the relative warmth of the season that night, the windows and terrace doors were closed fast, and a fire crackled in the hearth. When Brandon entered, Lord Rynil was in his shirt sleeves, studying a curled piece of parchment with fervor. Though a man of nearly fifty, Rynil looked not a day over five and thirty, though his hair and beard were peppered with fingers of grey—despite this, the grey added rather than diminished his looks. He had also the vivacity of a younger man, always eager, always active, his mind and body ceaselessly busy.
His “desk”, as he liked to call it, a sprawling teakwood table he had received as a gift from a Lysene tradesman, was covered from end to end with documents, heaps of dusty tomes, candles pooling into wax, quills and bottles of ink and sand, decanters of wine and water…the floor all about was a veritable forest of rejected drafts, bundles of crumbled parchment, and overturned ink wells. It was the way he preferred to work—“Order confounds me. My mind is too messy to keep my workplace clean.”
Personally, Brandon couldn’t understand it—he himself was lost lest his working area was kept in order. He couldn’t stand the thought of having to wade through a bedlam of papers, most likely overturning inkwells and wine cups in the process, just to find the one he required. It was simply…ridiculous, and more importantly, impractical. But, Brandon supposed, he is the lord of Storm’s End. I figure he can work as pleases him.
“I have a passing familiarity, lord father, though certainly I am no connoisseur. Have you summoned me at such an hour to discuss your latest fancy or have you something of real issue? I am deathly tired.”
“Then perhaps you should retire at an earlier hour, rather than while them away in the confines of the library,” Rynil replied, a wry grin wrinkling his cheeks.
“Ah, so Lord Rynil 'The Wise' is scolding me for spending too much time in the library?”
Lord Rynil, without looking up, still studying the parchment, rose from his chair and began to wend his way towards the hearth, “A far wiser man than I once proclaimed, ‘The pith of wisdom lies not at the tip of a pen but in a layman’s palms.’ The synthesis of knowledge and experience. The surfeit of one and the dearth of another does not lead to the path of wisdom—it is their equivalence which grants us clarity. And it is exactly the surfeit of the one and the dearth of the other which is at issue.”
“Please, lord father, elucidate,” Brandon said, with as much sarcasm as he could stand, clearing off the spilling parchments from a chair and taking a seat.
“Happily,” Lord Rynil began, “Your brother Lyonel is an accomplished tourney knight. Your brother Leonard, having not yet reached twenty, vies for a position on the Kingsguard. Your sister, Aryelle, is a woman wed. Even Raymund Storm is on his way to making something of himself. Yet yourself…mine own heir…remain a character of mystery.”
“I can’t help that I inspire such sentiments, lord father. You yourself have taken a liking to—”
“I’m serious Brandon, and would appreciate it if you acted accordingly,” Rynil snapped, cutting Brandon off, “You can’t remain holed up in there forever. Aye, wisdom is a quality to be admired in a good ruler, but a philosopher king never ruled in his library. You are a man grown, a man wed, and the heir to a Great House, and yet you’ve hardly been outside of these walls, and within them hardly comported yourself. It worries me, my son. Believe me, I can sympathize with your fervor. But…but…haven’t you ever wanted to travel to the places the books describe? Haven’t you ever wanted to see with your eyes what words cannot express? Experience what words cannot portray? You’re my heir, Brandon. My son—”
“And why are you telling me all of this, lord father? You speak as if you think I’m some kind of shut in, with no knowledge of anything, like some kind of degenerate. Is that what you believe?”
Rynil paused, making his way back to the teakwood table, then said, “It is because that is not what I believe that I’m telling you this. I hold in my hand for you an opportunity. It would not chafe you to listen.”
Rynil took his seat once more, and levelled his gaze upon Brandon. Seven hells…
“Well, then, what is it?” Brandon asked, sighing in capitulation.
Rynil once again turned his scrutiny to the piece of parchment, and began “An ill-omened raven, I fear, bringing with it the revelation of a most unfortunate turn of events in the capital: it seems that Viserys Velaryon, the venerable Master of Ships, has shuffled off this mortal coil. Choked on a capon bone, the poor devil. An awful way to go.”
Viserys Velaryon… It was not a name that grabbed one from ones seat.
“His many notable achievements include, but are not limited to: sitting on his arse day in and day out, muttering incomprehensible prattle about his noble pedigree, soiling himself whilst the small council was convened, and doing absolutely nothing, absolutely nothing, about the matter of the royal fleet, which, even if you claim to have only passing familiarity with naval affairs, you certainly must know is in shambles. King Daeron has had his eyes elsewhere, and rightly thought it best that he leave the issue of the navy to another time—yet what he did not expect was that this impotent Lord of Tides would leave the fleet to rot in Blackwater Bay, easy wittles for maggots, and a haunt for swallows. The late Lord, rather than being awarded the position on his merits, was given it for his lineage—the Velaryons being the premier naval power in the Crownlands, as you know. Lord Viserys, rather than having any acumen whatsoever in the field of ships, was much more adept at draining cups of wine and whoring around in Flea Bottom. Would that I could have knighted that capon for having done the all of us a favor.”
Brandon began to drum a tattoo upon the desk top, “That is, as you say, rather unfortunate, lord father, but what does this have to do with me?”
“Ah, then, you haven’t caught on yet,” Rynil grinned, “I’m certain I have no need to re-familiarize you with my exploits during the Blackfyre Rebellion. For my contribution to the war effort, I was offered a seat on the small council, a position which I refused due to the impotence of my fool of a brother, who would’ve certainly vied for control of Storm’s End in my absence. A certainty which I could not allow for. Despite this, King Daeron promised me that should a seat open up on the council, there was always room for me. Maybe you’re wondering why I don’t vie for the position of Hand of the King—I have no such ambitions. And neither do I have designs for the position of Master of Ships, which so conveniently now stands vacant—never knew much about ships, to be frank. Yet Daeron’s offer remains standing, and—”
In a lightning moment of lucidity, cool realization had dawned on Brandon, “You intend to have me assume the position of Master of Ships, is that it?”
Rynil’s smile was broad, his eyes gleaming, “Ah, now it seems you’ve caught wind.”
“But, as I’ve told you, I’ve very little expertise on the subject of ships, father! Why…I have perhaps as much knowledge of naval affairs as the late Lord Viserys—”
“Seven hells, Brandon, don’t sell yourself so short. A chicken has more wits than Lord Viserys ever did! And you…you’ve got wits to spare. You don’t know much about ships, certainly, but you can learn. You’re young, all you have is time—and the use I see yours put to most often is tireless study in the library. Why not learn something new?”
Brandon sat in pensive silence, fingering the little hairs at the end of his chin. A long moment passed.
“Have you nothing to say? Nothing to retort?” Rynil inquired, trying to catch his son’s downcast eyes.
“I’m not sure of this, lord father,” Brandon replied.
“And what’s not to be sure of? Your capability? You’re one of the most capable men in the Seven Kingdoms, and far more capable than me, to be sure. You’re the little son who ran away to become a maester, the boy who could name every Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, the boy who—”
“What I’m not sure of, lord father, is wherein your interests lie in this.”
Lord Rynil was taken aback momentarily, “My interests? And where do you think my interests lie, Brandon?”
“I’m not so certain that your ends are entirely altruistic. That would be a fool’s errand.”
Lord Rynil chuckled dryly, discarding the scrap of parchment to the rushes, “What, then, is it a crime to look out for the best interests of my heir?”
“Not at all. But it would be foolish to imagine that your sole interests were those best interests. We live in Westeros, lord father, not some conjured utopia. If I am to be your man in King’s Landing, then I would be privy to these motives, ulterior though they are—if I am to go, then I at least deserve that measure of respect, don’t you agree? I and Lyalla both. For the family we’ll raise. The capital is unquestionably a den of vipers.”
“Unquestionably so.”
“Then allow me to see them coiled in the grass before they strike.”
Lord Rynil’s grin was bright and wide, and once more he chuckled to himself before giving his son a look of reassessment, “Very well. Though you’d best prepare an excuse for your wife in the morning. We’ve much to discuss…and the night has barely even begun.”
***
He returned to his chambers just after dawn broke through the drowsy clouds. Lyalla was abed, lost in reverie, breathing lightly. Brandon undressed, having had a night without rest and seemingly without end, collapsed beside her and drowned in a dreamless sleep.
“Brandon…Brandon…Wake up…Wake up…”
The same hot whisper in his ear, the same rush, the same fragrance of orange blossoms in their summer bloom. Lyalla. His eyes fluttered, and gradually the room solidified from dream vapor into waking vision. Her face was directly above his, strands of her chestnut hair tickling his cheek, the canopy overhead. It had to have been well past noon’s height.
“What is the hour?” he slurred, trying his best to clear the muck from his eyes. He realized he was sweating, and that the room was terribly warm.
“Brandon…Brandon…” she whispered softly once more.
His hands reached down to clasp her about the waist, and he kissed her upon the neck, almost instinctively, “Yes, my love?”
“Brandon,” she giggled, raising her eyes to look into his, “I’m with child.”
Baelor seldom smiled, but at that moment, the wind in his fair hair and sun on his face, he did. Using a hand to shield his grey eyes, he peered out across the Bay of Crabs. Saltpans was at his back, the noise and stench of the town quickly fading away as the ferry forged into the waves. Ahead the sky was still overcast, grey clouds wrapping the heavens in a grey receding blanket. However, it seemed that together with the prow of the shoddy vessel, sunlight followed. When the rays finally broke through, it seemed they caressed the water and poured divine benediction over the Bay. Baelor looked out in awe. There it was; an upthrust island nestled at the estuary of the river Trident, their destination.
When they had entered the Bay, they had done so at night, forced by the tide to make the journey then for the waters moved quick here. He had paid the local fishermen that had acted as a navigator handsomely when they finally entered the port of the small Riverland town. His ship, the Seven’s Seastar, and a portion of his knights now awaited his return from the Quiet Isle.
The ferryman was one of the denizens that lived on the island, and he faithfully and obviously remained silent during the voyage. Some of his brothers aided in fixing the cables of the boat, keeping their heads low in deference as Ser Baelor Manderly and his retinue of six descended and took their first steps on the hallow soil. The knight nodded gratefully to the silent brothers, their faces obscured by pieces of cloth wrapped around them. Storks and other water birds roamed nearby in the shallows, their cries and shrieks filling the air.
They waited for a moment, taking in their surroundings. The isle’s slopes were covered in terraced fields, some of them currently tended by the male penitents. To the right there were fish-ponds, the sun turning their surfaces in serene golden disks. When Baelor looked up, he could make out the wooden septry where he hoped to go shortly. Behind it stood a large mill, its wood-and-sailcloth blades turning smoothly thanks to the breeze that rolled in from across the bay.
One of the penitents approached, bowed his wool-covered head and gestured for them to follow. The man led them up the slope, onto the pebbled path that cut through the terraced fields and meadows. Sheep grazed peacefully, watched by a shepherd. Further ahead there was a small stable, with a well-tended thatched roof, for the isle’s mules and other animals.
Their guide brought them ever closer to the wooden septry with a seven-sided steeple. When they passed the low walls of rock, and meandered their way through the cluster of buildings, they were greeted by more of the silent men, clad in undyed grey or brown robes. They had taken their vows of silence to do penance.
A man with a grey cowl and calm demeanour awaited them at the entrance to the septry, hands folded in front of him. “I welcome you to the Quiet Isle, my lords,” he said in a raspy voice.
Baelor bowed his head politely and introduced himself and his companions. “We have come to pray and seek counsel from the Seven, we intend to stay for seven days. Regard us as if we are normal penitents.”
“We are all sinners and we must all repent,” came the unforgiving but just answer.
* * *
Westeros, The Vale of Arryn, Gulltown
When Baelor and the rest of the Seventy-Seven made port in Gulltown, their mighty galley cleaving the waters, they had indeed stayed for seven days, every day devoted to prayer, fasting and contemplation on their sins and purpose. Two days earlier, they had put the Quiet Isle behind them, leaving the holy island a handsome donation in silver and gold.
The city was brimming, alive with people and noise, but Baelor was not interested in its mundane aspects, rather, he went straight to the Gulltown sept to ask for the septon’s blessing in the coming tournament. A dozen knights of his retinue did the same, as they too intended to try their luck in Lord Jasper Arryn’s tourney.
Lord Jasper Arryn had proven to be a distant, but hospitable host and a man of renowned piety. The young lord of the Vale had wished him luck in the tournament, and expressed his respect for Baelor’s reputation and that of his House. The blonde youth had also extended an invitation to speak at a later, more private and calm moment.
During the joust, Baelor performed adequately, besting several opponents in fair tilts. He was however unhorsed in his fourth bout, and forced to concede defeat to Rory Reyne. At least the Lord of Castamere was gracious about it, and had helped Ser Baelor back on his feet. There was no shame in being beaten by a better man, the Manderly knight told himself as he focussed his efforts on the melee.
The Seven had offered him a chance to repay the favour when Lord Rory Reyne was pummeled into submission by a burly hedge knight with a mace. Ser Baelor made short work of the man, and defended the downed Lord Reyne until he was carried off the field.
Ser Morgan Cassel, Baelor’s friend and companion, had little luck, eliminated in the second bout after three tilts. However, he did distinguish himself in the melee, until the Brute of Bracken dealt him a ringing blow against his helmet. In fact, Ser Otho Bracken had proven unstoppable, and at least three of Baelor’s knights went down before his relentless attacks. After defeating Ser Oswald Brune in a lengthy duel, Ser Baelor had tried the Brute for himself, as he was one of the last two men standing.
They had given the audience a good performance, but he had been drained of some strength due to his fasting and maimed back. As part of his penance and to demonstrate his religious fervour, he had flagellated himself. The shirt and leather padding underneath his plate armour kept chafing open the self-inflicted wounds. In spite of asking the Seven to lend strength to his sword-arm, the Brute of Bracken had bested him, coming in hard and fast, wrestling him to the ground until he had passed out, Otho’s weight bearing down on him. The Gods had undoubtedly wanted to teach Baelor humility.
Except for a few bruises, all that was hurt was Baelor Manderly’s pride. Others were not so lucky; the Laughing Storm had suffered injury in the joust and experienced a nasty fall. Fortunately nothing had been broken, and the leather padding taken much of the force. Ser Addam Frey was even less fortunate, for he had a broken arm courtesy of, again, the Brute of Bracken.
The prize was considerable, even for second place. Seven hundred and fifty golden dragons, divided into three purses. Baelor had given one to Ser Morgan to buy provisions and supplies they would need for the coming adventure. Another of the purses was destined for the acquisition of arms and armour, and should be sufficient to equip fifty men. The last two hundred and fifty dragons he kept as a reserve for unexpected expenses.
It was thirteen years ago, a return to a time that the westerosi woman dreaded with all of her heart. It was here as the sun rose from the hills of the Crownlands to bring a bloody rebellion to a harsh end. The bastard Targaryen revolt that prepared to siege King’s Landing itself to bring themselves to victory, a victory that they themselves would lose on this day. On a field the core of the Blackfyre forces found themselves at siege themselves by the last breath of the loyalists to the crown—to the southwestern side of the fields is where she was.
The woman was but a girl of four and ten disguised as a boy. The young girl known only as Raynard stood in the far back of a camp dedicated to bannermen of the Westerlands. Even with the damage at Lannisport by Ser Quentyn Ball, these were men who refused to allow the Blackfyre Rebellion to go further after they could not stop Ball from doing the damage done to Lannisport and damaging Lannister pride. She remembered it so—the banners towering as the sun began to rise, its light catching them: the broken sword of House Sarwyck, the coins in the checks of House Payne, the three crossbows of House Drox, the ten stars of House Peckledon, the red diamonds with the bronze halberds of House Yarwyck, and the blue rooster of House Swyft.
“The Blackfyre won’t survive this day, we can’t let them, and we shan’t let them. They will fail.”
The voice of Arthur Drox spoke out amongst the youths and young adults that she had hid herself with—few of them were squires, but most of them were simple men who were loyal to their liege—whether they be Payne, Sarwyck, or what-have-you. It was true that she at her young age back then had more intent than to hide amongst the soldiers to escape her betrothal to be on these to-be Redgrass Fields. It was at Lannisport where Quentyn Ball had killed her brother Selwyn Sarwyck and deserved to be brought to Sarwyck justice. It was true that the Sarwyck were not the only ones who felt similarly but the emotional resonance was strong in her young self. She speculated that she could’ve confided in her brother to make a plea to her father to break the horrid betrothal she was doomed to have.
It was true that the Blackfyre rebels were resilient and ruthless, something that would come to her ears later in the battle as it became evident that her cousin, Kevan Sarwyck, was stricken down by Tobin Strickland—the man leading Quentyn Ball’s forces in his stead. It was saddening to hear as this rebellion seemed to keep taking the lives of her kin and throughout the day only more would fall. But the house would persevere as it always had. At the time she hoped that the Seven would intervene and save more lives—the highlight of the conflict was saving her brother from afar with her skill with the bow when a Blackfyre soldier came from his rear flank while he was engaged in combat with another.
All… distant memories.
The smell of coal-enriched copper filled the air as the woman of twenty and eight finally opened her eyes—parting ways with the memories that befell her in her dreams so often even after it had been so long. It had been the beginning of her journey on those Redgrass Fields and now she felt that she wanted to be near its end. In the present there was no rally of soldiers nor was there a command by Arthur Drox compelling her to remove her sense of fear. There was only herself and the small innhouse settled in-between the towering mountains and crumbling hills of northwestern Essos. Thinking back on her life it was fairly surprising how it all led here far from Westeros and far from everything that she had known. She had fought in many disputes and traveled as hiresword as well as guardian—yet the stigma still followed her and announced itself every day, a stigma that told her that this was man’s world and she should accept her fate… a fate she refused to acknowledge.
Moving to the side of her bed she reflected on the last few nights where she had been aimlessly pushing away from the forests of Qohor, a place she had previously found herself comfortable in. The accommodations in the innhouse she had taken to were…pleasant enough, but nothing grand; which was expected of the locale it opened business in. Settled in the rugged hills of Norvos, this innhouse—the Bellowing Rooster—found itself tucked in this hamlet that offered three main businesses, one of which being the Rooster itself with the other two being mining and hunting. However, she remembered not the hamlet’s name nor how far she was from Norvos itself at this point in her travels. Though to the town’s credit, the westerosi woman had not remember much of the places she had been to in the process of traveling in Essos for the last several years—especially since she crossed blades with the horselord’s themselves, the Dothraki.
That was a tender subject—the dothraki.
They had been spoken of like demons with a taste for savagery and she would not disagree. The companions she had met and traveled with throughout the Dothraki Sea were the closest she had ever come to being at peace with herself. She of course still remember their names…. Velasco, Alcaeus, Ernakh, and Gellid. They were all men who were forged from conflict and from different cultural paths. She remembered the braavosi, Velasco, the most as he was her most trusted friend and the most skilled with a sword out of the assortment of her allies. These had been the only men she personally had confessed her story and gender to, confiding in them in a drunken stupor and in the end none of them cared. They all treated her as an equal and respected her and her ability like her eldest brother had. When she discovered that sort of kinship it made it all the worse when she eventually lost them to dothraki iron.
‘If all women from Westeros are like you, then I am very glad I am in Essos.’ – The words brought a sort of duality to them as she recalled them. Why had the seven damned her to suffer through such an unbearable life? To see every man she cares for to perish and for her to survive with her heart barely intact? Was it because she refused to follow her original fate in Arthur Lydden’s court? Why would they punish her for abandoning such a cruel and disgusting man? Or was this all because she was not strong enough to receive more of a blessing from the seven? Why did her god have to tease her so? Despite such questions however she found herself never truly bitter with her faith and kept the seven close to her heart.
Running her left hand across her face to shield any tears she decided to stand up and get moving, she would not cry like a little girl. As she moved from her bed to the lone window of the room she took a glance outside to see the day haul of miners and hunters begin to take shape. She needed to take their lead and get moving—to leave and keep heading on her path. She had after-all decided that a return to Braavos was something she had to do as she had a personal reason to return to the most notable of the Free Cities. It was also far from the Dothraki Sea, a place she did not want to even think about let alone be physically near. She knew it would only bring a self-destructive path if she attempted to contain herself. She knew that Velasco would want her to move on and find strength in his failure rather than dwell on his death at Dothraki hands.
It was then closed the window and pushed the ratty curtains together—as she looked down to her equipment that she had placed on the floor as the room didn’t have much for anything outside of an old wood bed that had seen better days. Her gear comprised of bandages to suppress her female features, her weaponry that included a bow and sword of westerosi make, padded leather armor, and a braavosi scarf to obscure her appearance… a scarf that had much significance to the westerosi woman. Those who met her eyes on the road would only catch her charcoal hair tied in a rough ponytail and her dulled blue eyes. The innkeeper who took her coin had jokingly called her the “silent westerosi” due to the fact she bore westerosi gear and appearance whilst speaking no words.
Perhaps it was poetic? However she did not think much on her next “idenity”—in fact she felt maybe it was time to not bear one at all. If she could take anything from her thirteen years in Essos perhaps it was this: maybe it was time to stop caring if people knew about her gender or not, maybe it was time to embrace it. As a female she stood and fought Dothraki warriors—a feat few people from Essos dared do. As a female she killed dothraki and survived. Her eldest brother had told her it once before: she had the possible talent to become a better swordsman than any male in the House Sarwyck—and perhaps the realm. Perhaps he was right?
“It’s time.” She muttered underneath her breath as she moved for the door as she tightened the braavosi scarf.
Edwina Sarwyck. The girl who ran away with the talent of the sword.
Victor Redwyne stared out from the battlements of The Arbor’s Castle, the seat of House Redwyne and his family’s home for generations back. The massive construction had some of the grace of Highgarden - with a few towers built in the same style, but nowhere near as tall as those in The Reach’s capital. The entirety of the outer wall was built from a yellow-hued stone with flecks of precious minerals within it, that had been mined from a cliff that faced out onto the ocean, and whenever the sun shone upon it, the traces of expensive gems and metals it contained reflected the light, giving the impression of the castle’s walls glowing to any who happened to look up at it from a distance.
The tall, thick walls surrounded the castle's well-cobbled courtyard, and its Keep - a large, sprawling building in which the Redwyne's private quarters could be located, along with numerous guest rooms, a massive hall and well stocked and equipped kitchens. Also within the protection of the walls were the House's private stables, an open-air blacksmith, and a building made from wood and bricks that served as the barracks for the Redwyne's Household Guard.
Roughly two kilometres away was the town of Ryamsport, nestled against and sprawling outwards from a cove that looked almost as if it had been bitten out of The Arbor by a giant. The docks of the town were packed with merchant ships from all over the Seven Kingdoms, here to trade with the wine merchants who worked for Victor’s father - intelligent, learned men: who spent their days arguing over the number of golden dragons that would be exchanged for every ten gallons of wine loaded onto the ships bound for the rest of Westeros - and even some for the Free Cities. It was ironic, to Victor - that men of such vast learning and supposed intelligence and wisdom spent the most of their time and energy arguing over the price of wine; but, he supposed, that was what lined his family's’ coffers - the work of such men, and their commitment to not parting with a single drop of wine until its price had been paid in full.
Halmon used to love such work - he would come home from a day at the docks buzzed and excited - and looking down at the port town made a small smile come to the man’s lips: it was not the first time he had missed his younger brother, who was presently at Highgarden, serving Lord Leos Tyrell - a man whom, in their infrequent meetings, Victor had judged as insane. He cared not what his father and many older and bumbling nobles said; the man was no genius - he was a loon, plain and simple. And a loon who Victor was bound to by ties of honour and blood - the first he could do away with when his father finally passed away, but the latter prevented him from acting out of his love for his sister; and his nephew, whom he had met only once.
Regardless, Halmon’s presence at Highgarden was certainly a benefit - Victor and his younger brother had a monthly correspondence, via ravens; his brother’s letters providing him with crucial information about the goings-on in the Court of Flowers. Sighing, the man pushed off from the battlements, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the rocks beneath his feet reaching his ears as he made his way back down towards the castle’s main courtyard.
The Blackfyre Rebellion had been finished now for over a decade, and the last supporters of the pretender Daemon had been chased across the Narrow Sea to live out their days in exile. However, the scars of the great conflict had affected The Arbor for years: many of their best young fighting men had died during the conflict, defending whom they had believed was the rightful king - and, luckily, their sacrifice had not been in vain: House Targaryen had been victorious, and Daemon had been slain on the battlefield. Now, those scars were finally beginning to heal - The Arbor’s courtyard was once again full of activity, and fresh-faced young men were there to take the places of Victor’s lifelong friends whom had died fighting alongside him: who he would always remember in his heart.
The castle’s blacksmith was training four or five of his apprentices in the art of shoeing a horse - the animal itself of a fine breed, having been sired by one of the Dornish Sandsteeds which had been delivered to The Arbor as a gift in return for a few cases of wine by the agents of House Martell themselves. That had been about six years ago, now - and the Redwyne’s stables had improved dramatically with the introduction of foreign and superior breeding stock.
Across from the open-air smithy, a number of young men - squires and guardsmen alike, all novices in the art of the sword - were training under the watchful eye of Duncan Redwyne, Victor’s uncle. He looked up from his overseeing of the teenage boys for a moment, greeting his nephew with a gruff nod - before going back to his work. Smiling, Victor had returned the nod with one of his own, the boots which he wore crunching dirt underfoot as he made his way towards the open gates of the castle, passing beneath the raised portcullis.
From the gates of the Redwyne’s castle, a long and winding road led to the harbour town a few kilometers away, the majority of the well-paved road settled upon the slope of a steep hill that the castle was situated on top of. Even from where he stood, as he cast his gaze down again at the town over which he would soon rule, he could see the glimmering of the ocean, and the sea of masts that accounted for the numerous ships at anchor.
After another fifteen minutes of staring, Victor decided that he would take his daughter for a ride down to the port town the next day - it had been a while since she had been given such an outing. Turning on his heel, he left visions of the past behind him, steeling himself for a day of administrative duties - focusing all of his energy, now, on the present: and planning for the future.
With a lot of his kinsmen off to Lord Jasper Arryn’s tourney at Gulltown, Lord Calder had left his cousin Ser Benfred in charge of the Twins as its castellan. Spring had come a few months ago, and no real issue demanded he stay at the Crossing. In fact, he had been tempted to attend the event at Gulltown, for the young Arryn was an indirect neighbour of him. Who knows if they need ever band together against the mountain clansmen. Raiding mountain men were unlikely, though, and the Crannogmen were also quiet. Those few he had caught and hung at posts along the marshes had done their jobs as a deterrent, it seemed.
Riverrun always seemed more cheerful than the Twins, the air warmer and filled with the scent of flowers instead of rotting leaves or sheep, the people smiling more. Even the food being served tasted better. Then again, Riverrun lay at the heart of the Riverlands, well-protected and cherished, amidst green pastures and gentle streams.
“My lord,” Calder said when he heard the door open and a respectable looking man entered. Lord Tully had long changed colour for grey in his beard and hair, but had maintained the astute and genial demeanour of a vibrant man. “My gratitude for the wine and cheese.” Lord Frey had genuinely enjoyed the nourishment a maid had deposited some time ago on the table in the solar.
“Frey!” boomed Janos, crossing the richly patterned carpet to clasp forearms with his guest, a white-toothed grin splitting his aged features, “Is that all they gave you? You need meat, man! Darla? Darla!” A young serving girl who hid her face behind her mass of mousy-brown hair scurried into the room, her balance a bit disturbed by her speedy curtsy.
“Yes m’lord?” she asked, the motion revealing a substantial gap between her front teeth.
“Get Lord Frey a platter of that fine roast we’ve got in the kitchens. And some fruit while you’re at it. I feel rather partial to a plum.” The girl curtsied again, this time even more sloppily, and rushed from the room to do as she was bid. Turning back to his guest, he gestured towards the finely upholstered armchairs flanking the intricately carved hardwood table about which the rest of the chamber was organized. “Please, sit! Make yourself comfortable. I will not have it said you received anything but true Tully hospitality.” He leaned towards his companion, whispering conspiratorily. “Mother would kill me.”
With a deep chuckle, Lord Janos lowered himself easily into an armchair of his own, reaching for a silver goblet, the stem a vivid representation of a leaping trout, and filling it with wine. Taking a long sip, he eyed the other man over the rim of his cup, his cobalt blue eyes twinkling in the bright light let in through the immense latticed windows. “So tell me Frey,” he teased, his tone light, “You’ve always been rather sharp. Why do you think I have called you here? Come, you must have a guess.” The man was too jovial, too likeable. It was fitting Janos had a trout for his sigil, for he was among other men and women like a fish in water. In fact, it was thanks to Tully’s doing that the Brackens of Stone Hedge had been able to retain their lands and rights. Janos had shielded them from Bloodraven’s wrath, and successfully so.
Calder returned Janos’s playful look with is trademark stoicism. “I do not think I have given cause to offense. And the last incident between myself and Lord Darry dates from two years ago, so this is not a reprimand,” Lord Frey thought out loud. “Instead you offer me food, wine and hospitality, which means you have a proposition to make, or a favour to ask. Mayhaps even a combination of the two.” Calder followed his bannerlord’s example and lifted the silver trout cup to his lips. The wine was honeyed, since it had been made of small, tart grapes that grew on the gentle slopes of the Trident bassin. The vintages it yielded were slightly too… sharp and so honey or fruity nectar dulled it and added to the overall quality.
“Oh bravo!” cheered Janos, knocking his fist against the tabletop in approval, “You are a clever man! Darla, haven’t I always said how clever the Lord Frey can be?” Darla, who had just entered the room with a massive plate stacked high with generous slabs of steaming roast cooked to juicy perfection and a large, gilded bowl filled with fruit balanced in her tiny arms, nodded her head jerkily.
“Yes m’lord,” she confirmed, quickly placing the food on the table between them before retreating to the edge of the room to wait, lest she be called again to offer service.
“I do indeed have something to ask of you, my dear Frey,” Janos stated, his calloused fingers rooting around in the bowl until the tips located the familiar, smooth skin of his favored fruit, “But I will start off with a simple observation. You are two-and-thirty years of age, without wife, and have been for some years now. I, on the other hand, am plagued by a never-ending gaggle of girls, most of marriageable age, that their mother,” he spoke the word with acidic scorn, as if it soured his mouth, “would see wed. Quickly.” Janos took a bite of plum, chewing fully and swallowing before continuing. “Surely your masterful mind has already thought of a solution to both of our problems.” Janos’s eyes sparkled with something akin to mischief and he leaned back in his chair, waiting for Calder’s response.
Calder swirled the Riverland wine around in his mouth. It irked him slightly that Janos kept referring to him by his last name, and last name only. No title, no first name, just Frey. As if they had been best of friends for eternity. Matters of marriage always made him think of Janei Piper, his dead wife. She had died when giving birth to his youngest, and only son, in spite of having squeezed out four healthy baby girls before young Walder’s coming. Perhaps that lay at the root of why he did not like his son and heir, the fact Walder was a difficult and… well, mean toddler did not help. A single son… children died all the time, perhaps a second one could not hurt? “Ah, I see. It is only their mother who wishes to see them be given husbands then? I am sure there are many suitable suitors out there, nay?” The notion of a Tully bride was appealing, but it would not do to appear desperate or blindly accept before brokering the deal.
Janos sighed heavily, his vital strength fleeing his body for a moment, making him appear much more his age. “I will not feign having any particular fondness for my offpsring,” he stated simply, looking directly into Calder’s gray eyes, “But they are my children, and that distinction comes with certain… priviliges.” He took another bite of plum, a bit of his joviality returning as he swallowed the sweet flesh. “But I am sure you are already well aware of this, Lord Frey. Any of my daughters would be a good match.” Janos hesitated a moment, trying think of the proper way to phrase his next statement.
“And yet…?” Calder ventured. He enjoyed seeing Janos wriggle like this, as more comparisons with fish came to mind.
“Cheeky,” muttered Janos with a laugh, placing the stone of his plum on the silver plate before him, “And yet, my honorable Lord Calder Frey, I ask you here not to take any of my daughters to wife, but one daughter in particular. Joan,” he paused again, his eyes gauging his companion’s reaction, “My… eldest.”
Lord Calder placed his goblet of wine back on the table, purposefully slowly, then proceeded to fold his hands together in his lap and merely look at his liege lord. Silence stretched out between the two men, as he contemplated the proposal. He pursed his lips before breaking it. “What makes you think I will be able to… breach the castle where so many have failed? Is it because I have two?”
The Lord of Riverrun blinked a couple of times before his laughter rent the silence in the room asunder. “Clever and funny,” chuckled Janos when he had calmed down a bit, “I always knew I liked you, Frey.” Wiping one last mirthful tear from his eye, Janos sombered a bit as he thought of his daughter. So stubborn, so willful, so wild. His mother often said that she was the child that took the most after him, but frankly he simply didn’t see it. “Joan requires a firm hand,” he said finally, “Even the stormiest seas break against the rocks. And I most highly doubt that you, Black Calder, will have too much difficulty in that arena.” Lord Tully didn’t bother to mention the ultimatum he would attach to the engagement: Joan would marry Calder Frey without complaint or never again would she be welcome in the house of her father.
“I will be frank with you, Calder,” Janos said, crossing his arms about his burly chest, “Joan is hardly the comeliest of my offspring, but by all accounts she is the most… tolerable. Her age is of course an issue, but the chambermaids tell me her monthly cycle is still strong. You will get a few child-bearing years out of the girl yet, and if her mother is any sort of example they could prove to be rather fruitful. Such an alliance would be of benefit, to both of us. Do you not think so?”
So, Calder it was suddenly. It probably suited better for a son-in-law. “That is beside the point, my lord. As your bannerman, I already owe you my allegiance. Have I given you a reason to doubt my loyalty?” The question hung in the air, unignorable like a bloated corpse. Calder Frey waved his hand. “A bad joke,” he said apologetically. Nevertheless it was a genuine test to see if Janos Tully had not laid a trap he was walking into. “I would gladly wed Joan Tully, for I am convinced that bonds of blood with your House brings with it a lot of… generosity.”
Janos breathed in deeply, righting himself in his chair so that he showed his full stature before regarding his companion seriously. By the Seven, he just needed to get some of these bloody girls off of his hand. “Yes,” he said finally, “I thought you would come to that sooner rather than later.” He lifted his goblet and took a steady swig of wine, using the fork in his other hand to serve Calder and himself some of the roast. “I like you, Calder,” he said when he had drained the last dregs from his cup, “Therefore I will let you name a price. If it is within my means, I swear I will do my best to grant it.”
“I have a thing for bridges, and some experience with them too,” he said. Particularly with making money off of them. “I want Fairmarket as Joan’s dowry.” Calder looked his liege lord dead in the eye, not insolently, but patiently. The town and its bridge were a high price, but not beyond reason. Control of the town and its bridge would make him master of the Blue and Green Fork, capable to project his influence and power from the Twins down to the Red Fork and Riverrun. Not even the Mallisters in Seagard would be his immediate contender any longer.
Lord Tully chuckled darkly. “You do not pull your punches, do you Lord Frey?” No, this man was sharp. Possibly too sharp for his own good, but only time would tell. Janos laced his fingers together, leaning forward to meet Calder’s gaze. It was a gamble, giving that amount of political power to a man as intelligent (and therefore dangerous) as Calder Frey, but Janos trusted him, as he had trusted his predecessor, and when he wed Joan the two houses would be bonded by blood. Yes, thought Janos, he would grant him this favor, see how things played out and simply hope for the best. “Very well,” he said finally, taking a bite of roast and winking at the younger man, “It seems we have an accord.”
Calder lifted his cup ceremoniously. “To bridges and brides.”
The Silver Fish, the Red Fork, on the way to Gulltown
Faedric breathed in deeply, letting the subtle tang of salt that seasoned the air fill his nose and mouth. It was a yet another pleasant morning in a long series of pleasant mornings aboard the Silver Fish, in fact for the young lordling they had quite started to blend into an indistinguishable mass. A soft lapping could be heard above the breeze as the hull of the great barge gently eased its way through the brackish water, hardly a barnacle to be found on the immaculately maintained wood.
The man noted sourly the tedious pace at which the trees on the banks of the Red Fork meandered by, wishing he could somehow will the sluggish craft into going faster. The Silver Fish was his mother’s boat, a vessel built for leisure rather than practical function and speed, and what should have been a short few days travel from Riverrun to Gulltown had dragged on for more than a week.
It had all been by Lady Tully’s design of course. The woman was not known to pass up an opportunity to put distance between herself and her lord husband, and the Tourney at Gulltown provided her with just such a chance. She had made it into a true holiday, stocking the ship with all sorts of delicacies and novelties in preparation for the extended voyage ahead. Faedric was less anxious to be so far away from Riverrun, preferring instead to dwell in the seat of House Tully where he could keep his ears and his eyes open.
Still, he thought, taking another deep breath, it had been nice to get to spend so many nights alone with Marsella, away from their colicky son. And the salt on the breeze was good news, hinting at the approach of open waters and eventually Gulltown itself.
Turning away from the prow, Faedric let his gaze slide over the barge. It was hardly a complex boat. Below decks was a kitchen, storage, and oars should the massive red and blue sails luffing about in the air prove insufficient to keep the craft in motion. It was also where the dozen or so sailors currently scurrying about the craft like ants made their beds.
Towards the stern was a large, wooden cabin, intricately carved with nautical imagery and divided into several luxurious apartments. The walls of the apartments could be opened outward during sunny days, as they were today, allowing for an unencumbered view, or sealed up tight in the event of inclement weather. It was here that the family slept, though it seemed most of his kin were to be found lounging on the deck at the moment.
Aela, Adelaide and Willa, his beautiful sisters three, were sprawled out on silken cushions, their delicate complexions protected from the heated caress of the sun by a strategically erected awning, their giggling and gossiping filling the air.
A bit to the side, but also in the shade, sat Sharine, the youngest Tully child. She was deeply engaged in a game of Cyvasse with Ser Leopold Greenbriar, and though the tot was but five years of age, she seemed to be trouncing the far older knight. The Minnow apparently sensed his stare and turned her own massive blue eyes towards her brother, causing Faedric to quickly look away. The girl unnerved him, unnerved most of his family, except of course for Joan. The woman had more of a hand in raising her sibling than Lady Tully did, but then again his older sister was just as unnatural in her own way, perhaps they were made for eachother.
After a moment’s search he found the eldest Tully girl seated on a cushion in the sun, far apart from the others, her back resting firmly against the balcony, a large book sitting in her hands. Her face was scrunched with concentration as she deciphered the contents, and it was so terribly obvious that she didn’t wish to be disturbed, that Faedric simply couldn’t resist.
“Careful, sister,” he purred, his feet gliding over the oiled hardwood of the deck as he approached his kin, “Sit too long in the sun and you’ll be brown as a nut. What sort of lord will want you then, hmm?” Joan raised her intense blue gaze to meet the emerald of her brother’s, a brow quirking upwards in challenge.
“I am nearly thirty, Faedric,” she stated simply, her attention returning to the thick tome nestled in her slender fingers, “I hardly think a bit of sun will do any more damage than the passage of time already has. But I thank you, of course, for your brotherly concern.” Faedric smirked, reaching out to toy with a long lock of her dark auburn hair only to be deflected by a well-placed swat of her hand. He winced at the contact, stroking his stinging fingers.
“Testy little thing, aren’t you?” he scowled, “Your future husband might not be as tolerant as I. He might beat you when you’re naughty.”
Joan stiffened, but did not look up from her book. “Then I’ll kill him,” she stated firmly, her voice void of jest. Faedric laughed.
“You seem to forget, sweet sister, that murder is a hangable offence. I doubt even the circumstances of your birth could save you from that gristly fate.”
“Better to hang then to suffer a lifetime in a gilded cage,” she answered, her tone a little sharp. Faedric had hit a nerve, it seemed. Good. “If you are looking for Marsella, she is taking lunch with mother,” said Joan finally, her tone impatient. Faedric nodded, turning on his heel to leave when her voice once more stopped him. “Oh, and Faedric?”
“Yes, darling Joan?” he asked, pivoting back around with an almost feline grace.
“I noticed before I left that Maester Aerik altered the dosage of Simon’s medicine.”
The statement hung between them for a moment, causing Faedric’s stomach to grow a little tight, though his expression did not so much as flicker.
“Oh?”
“As I am sure you are aware, in Simon’s condition such a drastic change could have… unfortunate results.”
Faedric smiled easily, one of his ring-clad hands coming to rest on an elegant hip. “Aerik is an old man, half-senile, I doubt anything was meant by it. We should simply thank the Seven that you caught his mistake.”
“Mistake,” Joan repeated slowly, her lips thinning into a firm line, “Yes of course. I will have to make sure he doesn’t make such… mistakes in the future.” She fixed him with a long, hard look, before once again returning to the book before her. “Enjoy lunch, brother. I hear it’s roast, your favorite.”
Faedric smiled again, giving his elder sibling a smart half-bow before sweeping away in the direction of his mother’s apartments. It wasn’t until he was out of her sight that he allowed his hands, clenched into fists, to shake. “Meddling bitch,” he muttered under his breath, running his quaking fingers quickly through his hair. This would not do, this would not do at all. She would have to be dealt with.
Taking a deep breath, the Lionfish took a moment to compose himself, to quell the shaking in his manicured hands, to allow the calm, unwavering smirk to once again plant itself on his lips. Getting upset solved nothing, getting even was far more effective.
Straightening his posture and smoothing his fingers over his fine silk doublet, Faedric ducked into the barge’s apartments. His long, elegant legs carried him down the narrow hallway, polished wooden doors slipping by him on either side. At the end of the hall stood a particularly decorative panel, emblazoned in the middle with a golden lion on a field of red and blue enamel. His mother was not shy with regards to her Lannister heritage, not shy whatsoever.
Lifting his bejeweled fingers, he rapped sharply on the wood with his knuckles. He waited for his mother to call out “enter” before letting himself into the room. The apartment, located at the very back of the barge, was the largest and most opulent. Almost every surface was intricately carved or inlaid with silver and mother of pearl, the floors bedecked with plush carpets from exotic lands far across the sea. The apartment was opened outwards, giving its occupants a beautiful view of the water as it quietly slipped behind them and allowing a gentle breeze to cool the interior.
“Son!” called Lady Alysanne from her elegant seat across the room, “Come closer. Lady Marsella and I were just enjoying a lovely vintage, weren’t we Marsella?” Faedric’s lip quirked. His mother had not called him by name, not that she ever had within at least his memory. He was always “son” when she had to deal with him, and when she could, she simply avoided interacting with him entirely.
Gracefully, he crossed the apartment to a series of silk-upholstered, low-lying couches. His mother, aged but still a golden beauty, lounged along the full length of one, watching her offspring approach. Faedric nodded politely to his mother, but in truth he had eyes only for his bride.
Lady Alysanne had become a fixture in the young Lady Marsella’s life, nearly from the moment she entered the Tully household as wife to Faedric. It had been surprising to her, the woman having had so many daughters of her own. It was clear though, that the woman would forever be a lion, not a trout, no matter how many years had passed or would come to pass. Marsella, quite contrarily, found herself adapting easily to the life of being a Tully wife and mother. She was always readily available for her mother-in-law or sisters-in-law should they have need of her ear or shoulder. And she had so quickly become enamored of her husband. Beautiful and handsome at once, seeing him could still make her blush crimson.
She blushed then, as he entered the gilded room, her cool grey-blue eyes meeting his for just a moment before she ducked her head down in greeting. It did not help, perhaps, that she had just been discussing with his mother, her hopes to give him another son in the coming year. There were times when she began to question whether he could love her nearly as much as she felt in her heart for him, but there were days like this one, where all her doubts melted beneath his gaze. There would always be rumors for one such as Faedric, it would do her well to ignore them. That had been the advice given, the advice she tried to follow whenever doubts creeped in.
“Faedric...Your mother is absolutely right. It is splendid, you will have some with us?” Her eyes dared to meet his once more before she turned her head to the golden lion, her own flaxen hair falling over her shoulders with the movement.
Faedric smiled, a genuine smile, and folded himself down next to the young woman, the distance so intimate it was almost inappropriate, even for a wedded couple. “Perhaps I shall,” he purred, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear, “Would that please you little bird?” He let his finger tips linger a moment on the softness of her cheek, savoring her warmth. By the Seven she was lovely, and Faedric Tully had a renowned weakness for lovely things.
“Come now!” snapped Lady Alysanne, clearly made uncomfortable by the exchange, “Give the girl some room to breathe. It’s unseemly.” Faedric chuckled, shifting a bit away from his wife and reaching for a goblet of wine in the same motion.
“As you wish, Lady Mother,” he murmured, watching his mother over the rim of his cup as he drank, his other arm extending to rest along the back of the couch, the limb encircling his bride without quite touching her.
Lady Alysanne bristled but said nothing, instead snapping her fingers to summon a serving girl to pour her another glass. “I spoke to the captain earlier,” she said finally, breaking the still that had come to rest over the room. Alysanne had never been good with silences, of any duration. “He says we will arrive in Gulltown sometime this evening, just in time to see the events tomorrow.” She swirled the red liquid about in her glass, her lips curving a tad cruelly. “A pity you didn’t enter,” she said pointedly, a manicured finger running the length of her shapely lips, “I can’t think of any other House that won’t have even one participant.”
Faedric chuckled. “If there are already so many knights beating each other into bloody sweaty pulps for the rest of the noble class’s amusement,” he mused, “What need is there for me to join them? Besides, I would much rather watch.” This was not a lie. The Lionfish was a very visual creature, attracted like a magpie to the shiny and spectacular, and the tourney to celebrate Lord Jasper Arryn’s coming of age was certain to be quite the spectacle.
Lady Alysanne huffed. “Perhaps it is better,” she said finally, “You can keep an eye on the girls.” Faedric laughed. He was certain there would already be many eyes fixed on the beautiful Tully girls, regardless of where he chose to direct his own. “You too, Marsella,” Lady Alysanne added, “The girls are young. You’ll have to guide them.”
The Lionfish stiffened. He often disliked the tone his mother took when speaking to his wife, like she was a simpler woman than Faedric knew her to be. “Lady Marsella will have her hands quite full taking care of herself, mother,” he replied, his tone holding an edge of warning. He intended to spend the majority of the tourney in her company and feared being separated from her for too long. It was far easier to remain true in the direct presence of his wife, when there was distance between them… now that was when his affections began to wander.
“Ah,” bit out Alysanne, her eyes narrowing a bit, “I see, how foolish of me, Marsella. Of course you will be busy. You haven’t seen your brother in quite a while, you must be rather looking forward to spending time with him.”
There had always been tension in the Tully household, this latest battle between mother and son was not something she was unaccustomed to, but it never failed to make her uncomfortable. Her own family had shared tensions, particularly after her father’s death and the return of her great-uncle. Her opinion had not been asked in those situations though, her thoughts only her own. It often felt like they wanted her to take sides in these matters, and she had had to learn quickly how to sidestep them or find a way to make both parties feel as though she understood them.
She had tensed, and was grateful that Faedric’s arm was no longer about her so as to feel it. Marsella was secretly grateful that her husband had not entered the tourney, should he have been injured or worse, she did not know what she would do. But she did care for her new sisters, particularly Adelaide, and wished them the best in finding suitable husbands. Though Faedric sought to keep her all to himself, surely he would understand a woman’s need to care for her sisters’ futures.
“You are too kind, Lady Alsyanne.” She would undoubtedly need to meet with her brother, though she doubted that it would be a joyous reunion. He had not hid his distaste for her marriage to a man outside of the Vale. “I cannot say that I will be pleased to see him now a man grown, for he has been a man from such a young age.” Even after all these years, it still brought pain to her, to think of how the fever that had ravaged and killed their father had nearly done the same to the small boy. He had been so different afterwards, so very different. Her lips smiled pleasantly, though a bit of sorrow could be seen in her eyes. “It will be good to see them all again, of course, your daughters must meet my sisters as well. I’m sure we can find one night to ourselves. Leonella is married, and wise. Your girls will be in good hands.”
Marsella turned her head to Faedric, praying that there would be approval and acceptance in his eyes. One night could not be too much to ask for, she may have hungered for him as much as he for her, but it seemed a fair compromise.
Faedric smirked, his wife was ever the diplomat, and as if he would ever be capable of denying those immense gray eyes anything, even if it led to his ruin. “As you wish then, my pet,” he replied with a soft smile, placing an affectionate kiss to the woman’s forehead as foreboding settled in the pit of his stomach. He had been true to his wife since their vows, though he had been tempted many a time, but if all of the eyes on Gulltown were to be watching the Tully girls, who then would be watching to keep the terrible lust that burned as bright as flame within him locked inside?
The moment she saw the plains of the Riverlands near the Trident, she loved them. The sky above them was blue-grey and filled with plump clouds heavy with what would be in a storm in a few days--but for now only harmlessly dotted the plain cut with rivers and streams between spots of sunlight and shadow. The grasses were green and tall and dotted with clusters of trees. They'd run across some traps in the rivers, but otherwise few signs of life. Ser Drayton had wanted no part of the Kingsroad, and for once Ally found herself agreeing with him. If only so she could let Lightning open up and go. And swim in the Forks to see which she liked best of all; at the moment she was still undecided.
Ser Drayton joked he wasn't sure which wild thing needed the chance to cut and run more; Lightning, or it's rider. For essentially calling her a wild beast, Ser Drayton was reduced to old salted beef for the noon meal. Not that she couldn't see what he meant by it; the next ruling Princess of Dorne ran for a river plain with the same hyperactive glee as a child at the Water Gardens. And she did. But understanding didn't mean letting a chance to torture Ser Drayton go by, and so it was Ally and Lightning enjoying cheeses and fruits and the Ser with his saltbeef that sounded, and surely tasted, like old tree bark when he chewed it. And chewed it. And chewed it.
By evening time she made it up to him with a hot meal at a small Inn in a village not far from Fair Market named Silver Creek. The Innkeep, an old woman named Hanna, was more than happy to let Ally help in the kitchen, even letting Ally create a baking crust from her stocks to bake the two Trout she'd caught earlier with a little bit of peppers, onion, a touch of wildberry, and a few splashes of almond milk. Impressed, the old woman let Ally whip up a Dornish dish of onions, cheese, and chopped eggs cooked up with fiery peppers to tide them over until the fish were done. The woman never even blinked when Ally reached into a pouch and pulled out a few silver stags to 'cover the cost.'
She didn't seem to want to know what kind of Dornish girl had silver coins at the ready. If for no other reason alone, that endeared the woman to Ally. But if anything, the Princess imagined it was simply the wisdom of a long life. What she didn't know, hopefully, wouldn't come back to her. Ser Drayton had busied himself with beer, and was even in decent spirits for Ser Drayton when she arrived with the finished trout, steaming and filling the Inn's little main room so much the old woman's little hound dog looked up and all but drooled. Naturally, Ally shared a few sweet crumbles of Trout with the dog. Wild things had to look out for one another, way she saw it.
Sleeping on a bed was a blessed thing, even the wild Princess had to admit. By the time she woke up, the sun was already high in the sky. Her body was a wreck of bruises, and getting out of the bed once she had awoken in it...it might have taken an act of the Seven, had she not heard the scream. It took her too long to get up, dress, grab her gear, and go. Though the brown leather riding trousers and near sleeveless top went on quickly, she almost broke her neck putting her boots on while trying to go down stairs. By the time she did finally make it out of the Inn, she didn't have far to look in the village before she found the crowd, hearing them before actually seeing them.
There was an uproar. There wasn't even time to get the story the mob turned to her as she approached, then pointed and yelled "Another one!" And it wasn't until something smashed her over the head and caused her to hit the ground that, peeking through the feet of the crowd also on the ground was a girl just yards from she fell: around Ally's own age, a blue eyed, brown haired girl with fair looks. Before her world went dark, Ally realized that the girl was crying out in pain.
For a 'wild thing', waking up in a cell is one of the most disastrous scenes one can open their eyes to. Immediately panic began to seize the future ruling Princess of Dorne, her blurry vision narrowing and her heart threatening to beat right out of her body until she heard the voice of Ser Drayton: "ALLY!"
Her head snapped in the direction from which the sound came, and it was only another few moments before her dark eyes began blinking. Soon enough she saw: three cells, barely big enough for a large man like Ser Drayton to lay down in. Next to her cell was Ser Drayton's. On the other side of Ser Drayton, a man Ally did not recognize. He was dark haired with handsome, if rough edged, features. Or was it possible the rough edged look made him handsome?...Was he even handsome, or was her vision still blurry? Or was he--
"--Are you alright?" Ser Drayton's voice again came to snatch her thoughts back to the immediate state of things. A state of things that made her eyes dart around the cell like a trapped animal looking for a way out...any way out.
"What happened?"
The Knight snorted. It was rare to see Drayton angry, but the man was certainly displeased at the moment. "I don't know. I went to see if I could find any supplies, and ran into village girl--"
"--oh, no," The Princess groaned. Of COURSE he ran into a girl. When didn't Ser Drayton run into a girl? Though Ally didn't see it, everyone from high born Ladies to common whores told her Ser Drayton was very handsome. Ally used to blush when he went bare chested, but that was years ago, before ever leaving Dorne together. Now he was just stupid ol' Ser Drayton. Or Dray, if she wanted to irritate him. But why girls swooned over him? It was lost on her. He didn't even have the pretty violet eyes of his House.
"Nothing happened. I talked to her for a while, I helped her move some things, and I even made sure her saddle was cinched tight on her horse. Some village men took exception, and so the conversation ended there. When she goes to ride away, the horse goes crazy and tosses her, breaking her legs. When they looked at the animal after, they found a spur under the saddle."
The image of the girl on the ground crying out in pain flashed, and suddenly everything began to make a little more sense. "So the village men, having seen you cinch the saddle..." Then she trailed off, not wanting to finish the recount, frowning as her eyes looked past Ser Drayton. "Who is he?"
"Byron. Unlucky soul was just passing through. They don't believe he's not with us." It made Ally laugh, even for just a beat. She was just about to ask where their weapons were until she saw them on the other end of the small building hanging on pegs. Before the question could come out of her mouth, Ser Drayton answered it. "They took it out, and asked about us. I told them we were mummers." Drayton grinned, with the busted lip he'd received for that answer.
'It' was the sword called Dawn. Drayton abandoned it's traditional scabbard for a solid if ugly and weather worn brown leather thing. You wouldn't think much of it until you pulled the sword, and witnessed the stars above forged into steel. Even her bow was strange; as she doubted any of the villagers would know what dragonbone looked and felt like.
It only made the day go from a nightmare to unbearable. Suddenly it wasn't just villagers out to kill them, but questions being asked about a glowing sword and a strange bow. Nevermind the questions those questions raised about the people who'd come to the village with those strange weapons. Brushing her fingers across the back of her head left her wincing at the discovery of what had to be a new trophy bruise to add to her growing collection. Her mother did always say she was hard headed...she just never expected to count it as a blessing.
Think quickly became the only thought in her mind as she pulled herself to her feet and began moving around the small cell. Every few moments she'd pause, grab the bars, and test before disappointment and moving on. "Did they search you?"
"Extensively. The sword scared them, wouldn't let me take off my own armor." Something that seemed to make the dark haired, fair eyed, Knight chuckle. "They didn't search you very hard."
At last, the Princess thought to herself in relief, finally a bit of good news. It didn't take Allyria very long to retrieve either thin throwing dagger from the secret compartment inside her leather boots. And it was just mere heartbeats until she connected both at their bases, and twisted hard--locking them into place together. "Who put us in here?"
"Some blockhead named Hobert." Instead of respond, she stared. Long and hard enough for the Knight to finally notice the Princess was staring at him as if he'd grown a second head. "...what?"
"Blockhead?"
Irritated, Ser Drayton ignored her--likely thanking his stars for having bars between them so she couldn't further irritate him. That was fine. She'd just go back to..."There's a gap from the bars on the door to the wooden floor."
"Not even you could fit through that."
"Maybe if I pulled up the floor and got naked." She wasn't joking, and Ser Drayton knew it, coming quickly to his feet.
Unable to help herself, Allyria smirked. "All I had to say was 'naked' and right up you--"
"--shut up. Get the floor up, girl. See if there's any room there."
"Yes, my Lord." Sarcasm she enjoyed, even as she gritted her teeth and took the long, thin, dagger to the floorboards. Luckily she still had her gloves as she realized more and more force would be needed just to slip the thin tip of the dagger into and under the crack between boards. Once it was achieved, she used her booted foot to push down on the free end of the dagger until the board snapped--or the steel dagger did. The weakest point would be where they connected at their bases, a fact that made her use a gradual increase of force instead of starting with full force.
The man, Byron, as he had referred to himself earlier found his neighboring cellmates conversation at the very least fairly interesting. As the back-and-forth conversation came to a pause with a quip from the girl a smirk rose on Byron’s lips as he remained in his position on the floor—his eyes still shot towards the empty room past their cells looking for any sign of activity. It wasn’t very cautious of them to throw three individuals in cells and not to keep a watch on them, especially if they viewed them as troublesome. But then again it was much like commoners to not be very wise with such things.
Though it bent her dagger, the floorboard popped up. The rest was a matter of pulling up and ripping out, a task the Princess of Dorne went upon with a ferocious intent. After kneeling to get a close inspection, she was grinning, and already pulling off her boots like she was about to jump back into one of the Forks. Ser Drayton cleared his throat, and turned, his pale eyes locking on the man Byron. "Turn around, give the girl her privacy."
Girl, Ser Drayton said, as if he didn't realize he, and her mother, were probably the last treating her like a little girl instead of a young Dornish woman. Her mother's attitude doubtlessly a result from the soft, Red Keep breeding of her past. And Ser Drayton...just a son taking up where his father had left off. As she pulled her pants down and off, the image of Ser Dalton waist deep in the ocean, pushing the little row boat out so the smuggler paid to get them out of the city could start rowing. All she remembered about his face was it's grave determination...and the blood.
Upon hearing the pop of the floorboard, Byron’s view snapped and looked over to what the girl was doing which was probably fairly ingenious of the girl. It was then his eyes caught Ser Drayton’s own and the comment about the girl’s privacy was spoken blankly to Byron. Whilst Byron didn’t particularly care much for seeing a glimpse—as he had not been one of those boys to drool over thoughts of simple perversions. But if it could benefit him, Byron would do much that they would ask. It wasn’t a very good situation for himself.
“Of course.” He stated as he adverted his eyes.
Getting under would left scratches and splinters down the right side of her body, from ribs to upper thigh. But outside of unleashing a whispered barrages of curses at the pain, Ally could do little but bleed, and keep moving. Once out, she was putting her clothes back on, starting with the very painful task of pulling her pants back on. Next her top, then her boots and gloves. Without a word she went for her bow and quiver, tossing both onto her and making quickly to move a black iron pot from the unlit fireplace. "I'm decent."
The Knight turned, and blinked. She knew what he wanted to say, but if Ser Drayton had learned anything about his Princess...it's that escape was one of her great talents. She had a sense for it; for when to try something, and when not to. Like when to get out, and when to try to open his and Bryon's cells. "Can you fit?"
After a long look, Allyria was sighing. "Yes," the dread of being covered in black soot and just how painful a squeeze it was going to be...so much so, she took off her bow and quivers, even removed her belt. The only she took with her as she began to jam her body into and up the little chimney was the now bent long, thin, dagger that she'd used to take up the first floorboard.
She was shaking out her hair as she reached the top, pulling herself out and over the chimey. The roof of the single story uncovered stone building was straight and square, allowing her to get good, quick, footing until she was at the edge--and shot back away from the edge at the sight of a large, fat bellied, man walking up to door. The man was just reaching for the ring of keys on his belt when he heard a 'thud' behind him.
By the time he turned, one of the two ends of the bent, long, dagger was sticking through his throat and out the other side a few inches higher than it's entry. Shock causing him to bobble and sway, the painful sensation of choking on his own blood forcing his hands to his throat--lot of good it would do him. She removed the keys off his belt before he even hit the ground, unlocking the door, as if he didn't exist at all.
She was in and unlocking Ser Drayton's cell immediately, "Go get the horses."
"And Byron?"
"Go get the horses." They didn't have time. Not now. Deep in the pit of her stomach, she knew that. And Drayton just seemed to trust her to know that, as he moved to leave after grabbing his sword belt and sword before running out the door. Once gone, Allyria just smiled at the man. Still trying to decide if he was cute, or if she'd been on the road with Ser Drayton for too long. "Hi," Her tone was honey, her smile sweet as sugar. "Who are you, again?"
Yes, what about Byron? He had almost said the words, but the man was still behind cold iron bars in a dank cell so perhaps sarcastic quips would be unfitting—he held his tongue. As the dornish girl looked at him and inquired about his identity a knot in his stomach rose. Who he was happened to be the Kinslayer of Riverspring, who he happened to be was just another talented sword with a checkered past. A pleasant smile rose to his lips.
“As your ‘friend’ said my name is Byron, and not to sound out of place but I feel like since I was not involved in the…uh… troubles perhaps being freed from this cell would be nice.” His tone was polite.
“But since you are the one controlling my fate I suppose I should tell you this—I will be very very grateful to not rot in a common jail for the rest of my years. I am way too talented to die in this capacity.” Perhaps he was being a little too witty, but at times he couldn’t help but deflecting bad situations with his tongue even though at this point it might get him in trouble. Perhaps dropping his talent was a good indication of him being of some value? He motioned with his hand to a sword behind the girl.
“That steel blade? That’s mine. I’m very good with it.”
By-ron, she sounded the name out in her thoughts, her brown eyes almost looking dark purple in the strange mix of light in shadow of the little stone building with the open door. Blood of the Dragon. Between blood of the Dragon, blood of Nymeria, and blood of the Dornish...Allyria didn't have a prayer. Not a single prayer--and she loved every day of it. "Do you have a horse, Byron?"
“I think the villagers took it, but yes I believe I do.”
The Princess decided his fate by reaching for the door to his cell, and unlocking it with a quick twist of her wrist, leaving the key in the door as she turned to go for her bow and other gear. "We're headed to Gulltown. You're welcome to come with us. Roads are getting dangerous...villages too, it seems."
Byron didn’t have much of a clue of where he was going nor had he ever planned to be in this situation ever. The miscalculation with his father was something that had set him back years and years so maybe traveling in a competent group was for his benefit. He nodded as he left his cell and hastily retrieved his gear that had been taken from him by the jailer beforehand.
“Wouldn’t hurt to travel in numbers.” He replied, echoing the sentiment of safe travel with the group.
Outside the door came the sound of hooves. When Ser Drayton looked in, he jerked back from the door--the sight of the Princess with her bow notched and trained to end whoever came through the door enough to send him back. At his sight, she grinned, stood down. A beat later, the Knight was back in the doorway, staring at her hard for a moment before moving on to Byron. "They had your horse with ours at the Inn. Also, I think they're coming."
Allyria was outside and onto Lightning in seconds, taking the reins of the sand steed and wheeling it around to face the sight: a mass of smallfolk, headed their way as the daylight above began to darken and grow gold with the sun sinking fast in the sky, a silverish ghostly crescent moon sneaking into sight just above the tree tops nearby.
The first arrow landed at the foot of a tall, lanky, man at the head of the mob. He stopped, and in reaction so did each person behind him. When Ser Drayton was on his own horse and pulling Dawn high into the air to glow in the darker tints of light that came with the coming twilight, Allyria thought the mob might stop and count it's blessing.
They did no such thing, instead deciding to charge at the same time as if the decision was made by some great collective mind pulling all their strings. "Uh, Dray..."
"Yep. Time to go."
"Welcome to the group, Byron," The Princess laughed, high on the rush of adrenaline and danger, as she turned Lightning once more, and put her heels into his sides. Her upper body turning so she could look back, and wave. "Thanks! Hope never to see your village again!"
Byron completely agreed with the sentiment about the village though apparently he was for now attached to this group led by a dornish girl. It wasn’t common in a routine to be saved by a girl with the wit to escape a jail in course of several minutes.
“You don’t have to wave you know, in fact I think that’ll just make them angrier.” Byron stated as his horse steadied pace with the other two. He paused for a moment in his thoughts before adding to the comment he had just made, “Not that they can do anything about it, though.”
Princess Allyria Martell found herself laughing harder, and giving Lightning the okay to bolt, her laughter dying only with distance from the two. Even Ser Drayton was laughing, even if he was also shaking his head. "Trust me. She knows."
Essos, between Pentos and Myr, the Flatlands - Sini/Squrmy/Ethan Collab
It was midmorning, and Erryk Yronwood was still not awake. The noise of the Golden Company’s encampment raged on all around him, but still the Lordling slept - a pair of Essosi women cuddled up against him on either side of his chest. The tent in which the horseman slept was a far cry from the chambers he had had back at Castle Yronwood: he didn’t even have the gold to afford a bed - not that there would be room anyway. Instead, he slept on a number of large, straw-stuffed bags: with a few silken pillows tossed over them, one of the only reminders of Dorne he had been able to bring with him during his flight from Westeros.
He was not a particularly deep sleeper, despite what many people said about him: in fact, it was his desire not to have to do anything that kept him so close to his bed. About three years into his exile across the Narrow Sea from Westeros, Erryk had finally come to terms with the fact that it was very unlikely that he would ever return to Castle Yronwood - in fact, it was nigh on impossible. Instead, he was stuck in a strange land that bore more resemblance to the deserts of Dorne than the mountains which he had called home in his youth, in the service of a King he did not believe in - the son of a man whom his father had only backed in order to get rid of the Northerner’s influence in Dorne. Such things were bound to make a man lazy and woeful, and to look to drink and women for comfort they could not find in themselves.
Erryk did not believe in Daemon Blackfyre’s son, and he did not believe in Aegor Rivers - but he had no choice. He would stay with the Golden Company, together with the few Dornishmen he had brought with him from Dorne, in the half-hope of one day returning to his homeland - a wish which he knew would be almost impossible to achieve.
So, he had gradually slipped from the noble man he had once been: indulging more and more of his sexual appetites, and gaining a reputation as one of the Golden Company’s greatest debauchers. Aside from drinking and fucking, the only thing that interested him still was fighting - yet another thing he was renowned for throughout the Company, and the thing that had earned him the little bit of respect that he had from some of the Company’s members - and, although he did not know it, a chance for just that was about to present itself to him.
The unguarded flaps of the Dornishman’s tent were unceremoniously thrown open by a pair of gruff-looking men, both just as Andal as he: supporters of the Blackfyre Rebellion, they too had fled across the Narrow Sea with Bittersteel. With a squeal of surprise, the scantily-clad women jerked awake - throwing off their bedclothes and scrambling to get away from the Dornishman who they assumed the two men had come to kill in his bed: the expressions of disgust that they wore on their faces implied that their intentions were along those lines, in any case. As a result of his negative attitude and general lack of involvement with the day-to-day tasks of the running of the Company, Erryk had earned himself the dislike of the majority of the Exiles (who had disliked Dornishmen anyway) who made up the bulk of the Sellswords. Luckily, he didn’t fight alongside many Northerners, and the Dornishmen who had joined him in exile shared his sentiments of xenophobia and dislike towards the Andals they were bound to.
“Yronwood,” The tallest of the pair growled, past the thick beard that covered much of his facial features, “The Captain-General wants to see you.” He waited for a moment or two, and, having received no response from the Dornishman, marched forwards - growling, “Now.”
Before the brute of a man could lay his hands upon him, Erryk was rolling out of bed: suddenly full of life and vigour, and not at all fatigued. If the man had dared to address him in such a manner ten years prior, he would of found his head on a spike - but now, there was nothing stopping him from treating Erryk just like any other sellsword. Nothing but the Dornishman’s skill with a bow, of course: but he decided against that course of action, considering it unwise to shoot one of Bittersteel’s personal agents.
“The Bitter Bastard wants to see me, eh?” The Dornishman grinned, giving the Andal a wink as he searched for his trousers, ignoring the scathing look he was giving him. “Well, in that case, I’d best scurry to meet his demands, hadn’t I?” Erryk’s disrespectful words were meant more to rile the two sellswords than in any actual offense to Aegor Rivers, and anyone who knew him would know better than to rise to his bait: these two men, however, did not.
“Shut up, snake - get dressed, and be quick about it. He won’t wait forever.”
Ten minutes later, Erryk exited his tent - flanked from behind by the two tall, gruff-looking men. He was dressed simply - but practically - in a baggy white vest, a leather jerkin, and well-made trousers of heavy leather. A pair of riding boots made from soft leather reached up to just below his knees, and two identical, slightly-curved swords could be seen hanging from either of his hips: the Dornishman having decided, for the moment, to leave his bow behind in his tent - along with the rest of his weapons.
Prompted by a growl from behind, the Yronwood began to make his way through the Golden Company’s encampment - pausing momentarily to brush his fingertips along the side of his horse’s face - a sand steed he had brought with him from Westeros. The horse whinnied in response to its master’s touch, throwing its head back; drawing a smile from Erryk’s lips as he swaggered his way down towards Bittersteel’s tent - a few murmured greetings and the odd wave heralding his approach towards the Captain’s pavillion.
Elsewhere in the camp, unlike his Dornish counterpart, Ser Robb Reyne was very much awake, a state in which he often found himself, ever since the dark days of the ill-fated rebellion. Those had been far different times, to be sure, but he would still go as far to say that he had been happier then. Both Randyll and Richard had still lived, and it was partially Robb’s fault that they were killed in the rebellion. It was he who had convinced Randyll to raise the men of Castamere against the crown. Quentyn Ball, Bittersteel, Redtusk, and Daemon Blackfyre; they had so many talented men on their side, how could they lose?
This proved to be true during the majority of the rebellion. It had started with a few minor skirmishes near the border between the Westerlands and the Riverlands, until he had the opportunity to link up with the main army that was being led by the Fireball. From that moment on, the Westerlands easily fell before them, culminating with the decisive battle near Lannisport, where they sent Lord Damion Lannister running back to Casterly Rock as if he was a small kitten. He had little doubt that his name was still vilified there- he personally killed scores of good fighting men, many of which were lordlings. Back then, he didn’t know the names of the men that he killed, whether or not they were lords, miners, farmers, or fishermen.
The fighting above the Mander was no different, no doubt to the sheer brilliance of the Fireball, but Robb’s contribution couldn’t be diminished. He hadn’t gained a reputation of being one of the finest swordsmen and jousters in the seven kingdoms for no reason. And unlike other knights, who fared well in tourneys, but faltered in war, it almost seemed as if Robb thrived during these battles, and that was true enough. He had complete confidence in his sword arm, and little else. Something that his father had been completely content with when he made it constantly known that Robb was his favored son, much to the chagrin of his two elder brothers. Fortunately for Robb, neither of them were men to hold grudges, especially not Randyll who was always complaining that Robb should be taking things more seriously. These concerns seemed to always fall on deaf ears those days.
Everything seemed to be going in the rebels favor, until the Battle of Redgrass. So many good men died on that day, including two of his brothers. After seeing a arrow pierce Randyll’s throat, he remembered little else of that day. He was told afterwards that any living man that stood in my path was cut down with lightning fast efficiency. Perhaps the argument could be made that Robb more than avenged the deaths of his brothers on that day, but Robb didn’t think so. He could kill every man, woman, and child in Westeros, and it still wouldn’t be enough in his eyes. And worse of all? When he fled in exile with Bittersteel and the rest, he left his youngest brother, a boy of only 12 years, alone, tasked with the burden of accepting the full punishment of House Reyne siding with the rebellion. He often told himself that it was the for the best. Rory’s young age had shielded both him and Castamere from a harsher fate.
At this particular moment, Robb found himself sharpening the edge of his blade, a gift from his father upon gaining his knighthood. Although it was made from some of the finest steel that gold could buy, it had definitely seen much better days, as evidenced from the many marks upon the blade. A true testament of his career as a sellsword. Bittersteel had made this company into one that was honorable and respected, but it was still never intended to last. The fate of every man in this company would eventually fall upon the shoulders of the boy who was named after his father, if they could manage to ever place him upon the Iron Throne. Even Robb was well aware that many men had doubts that they could ever accomplish this feat. It was fortunate that what they required was their swords, and not their doubts.
He was in the midst of his thoughts as he was approached by two burly Westerosi who were well-known to be in the direct service of Bittersteel. “The Captain-General wishes a word”, the bigger and dumber one barked, and Robb was surprised that he was capable of memorizing that much to repeat. Robb sheathed his sword and rose, easily making eye contact with the bigger man.
“Words is all he ever wants these days.” With that, he pushed his way through the two grunts and made his way to Bittersteel’s tent, which was situated in the center of the encampment, definitely no surprise to Robb, who had served with the company since its inception. He was greeted by two guards that he knew on a personal basis, and they both motioned him to enter the tent behind him. He did.
Once inside the tent, he noticed the far too familiar table set in the middle of the tent, in which strategies were often planned. The demise of more armies than he could count was plotted on this table, and rarely did anything go awry when it came to the tactics of Aegor Rivers. Otherwise the room was mostly bare, save for a few necessities required by Bittersteel, such as a bed and other such things. To his right, he finally noticed Erryk Yronwood, whom he had served with on a thousand battlefields, and even Redgrass, though he was unaware of it at the time. Robb respected him as a fellow soldier, but wasn’t extremely well acquainted beyond that, nor did he concern himself over the rumors of the many pleasures that Erryk took a part in his personal time. Robb was hardly a stranger to a whorehouse. With that thought, he gave Erryk a short nod of acknowledgement before turning his head back towards Bittersteel.
Erryk passed by the lines of men who were waiting to receive their pay with a small smile painted upon his lips, nodding to the few familiar Dornish faces which he saw amongst the sea of Westerosi Exiles - Lords and farmers alike, now turned sellswords. In Essos, noble titles meant nothing - those from Westeros were strangers in this land, and everyone had to work for their dinner - no matter what their previous rank had been.
He received a few glares as he entered the command tent, but he was well used to that by now - as his father had always told him, he should not concern himself with the opinions of those beneath him. The heir to Castle Yronwood seated himself beside Robb Reyne - a nobleman from the Westerlands. If the Rebels had won the war in Westeros, Erryk would only ever have met the nobleman at the head of a column of Dornish raiders with a bow in his hands - but, as a result of circumstance, he had fought in hundreds of battles alongside the tall, strong swordsman. Erryk had respect for him - a rare thing for the Dornishman to bear towards a Northerner. He gave the renowned swordsman a singular nod of acknowledgement, afterwards giving his full attention to the Targaryen-sired bastard from the Riverlands.
Aegor barely trusted the men before him, and he said as much. He might not have been loved like Daemon, nor as genial in his ways with others, but he was disciplined and single-minded. “I don’t trust you that well.” Say one thing for Aegor Rivers, say he was direct. He saw and said how things were. Men followed him because of that ruthless honesty.
Both Robb Reyne and Erryk Yronwood had fought for the Black Dragon’s cause, and had followed Bittersteel into exile. The years had not been kind to them, to none of them. Their service record with the Golden Company was impeccable, and they had been supporters from the first hour. Nevertheless, allegiances can shift, and Bloodraven had his agents everywhere. Bittersteel knew he was taking a risk, gambling, but it he was willing to take it.
“Go to Pentos, listen to the news, talk to peddlers,” Aegor droned as he kept his cold eyes on his fellow Westerosi warriors. “I need eyes on the inside. Tally their soldiers and supplies. Ascario Cosca and the Bright Banners are currently in Pentoshi employ, see if you can persuade them otherwise.” Bitterseel paused. “Knowing him, gold will do the trick... A long siege is something we cannot afford, the other Free Cities would surely intervene. Besides, we lack the fleet to entirely surround the city.” Supplies and provisions, as well as reinforcements, would simply sail into the harbour and find a welcome embrace in the Pentoshi.
Erryk listened to the words of the Bitter Bastard intently, following the movements of his lips from one phrase to the next. Despite the Yronwood’s distaste for the Northern Andals who he had been taught since birth to despise, Erryk had respect for the man: he was a fierce fighter, and a great leader - and loyal to his half-brother, to the extent that he had raised his sons and would fight to get them on the throne their father had failed to take for himself in the Blackfyre Rebellions.
When he spoke of not trusting them, Erryk half-smiled. I wouldn’t blame you, he said to himself inwardly: blindly trusting a knight from the Westerlands and a Dornishman who had only fought alongside you for the chance of his country’s independence would be a foolish thing to do indeed, and Aegor Rivers was no fool.
“Pentos?” He inquired, with no trace of a Dornish accent - unlike many of his kindred, he had been trained how to speak with the airs and graces of a nobleman in King’s Landing; yet another thing that set him apart from those that ruled from Sunspear, on top of the hue of his skin. The question proved to be rhetorical, however, as he quickly moved on to an actual inquiry. “How much gold are you going to give us?” The question was blunt, and straight to the point. “If we’re to bribe these sellswords, we’ll need gold - and, although it pains me to say it, my pockets are not particularly full of the stuff.” His words were sarcastic, but not meant to be disrespectful - it was simply the way Erryk was: he saw a problem with the proposed plan, so he’d point it out. “Gold for the bribery, and gold for the risk that we’re taking. I don’t particularly fancy the idea of the possibility of my head winding up on a pike with no currency in my pockets.”
Robb couldn’t help but give the Dornishman a look after his remark about gold. He had become every bit a proper sellsword, it seemed, though it wasn’t as if he had Robb’s scorn for that fact. Many in the company weren’t exiles from Westeros, and therefore couldn’t see the true purpose of the Golden Company, likewise, those who were from Westeros, were abandoning the the purpose altogether, much like the Yronwood in his own right. It mattered little to Robb, however. A man who loved gold was easy to control, a lesson that his father had taught him so long ago.
“Nothing,” Aegor replied to the matter of coin. “The pay we handed out a few days ago depleted our reserves. We either need a new contract to refill our coffers, or place a bet.” Aegor Rivers smiled his dreadful smile, the skin drawing tight across his skull. “Raise the stakes and raise them again. I am not planning on dying at the wrong side of the Narrow Sea!” Bittersteel rammed his gauntleted fist on the table. “You’ll have to bribe them with promises. People kill and die for less.”
“We’re bankrupt, then?” Erryk laughed - making no attempt to cover the sound up; a bitter, humourless laugh. “Fine. You have my word that I will do everything in my power to achieve this: after all, I don’t really have a choice, do I?” He paused, somewhat inspired by the man’s drive to return to Westeros. “I have no desire to die here, either - a desert it may be, sir, but it is not Dorne.” The Yronwood rose to his feet, looking to Robb with an arched eyebrow; suddenly casual once again. “Unless Ser Robb has something to say, I suppose we’d best be off. Pentos is quite a ways from here.”
“It’s best if you start using your tongue less and your sword more, I think. It’ll be no joy for either of us when we get caught inside Pentos during any length of siege”, Robb grimaced as he rose and rested his hand upon the hilt of his sword. Sacking Pentos was more than just refilling the Golden Company’s coffers, Robb could see, even if he had no interest in plots or schemes. “It shall be done Aegor, both me and Yronwood shall see to it”, the Westorosi said with a half-smile- definitely a rarity for him during these days. This would be fun- Pentos was just your average cesspool of a city, rife with sex, corruption, and murder. It would give him a queer feeling of satisfaction to witness the Pentoshi’s way of life crumble around them. Regardless, he was sure his blade would see plenty of use in the coming days, something that he was more than content with. “Still,” Robb said mostly to himself, “it’ll be fun.”
Why in this world had he been born a bastard? Why in this world had he been denied of his father? The two questions were ones that Jhavek Hill had asked himself as he carried on for the thirteen years he had lived onward from his father’s death. He had fought in the Blackfyre Rebellion in the most paramount of battle of them all, the Redgrass Fields; and what did he get from it?—what did he have to show for it? Nothing. The man who stole his father from him never crossed blades with Jhavek himself and ironically enough it brought him no pleasure when he heard Quentyn Ball had perished. All it left in Jhavek Hill was a sort of empty feeling in his gut that only felt like it rotted with each aching moment.
Selwyn Sarwyck loved his son, which was something Jhavek had been told by his mother day-in and day-out before she withered away to sickness. Even his drunk uncle could recognize the affection the golden boy of the Sarwycks gave to his nephew even if he had seen so little of it. But all Jhavek wanted was one moment with his father as he was now to show him the man he had become; he had shared so much traits of his father—he was just, kind, charitable, and diligent. But here he was on the back of a caravan traveling on the Gold Road making way to King’s Landing where Jhavek would find transport to Gulltown where a tourney was being held. He wasn’t sure if any men of the Westerlands would be there but he knew that he had to try to show that the son of Selwyn—raised a commoner could stand out amongst the man-at-arms who were trying their luck at the competition.
Jhavek knew nothing of those he would face, noble or lowborn, at this tournament celebrating the Lord of the Vale. If there was one thing he lacked was an understanding of the politics of this world he was born into, but he hated nobody for their situation. Nobody really controls where or how they were born, after all. He had never sparred with a swordsman since his uncle’s initial training of him all those years ago—he was a child then. It would be a refreshing change of pace for Jhavek as he had only recently dealt with highwaymen and wildlings south of the wall. All of those encounters tended to end with injury or death for the other parties—he wasn’t sure if it was his skill or just the lack of method to their approach on merchant caravans he generally was assigned to protect. Either way he had made a pretty sizeable collection of coin from the occupation of a merchant guard though nothing to sneeze at if you were a merchant or especially so if you were a noble.
Placing his arms behind his neck he leaned back as his eyes slightly glanced to the tradesmen he was traveling with.
“How long to King’s Landing now, Jory?”
One of the tradesmen, a man of thirty and two looked to Jhavek with a smirk. “Fairly soon I wager, that’s nearly the end of the Blackwater Rush…. er… beginning. You know what I mean.”
Jhavek let out a mild chuckle, “Yeah, of course.”
It was all coming together rather well, and even if he failed at this tourney of the Vale he could at least attest that he tried such a thing. If he failed it would not be the end of his pursuits to be recognized by someone—to honor his father in duty and manner. Perhaps he would request an audience with the Lord of Riverspring when he returned, to discuss about his father with… what would be his grandfather by blood. He wouldn’t ask for anything other than his time, time for conversation and learning. He didn’t want to fabricate any claims or demand a plot of land. That was beneath Jhavek, it was poor behavior.
Essos, The Road to Pentos - Ethanjory/Squrmy Collab
Born and raised in Dorne, Erryk Yronwood knew how to act in a desert. He knew that when the sun was at its highest during the day, it was unwise to travel - as horses and men alike would soon become exhausted - and he also knew that, at night, the temperature dropped to freezing levels, and the wind howled across the sand dunes: the Dornish Desert had killed many Northern men during their attempted conquests of the Southern Kingdom, but those that had been born in the harsh country knew how to survive in its climate.
This knowledge, gleaned through a lifetime of trips to and from the desert, had served Erryk well: it had saved him from a horrible death, like a few members of the Golden Company had experienced when they fled across the Narrow Sea, and he and his Dornish companions had been able to teach the rest how to live in the desert before they, too, had perished. And so it was, as a result of his knowledge so deeply ingrained in his system it was near instinctual, that he found himself resting beneath the sparse shade given by a singular palm tree, his sandsteed just behind him - feeding from a makeshift bucket, full of dried oats. A horse was a man’s best friend, in the desert - they could mean the difference between life or death, out here, and it was important to look after them.
The Dornishman’s head leant against the tree behind him, a small yawn leaving his lips as he peered out at the lonely road only a few metres away: his doulbe-curved bow in his lap, the man ready to use it should he have to. The road to Pentos was a dangerous one, and Erryk Yronwood had no intention of dying a nameless man at the hand of bandits. He was dressed in the light, leather armour with metal disks sewn into it, which was characteristic of his people: a flowing desert robe made from thick white cloth resting on top of the armour. It served to keep the metal disks sewn into his armour from getting too hot, as they would certainly have become had they been openly exposed to the bright sun.
His lazy blue gaze eventually moved from the road to the man who sat a few short steps away from him, the Bloodroyal eyeing Robb Reyne curiously. He trusted the man, and respected him: even if he did hail from the Westerlands. He was a great swordsman, and Erryk was certain that he would need him before the Golden Company could call Pentos their own. “Beef?” He inquired, reaching into a satchel that hung from his belt - holding out a strip of dried, salted meat to the tall, broad man.
Robb accepted Erryk’s offer of food as he took the strip of salted beef from his grasp. He ripped off a piece with his teeth and chewed voraciously before swallowing. It was hardly anyone’s idea of good food, especially considering that he had grown up as the son of the richest men in all of Westeros. Regardless of that, Robb had his fair share of poor meals during these thirteen years of exile, and there was no use in hoping that their meals would become any better. Once the Golden Company marched upon Pentos, rats and bowls of brown from Kings Landing would be all that they could possibly hope for.
Ser Robb was dressed plate and mail, both of which were rusted and well-worn, bearing no insignia of any kind. In the early days of the exile, he still work the fine armor embellished with a red lion that he received from his father in his youth. Full plate, as it happened, was well and good for a knight, but less so for a sellsword, and it wasn’t long before he sold off his prized armor and put on what he wore now. Though most of it was was hidden by the large, faded gray overcoat, that was starting to fray at the cuffs and bottom. He looked like a common hedge knight, which was perfect for the particular role that he would be playing in Pentos.
The sword that he wore at his belt was not the one he usually had. He left that sword back at the camp, it had a red lion’s head carved into the hilt, it he figured that it was best to leave behind anything that could potentially give away his identity. He honestly doubted that there would be any man in Pentos, but Robb had become a much more reserved and cautious man over these long years in Essos, he’d much rather not take the risk.
As for the man that he was making this grand journey with. . . well, he had no strong opinion of the Dornish, good or bad, but of the tales that had reached his ears regarding this one, only put him to ease. His skill with a bow would come in handy, and he was sure the Dornishman had many other hidden talents as well, otherwise Bittersteel wouldn’t have found it fit to have him accompany Robb to Pentos. If Bittersteel had the smallest reason to give this momentous task to this man, then Robb figured it was safe enough to trust him. Somewhat.
He picked up the sword in sheath that he had unfastened from his belt earlier and took a seat near his companion as he took a look up towards the sky. It was cloudless and unsettling blue. Despite the sky’s beauty, Robb wished for a few clouds, perhaps they could block out some of the sun’s unforgiving heat. With his hand, he blocked out the brightness of the sun, but he was still forced to squint a little. “It could serve us to come up with aliases before we reach Pentos”, Robb finally broke the silence, “foreigners tend to raise suspicion.”
That was true everywhere- Westeros and Essos. If someone looks different from the rest, then they’re immediately distrusted, reflected Robb. But that was only natural. Men preferred to stick with those that they were familiar with, though it would be much less of an issue in a place like Pentos, with its extremely active port that was riddled with foreign traders and sailors. Even so, they would be noticed, especially if it was required of them to go outside the main port and slums.
“I could possibly be a sellsword knight looking for work, and you may be my squire, if that suits you. I’ll take the name of Robert, since it it close enough to my real name to avoid any mistake on your or my part, and different enough so that it doesn’t matter.” Robb paused for a second as he let that sink in. “If you have a better idea, then run it by me. The reason for being in Pentos does not need to be overly complicated.” He took another bite of his salted beef.
Erryk eyed the man eating his beef, nodding his head occasionally as the man spoke - blue gaze narrowing somewhat at the Reyne’s suggestion that he pose as a Knight, and Erryk as the man’s squire. His pride urged him to dismiss the idea immediately - but, Erryk decided, the idea did have some merit to it. Robb was a much greater swordsman than he, and he looked the part - he had plate and chainmail armour, and Erryk did not. It would be a good cover story, but one that would require the Yronwood to swallow his pride and submit to being beneath a Northerner. Even if it was just a cover story - a fantasy, a means to an end, it was hard for Erryk to stomach it.
He pulled a piece of beef out for himself, biting off a piece of the dried meat and chewing on it with the endurance of a man who had been living on field rations for years. Erryk was used to eating disgusting food, now - it had been a long time indeed since he had tasted the food he was served on a daily basis back home in Dorne. After a long moment of silence, chewing on his food and staring at the man who had decided to move closer to him, the Dornishman gave a nod. “It’s a good idea, certainly - and it’ll get us inside the walls, I’m sure. What about the other Sellsword Company? The Bright Banners, wasn’t it? Will we request to join their ranks?” The man perked an eyebrow, glancing over his shoulder at his horse - checking that the beast was still eating. His concern for the animal was evident: the stallion was the one thing he had left of his homeland, and he was determined to look after him well.
Looking back to the Reyne, he waited for his response - brushing a golden curl out of his eyes, and back behind his ears.
Robb nodded in simple agreement. “It will serve us to offer our skills to the Bright Banners. At least it will give us a legitimate reason to ask an audience with Ascario Cosca, whenever such an opportunity presents itself.” He finished off his beef before adding, “I’ve never seen a sellsword company that will turn away prospective recruits, no matter where they hail from. That much should prove to be easy, I hope.”
The biggest of their concerns was obviously enlisting the aid of the Bright Banners, and any other company currently present within Pentos. If they could only enlist the the Bright Banners, that was well and good. That would give them at least 2,000 good fighting men within the walls of the city, enough to perform sabotage as needed, and even ambush a few of the prominent magisters and take them prisoner. After all, they were the true power behind Pentos, though it may prove to be useful to take the Prince as hostage regardless. Any bargaining chip that they would gain had to be used, no matter how much it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Once the Golden Company surround the city, the chaos that it would bring would have to be used to their advantage so that they could create even more disorder. If they managed to prevent the Pentoshi from mounting a defense, then that would give them the ability to open the gates of Pentos. Once the Golden Company was in the walls, the city would be theirs. Getting the Bright Banners onto their side, Robb realized, was critical to their success.
Robb had never met the man named Cosca who commanded the Bright Banners. Whether he was fickle or not was uncertain, but Robb had a feeling that he would turn his cloak when offered enough gold. Sacking a city as wealthy and large as Pentos wasn’t something that did not make those involved rich. As long as you grabbed the wealth lying around before others did. “We may have a need of your natural Dornish charisma when we finally have a chat with Cosca”, Robb mused, “a man like him will be turned by gold. Only problem is that all we have is promises and could bes.” Robb grimaced at that notion. “And I hope your aim is true”, Robb motioned to Erryk’s bow, “I do not doubt that you will have plenty of chances to practice your skills with a bow.” Moreover, he knew that he would have to kill many men once again, and the anticipation made his fingertips tingle. That was just the kind of man he was and always would be. A killer. But Robb was fine with that. After all, he was among the best at what he did.
Erryk grunted, nodding his head; tearing off another mouthful of the salted beef with his front teeth, with none of the airs and graces he would once have had at his father’s table in Castle Yronwood. “I’m sure that they’ll be happy to enlist us - especially if you mention your Squire’s skill with a bow,” He shrugged, running a hand through his curls with a sigh - looking up at the sun above them, which was gradually beginning to move towards the West. “A Hedgeknight and his squire from Westeros - I don’t have much of an accent anymore, so we’ll say we’re Deserters from the Riverlands, or something along those lines. Shouldn’t be a problem.” He paused, a grin spreading across his lips. “And I’ll have to make some time to explore the Pentoshi brothels - it could be a good way to bond with the Sellswords. Whether you admit it or not, all of us like a good fucking.” He shrugged, eyes twinkling with mirth as he swallowed what had remained of his beef, rising to his feet.
“I’m sure that he’ll turn - I’ve heard from a few of the boys that he’s somewhat of a whimsical man. If we woo him with promises of grand castles and vast amounts of gold, I’m sure he’ll come over to our side - besides, from what I hear, the Magisters are stuck-up bastards: he probably dislikes them. Hopefully he does, at least - that way we might not have to do much persuasion at all: just provide him with the reassurance that he’ll be backed by our men when Bittersteel arrives with the rest of the Company.” A pause. “I could even try to use my real Dornish charm on him,” He smirked, “You’d be surprised at the amount of important men who like to bite the pillow behind closed doors - our own so-called Blackfyre Heir amongst them, from what I’ve heard.”
Erryk laughed, obviously teasing the man - an eye kept upon him to see how he reacted to his joking, as his footsteps carried him towards his sandsteed. He ran his hand down the yellow-coloured stallion’s side, leaning forwards and resting his forehead against the animal’s neck - murmuring quietly in its ear. Once he was done, the horse whinnied - the Dornishman slapping its neck, and returning to his previous position: legs folded in the strange, Dornish fashion. “Aye,” He murmured, referring to the man’s previous statement. “I’ll riddle a few of their Magisters with arrows - and perhaps even the Bright Banner’s leadership, if the time comes. We can’t have loose ends, if this is more than just a sacking - and I get the feeling that it is. Bittersteel wants more than just gold to keep the Company together from this sacking.”
The Dornishman was cocky and arrogant, Robb admitted, though he didn’t dislike the man because of it. He had been just as arrogant before the rebellion, but, he supposed, all things have to change. And since those days, he sincerely hoped that he was wiser than he was then, it would prove to be certainly useful when faced with the many challenges that would appear in the coming months. Even so, of the man himself, Robb knew very little, other than the fact that he was the rightful heir to the Yronwood lands, much like how Robb was the rightful heir to Castamere. Unlike this Dornish counterpart, Robb had little interest in reclaiming his family lands. If reports were true, his younger brother, Rory, had taken to being a lord like a fish to water, and Robb was well aware that he would no doubt make for a poor ruler. He was always the most comfortable with steel in his hand, and that certainly hadn’t changed for the past thirteen years. Besides, he’d have to face his brother if he wanted those lands, and Robb was no kinslayer.
“Save those arrows for when they turn against us, Yronwood. I’d rather not be in the midst of negotiations and have Cosca take an arrow to the throat”, Robb joked, which was evident by a half-smile on his face. It had been such a long time since he last smiled, and that seemed odd to him when he had smiled so often when he was young. I’ve changed much more than I realized, Robb thought to himself.
The rest of their journey to Pentos would prove to be uneventful, or so Robb hoped. He had no interest in engaging a motley band of highwaymen- there was no challenge in engaging men who barely knew have to fight. Besides, there would be definitely plenty of that after they were inside Pentos. For now, at least, it was probably wise to keep moving, they probably already lingered in this area long enough.
For the time that they both had been travelling together, Robb had heard no complaints from the Dornishman, which was to be expected, considering that he had been in exile with the Golden Company for as long as Robb. Besides, it almost seemed that he was born to ride, considering the skill that he displayed in horsemanship and the love he had for his steed. Though many considered Robb to be an exceptional rider, it was clear that he paled in comparison to his companion. For that reason alone, perhaps they would arrive in Pentos even faster than expected.
He finally rose and strapped his sheathed sword to his belt. With a stretch that made his back crack, he finally said, “It’s time for us to move on. Once you’ve finished with your gourmet meal, of course.” He moved toward his courser, and though he owned a destrier, he had opted for a much less impressive horse, in an attempt to make his role as a poor hedge knight more believable.. The Gods knew that he already looked the part. Still, a poor man can kill as easily as someone who is rich, and he knew that he had many to kill.
Gulltown Keep Sini and Vanq Collab “Ser Baelor Manderly. Reports say he spent a week at Quiet Isle in penitence before sailing on to Gulltown.” Jasper eyed his uncle carefully. They had met the man in the city’s sept, Jasper praying for guidance on choosing a wife, Gilwood ministering to any who entered. The gods had certainly wanted them to meet, and both men had been duly impressed by the knight and those in his company. As with all things though, they had needed to learn more rather than make a rash decision.
“An unusual name for the North, even for the Manderlys.”
“Baelor the Blessed, the only king we’ve had who has recognized the sin born into their blood. This Baelor was the seventh son, aptly born and named it seems. Surely, it is a sign, uncle. But I will not do this without your blessing that the gods have orchestrated this.”
“Seventy-seven knights total. I do not think he plays at a grand jape. We will pray to the Crone for guidance…”
Several hours later, the lord of the Eyrie sent word to Baelor’s camp that he should dine with them that evening. It was not so quiet as Lord Jasper had originally promised, the tourney’s competitions would begin the next day, but he needed an answer ahead of the festivities. The gods seemed to indicate that Baelor was destined for great things, and Jasper would need a holy sword arm in the coming struggle.
Baelor appeared in a coat of mail with a plain white surcoat. He even slept in it. The pious knight was welcomed by some men-at-arms in the colours of Arryn and Grafton who claimed to have heard of him. Shortly after, a chamberlain ushered him through brick corridors, his boots thumping over flagstones until he was presented to Lord Jasper Arryn of the Vale… a boy of only sixteen years old, but playing at being a man. At least, that was what they said about the youth. Nevertheless, Baelor disagreed. They had spoken for a short while, when he had come calling in Gulltown’s sept. Jasper’s uncle, Gilwood, had been the clergyman in presence and so it had been he who had placed the Seven’s blessing on his forehead with sacred oil. Ser Baelor made a quick bow, adhering to protocol and expressed his thanks for the invitation. “You wished to see me, your lordships,” he said, clearing his throat.
It was a simple, although hearty, meal Jasper had had prepared and brought to the small dining chamber. It was not the face of youthful arrogance he wore, but that of genuine curiosity and interest. All that he had learned of Baelor pointed to the fact that he was quite unique. “Yes, please be seated with us.” The lord gestured to the chair opposite Septon Gilwood, and next to himself. Simple clothes and the same humble demeanor that he had had at the sept. Jasper was just eight years his junior, but looking at the lines on the knight’s face made the lord feel younger still. He knew the talk of the Vale and visitors alike. He had been a boy-lord for all of his reign up until recently. Gods willing, they would be shown the error of their beliefs.
“Tell me, Ser Baelor, and speak frankly - we will have it no other way - how do you find Westeros these days? White Harbor surely brings news from the rest of the realms. What are your thoughts on these seven kingdoms?” Cool and steady, he sought an answer that could not be easy for many to answer, at least for those who cared more for political maneuverings than truth and reality.
“I find it ever harder to find the light. It seems that with every passing day the Seven shine less and less on the faithful,” he spoke assuredly, unflinching. Ser Baelor was not confined by the trappings of lordship or power. He was his own man, devoted to the one true faith, his sword and shield sworn to uphold what was right.
“Heresy grows from idleness and poisons the mind. Now, brother kills brother and eludes justice in the house of kings. Not for the first time, my Lord Jasper. A bastard sits on the Small Council, a man who also slew his own brother and two of his sons. Brother fornicates with sister, and have done so for generations. I consider that an abomination and offense to the Seven. How can we be surprised that the fruit of their incest is rotten to the core?” Baelor sighed deeply and collected his thoughts. In other company, this would have been deemed the purest of treason. “It seems malice is rewarded, debauchery encouraged. I pray, but seldom answers come. Verily, I feel tested.”
Ser Baelor Manderly clenched his fist as he continued his monologue, his mail sleeve rattling. “And yet, I hope. Not all who stumble or fall have lost their way. I try to show them, bring them into the loving embrace of the Seven, deliver them from evil…” The young Northern knight smiled apologetically. “My apologies, I did not mean to go on about it.”
Lord Jasper and Septon Gilwood shared a long look, they shared the same thoughts so frequently that no words needed to pass between them. The silent agreement reached between them, both sets of eyes returned to the knight. “There is no need to apologize, ser.” It was the septon who spoke, his words weighty, sonorous. “There are times where surely you must have felt very alone, with those beliefs. Do not feel alone any longer.”
Jasper leaned forward, eager and with the fire burning in his eyes again. “I am sending an army to Andalos, Ser Baelor. The gods have shown their favor on the expedition, and should we honor them on their holy ground, I believe...I know, that we can set Westeros to rights again. The Faith will be cleansed and pure once more, lords and ladies and kings will have no choice but to submit wholeheartedly to the Seven.” He searched his companion’s face, “You are too right, the kingdoms are a disgrace to gods and man and too few see it. Too many generations have strayed from the gods and their teachings, we must atone for our sins and the sins of our fathers. Andalos was lost, but we will find it once more and rebuild it, with a great sept to honor our makers.”
The septon spoke up again, giving Jasper time to allow the fire to cool. “We have prayed, and the answer was that you are called to play a role in this. Will you answer that call?”
It was as if a ray of light suddenly enveloped him and pierced his very being, illuminating his tormented soul. These two righteous men had taken up the Sevens cause, and had the means and position to further it considerably. Ser Baelor dropped to his knees, mouth agape, his coat of mail jingling. Practically prostrating himself, he clasped his gloved hands together and nodded. “A cause as just as this…,” the Manderly knight muttered, searching for words. “I will, as will the rest of the Seventy-Seven. We have been looking for something as worthy. So yes,” he said filled with fervour. “Bless me, Septon Gilwood, and my sword is yours.”
Chairs scraped on the hard ground as both men rose from their seats. Lord Jasper clasped his hand to the knight’s shoulder. “Thank you Ser Baelor, there cannot be a more honorable and righteous man to be at the vanguard of this most holy endeavor. You will receive this blessing first, and all your men as well. You will be anointed as Captain of the Swords of the Seven.”
Septon Gilwood pulled a small vial of holy oil from his robes. “May the father guide in finding justice in an unjust world. May the love of the Mother shine through you to those in need of compassion. May the Warrior lend strength to your sword arm and lead you to victory. May the Maiden keep you pure and chaste. May the Smith give you strength of mind and body to see this work done. May the Crone impart her wisdom, that your path is clear no matter the haze.” Gilwood paused for just a moment, his finger that was dipped in oil resting still on the knight’s forehead. “And may the Stranger say ‘not today’ and keep hidden from you the unknown and death.”
The aged septon took a step back. “Rise Ser Baelor, Captain of the Swords of the Seven. May the gods shine on you and all you do.”
Ser Baelor blinked his eyes and basked in holiness, when he rose to his feet he saw the world anew. There was so much work to be done, for the Seven had chosen him to be their tool. “We will all carry the light of the Faith.” His sense of destiny satisfied, Baelor humbly bowed before the Lord of the Vale and Septon Gilwood. “May the Seven never find me wanting.”
“Come, sit again, and eat. When we finish our meal, you will lead us to your men so that they may be anointed as well.” Jasper clasped the knight’s shoulder once more and returned to his seat. The meal of leeks, beans, and simple rabbit meat seemed all the more heavenly. “I will announce our plans for all of Westeros at the tourney’s end, and I will have you by my side.”
The Lion’s Den was, unlike many inns, taverns and brothels near the docks of Lannisport, a fairly reputable destination. The food was good, hot and varied, the beds warm and soft and none of the serving girls had crooked jaws or the like, not that the place was a brothel. Guests were simply accorded a certain amount of enjoyment. The ownership of the establishment had changed hands several times over the past two decades. For the man who crossed the threshold into the well lit, pleasingly decorated inn, it was one previous owner that was of interest, a brief but telling ownership at the start of the localised chaos.
Martys Lannister.
A cloak removed from his shoulders, to reveal a head of golden blonde hair. Slightly curled, but only by nature, for those who knew, there was only one man in the Westerlands to quite fit his description. Tybolt, Lord of Casterly Rock. While he did not frequent such establishments, it was clear a number of the staff, and few locals beside, recognised the man, but after he waved away a hurried greetings from one of the serving girls, it became clear he did not plan on being overt. They soon went back to their drinks and tasks at hand. He took a seat in a comfortable, if slightly shady, corner of the inn, eventually paying over the price for a flagon of mead. Not a drink often found up in the castle. He enjoyed it, despite the business he was about to attend to. The amount he paid for the drink made it clear. He did not wish to be disturbed or fawned over further. The discretion of such well respected establishments was well known, and his wishes were taken into account.
He did not stir for some time, simply sipping on his drink as the minutes passed by. After an hour of apparently waiting, he purchased a steak and kidney pie, eating it with the same deliberation. Even still, the remains of his food and drink had long been cleared away before finally the moment arrived. Two finely clad traders entered the establishment, readily accepting the attention Tybolt had looked to avoid, they took their own seats, along with the company of some of the more attractive female staff, bringing forth both considerable food and drink for these new patrons. Or, not quite, the owner and his accomplice. Tybolt watched the rowdy behavior of the pair for a while longer, allowing the familiarity of their own property to seep in, before standing an approaching them.
“Harrys Orlais and Jory Hill I presume.” The Lannister spoke as he took a seat at their table, the apparent audacity of such an action surprising the pair enough to not truly think or register their situation, leading to a blurted response.
“And who the fuck do you think you are.” It was Hill, the bastard, who spoke. While many of the successful traders of the city were refined despite the expectations placed upon them by Westerosi society, many were not. Judging by the glare Tybolt earned from his companion, it was likely Orlais was of similar character.
“My name is Tybolt Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Lord of Casterly Rock.”
A look of shock and dread fell over the faces of those he spoke to, however it was only after his next sentence that the colour truly drained from their faces.
“Husband of Celena Lannister.”
After the initial moment wore off, Hill’s natural instincts forced him from the seat, in a blind dash for the doors. Tybolt’s eyes followed him, almost passively as the panic stricken man leapt into the outside world. Then, with an uneasy slowness, his gaze settled on Orlais, visibly distressed, if not as outwardly as his partner.
“Only guilty men run, and unfortunately that has done little to convince me of your innocence.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do. The previous owner of this inn was murdered in broad daylight twenty years ago. An association of traders great and small to bring down a Lannister during a family crisis. A public statement of untouchability. Well, here I am.” Leaning across the table, with great exaggeration, Tybolt poked the man in the chest, who nearly jumped out of his skin at the contact.
“Of course, you were only a minor party of such a group at the time, just having started doing business, I am not interested in one link. I want the whole chain. When you leave this establishment in an hour, you will be escorted by unmarked guards. You will go, and do, exactly as they say. Or your children will be raised in brothels.” As with the entirety of the conversation, Tybolt’s tone remained even and polite, even if it drew the attention of every man and woman in the room. With a slight nod, the Lannister stood, retracing his steps to where his cloack was hanging before returning it to his shoulders. The light of the sun greeted him, along with the chill of sea winds. When he was some distance from the inn, he looked back. He nodded once more.
The head of a bastard swung in the breeze, pinned to the Lion’s mouth that formed the crest of the inn.
The journey had taken him from Ashford to Bitterbridge by barge where they had disembarked and continued along the Roseroad. Ser Otho Bracken had hated the entire river voyage, beginning to end. Water was not his strong suit –at all. In fact, the huge knight would not have taken a ship at King’s Landing if he had not needed due to time constraints. Making it in time to Gulltown was paramount, for his third tourney this season. If only they could have set out sooner, then the journey could have been made by land, or at least up to Maidenpool where they had need only traverse the Bay of Crabs that cut into the Riverlands up to Saltpans.
If only they could have set out sooner. But no, a royal investigation had been called, and Ser Otho –a knight present at the Ashford tournament- had been sent for as a witness. Maekar’s blow had been a vicious one, and it had no doubt caused the death of Prince Baelor Breakspear. Nevertheless, Maekar remained a trueborn son of Daeron II and it seemed surreal to prosecute him for fratricide. Already from the beginning it was clear that the Anvil of Redgrass Field would be cleared of all charges. Both Valarr and Matarys, who had indicted their uncle for the murder of their father, displayed choler and disappointment as the trial proceeded. Bloodraven undoubtedly had had his own claws already in the proceedings, and he was either powerless to do something, or did not wish for Maekar be found guilty. Otho had not known which one was worse.
A seasick Ser Otho stumbled down the gangplank at the pier in Gulltown, immensely grateful to feel solid ground beneath his boots. Breathing in the air, he felt his strength –and stomach, returning and made for the tourney lists. He sent a boy ahead of him, but couldn’t remember his name. Then he realised he did not care either.
No expense had been spared in setting up the lists. The city itself was filled to the brim, by the sound and smell of it. Filled with hopefuls and knights and ladies, those that did not had quarters offered to them by the local nobility; filled with purse-cutters and homeless people little more than refuse. Ser Otho chose to set up his three pavilions in the designated area, outside of Gulltown. At least the smell of thousands of bodies packed together was less prominent, and horses did not reek half as bad.
The joust was a disaster. Ser Otho, encased in dented black armour with auburn highlights, had been sorely tempted to kill his horse after that poor showing. A nameless lad, only having earned his spurs a few weeks previously according to the stablehands, had dealt him a devastating blow with the couched lance. Otho –and his dignity- had been flung out of the saddle, sprawling from his horse. The crowd had been in awe until he had risen and roared with anger. Several men-at-arms had to grab hold of him, at least two of them having their noses broken in the process, lest he charged at the victorious hedge knight, intent on bloodying his blade.
Fortunately he could take out his anger on the opponents he faced in the melee. Fuelled by his rancor, Ser Otho Bracken had proven unstoppable, besting several knights of renown. Even the Laughing Storm had proven to be not fierce enough to withstand Otho’s powerful blows. The only adversary coming close to beating him, had been that disillusioned brat from White Harbor. For all his holy misunderstandings, Ser Baelor Manderly knew how to wield a sword, and the Brute of Bracken had thoroughly enjoyed the match. Violence and the sword-song is what he lived for.
Exhausted, he accepted the rewards and admired his handiwork. He had given a knight sworn to House Brune such a beating on the helmet with his gauntlets, that they had to carry him off the field to remove the dented helmet. The knight was fine, but the helmet had been lodged on too tightly as a result of Otho's punches. Ser Otho had taken several blows himself, and so when he smiled his mouth was coloured with blood. Some in the Riverlands might have recognised him better this way, running from the crimson spectre as he and his band of screamers came charging.
The high road through the Mountains of the Moon were a dangerous way to approach the Bloody Gate. Nestled between foothills and cliff faces, the road was little more than a wide dirt path that wound it's way through the chaos and snake charms of the Mountains. It could be hard for sunlight to creep into the road if the brush and trees weren't cleared from time and time--a job that fell to the suicidal, if Allyria listened to the smallfolk who lived in the small village with high stone walls where the high road begun.
There was no guesswork needed to decipher the reason for the smallfolk's fears: the Clans of the Mountain of the Moon. Allyria knew each by name and reputation, if only because her father and mother's Maesters had done their damnedest to learn her on the odds and ins of Westeros. When Ser Drayton voiced his misgivings about the high road, Allyria shrugged, despite the fact that their newest addition seemed to be all agreements with the Knight on the issue of the high road. It only made the young Dornish woman smirk.
It was half a day before their newest addition and Ser Drayton came to the core of the issue: "She's looking for a fight!?" Not even Allyria could blame this mysterious 'Byron.' Not that it kept her from laughing, and loudly, at the incredulous shock in which Byron accepted the fact that their small party of three were on the dangerous, long, high road to the Bloody Gate simply because the young Dornish woman wasn't just unafraid of a brush up with the Clans of the Mountain, but was ACTIVELY looking to, as the Ser described it, "bloody the noses of the Clans as much as they bloody her own."
It wasn't enough for the girl to simply go looking for a fight, to want to put an arrow into some poor Clan's fool--what the Dornish woman Byron found himself sharing road and conversation and meals with really wanted was a fight that left her just as bloody as she left her opponent. In short, the Ser informed Byron, he'd found himself in the company of a mad Dornishwoman and the madder still Knight that'd sworn his sword to the mad woman's defense. If they weren't already on the high road when the revelation came about, Allyria was sure they'd seen this Byrion turn and run back to the village that'd imprisoned him for no good reason--doubtlessly figuring he'd be safer in their jail than traveling with such a mad, wild, woman.
When the inevitable came, Ser Drayton gave a shout for Byron to pull his steel and ready himself. When Byron turned to steal a look at the mad young Dornish woman, he'd see exactly why Drayton shouted at Byron and not at her: that strange looking bow that appeared too large for the girl to use was already in her hands, ash shaft and steel tipped arrow notched and poised to fly by the time Byron turned to look at her. Whatever shouts and stirrings of the Clans Byron saw and heard at the edges of vision on the high road, it was clear the mad Dornish woman had seen and heard them long before the current moment.
“About time.” Byron stated blankly as his hand which was upon the hilt of his sword prepared to draw the blade itself.
"How long have they been on us?" The Knight asked the girl with the bow, his horse turning this way and that, his glowing sword out of it's scabbard and high in the air to give Byron, and the Clans, something to truly stare in wonder at.
The girl with the bow twitched, switching her aim once, twice, then thrice more to chase the barest suggestions of movement and sound at the edges of the high road. After what even to Allyria felt like an eternity, her voice rose calm and quiet as the tone of a huntress nearing in on the kill to answer the Knight. "They've been tracking us for at least an hour. NOT NEARLY AS QUIET OR SNEAKY AS THEY THINK THEY ARE!"
The Princess screamed the last bit, not for the ears of the Knight or Byron, but so that the Clans would know she was onto them. A grin set as certain as stone the only decoration upon her pretty, lush, pink lips. Without warning, the first arrow from her bow was loosed--an arrow that quickly disappeared behind overgrown trees and brush, a pained cry immediately cutting through the tense and chilled mountain air behind the overgrowth the arrow had disappeared into.
"Got ya," she said in pure gratisfaction, her grin only growing as she left her saddle and hit the ground, shoving arrows into the ground just before her as she readied for the rush of men and women just as bloodthirsty and mad as she was. At least, so she thought--ignoring the idea of Ser Drayton that no one in all of Westeros was as bloodthirsty and mad as she was. "Get ready, here they come."
A heartbeat later, chaos errupted out of the overgrowth, wielding unholy howls, gnarled clubs, and cheap steel stolen from countless corpses that had dared to travel the high road of the Vale without enough strength to ward off the Clansmen before they could get the idea in their mad driven minds to attack. Three were on Ser Drayton in the blink of an eye; another blink, and Allyria's bow had reduced the number of Clansmen trying to kill the Ser to two. It was hard to believe the Dornishwoman had time to see what she was shooting at, let alone believing she had time to properly aim and loose. The ash shafted arrows came like grumpkins from a bad dream; heartbeat after heartbeat after heartbeat another was loosed before another heartbeat for another notch, then another heartbeat for another arrow loosed. It wasn't long before the archer with the strange black bow stole the ire and attention of the attacking clans, until they were trying to ignore the Knight and Byron's blades in favor of attempting to get at the girl with the bow.
One got close enough to get a handful of the archer's collar, before an arrow was loosed at pont blank range into his right eye socket, spraying bits of blood and brain onto everyone in the area behind the Clansmen still clutching onto her riding leathers even in death.
Byron stifled a chuckle, how they were into the fire once again. Though contrary to Ser Drayton’s own thoughts he did not wish to flee back to the jail that he had previously been imprisoned in. The tribes of the Mountain of the Moon were honestly to Byron nothing more than “the wildlings south of the wall” and proved nothing but an annoyance in their existence. The disinherited Sarwyck didn’t underestimate them, though, and kept his wits about him. The nerve of the dornish girl however was something inspiring, he had to wonder more and more about her as they traveled further and further on this tattered highway.
“They die like anyone else!” Byron exclaimed in the midst of combat as his thoughts moved forward.
There was a flash of steel that followed his words as the westerlands soldier moved to the aid of the archer as he attempted to cut down the savage tribesmen trying to get a piece of her. If anything, Allyria was the perfect distraction with her talent in archery drawing the fools in by the number making it much easy to flank them which Byron did rather quickly and in his mind easily as well. There was no question of the disinherited Sarwyck’s skill as he had very much caught the realm’s eye when he became knighted at a very young age—a knighthood he had done absolutely nothing with as he had envious dreams of the rule of Riverspring rather than living an honorable life. Byron wasn’t cocky, but he knew he was no run-of-the-mill sword. He wondered if the knight Allyria traveled with would be making assumptions or observations once this battle came to a close; assuming they lived through it, of course.
The sheer cutting power of Dawn was on full display against enemies so lightly armored. Butter stood a better chance against Dawn than did the Mountain clans, it looked to Allyria. Drayton seemed to get no pleasure from the killing, running only on loyalty and automation. That was impressive, when one considered not a single enemy came within a foot of hitting him with any significant blow. No swordsman alive, Allyria was certain, could do more with one or two steps. And they were usually mere steps to the left or the right, always, it seemed, at just the right second.
When the last attacker came, it came from the overgrowth, screaming in the shaky foundations of a boy's voice. When Drayton saw him, he let Dawn fall down to his side. When the boy charged with a club of moderate heft, all the Sword of the Morning unleashed was another of those side steps. The boy wounded up going right past the knight, and if it weren't for Allyria he might've gone off the drop of the high road's opposite side. In thanks of stopping his momentum, the club came crashing down upon her, slowed only by her natural reaction to raise her hands--allowing the Dragonbone bow to get between she and the worst of the blow.
Not that she'd of known it then. All Allyria felt was death come crashing down on her like a boulder from the sky. Her vision narrowed to no more than a peek hazed in blacks and reds. At first she thought it odd she would be sweating given the cool air of the high road, until she realized it was blood rolling down her cheek and not sweat. The sand steed reeled and kicked, sending the boy to the ground, and Allyria along with him.
When she awoke, it wasn't the brain splitting pain in her head that surprised her. It was that the boy was still alive, if tied up and gagged.
"You're an idiot."
The heiress of Dorne made a face. "Slog off. Wine."
He gave it grudgingly, his eyes moving over to Byron, after a short pause on the overgrowth around them. "And don't you go encouraging her."
"It's not his fault my sworn sword moved out of the way so a charging mountain troll could whack me with his club."
“A lovers quarrel, is it?” Byron commented his brow raised as he looked on at the still living boy. In their position he probably would’ve killed the child just as he would the rest of them but it was out of his hands now. The former Sarwyck noble's eyes moved from his allies to the environment around them—checking for any sign of more of their enemies.
“I am going to assume she’s the one who asserts dominance since she’s the only one who’s taken charge in the entire time I’ve known both of you. But just a hunch.” The comment was definitely not polite and most certainly not one that he was taught to state. Being disinherited had made Byron sort of bitter and perhaps a bit too apathetic towards how his companions would react. Perhaps he assumed since they were hardly “proper” individuals themselves he wouldn’t need to act as he was taught by his father and his second wife.
"I like Byron."
Ally didn't beam about it, but likely only because of that little mountain troll, a fact Ser Drayton was very aware of. But he didn't take her bait; instead taking Byron's. A large man naturally, but in his armor, especially with his jaw set in anger, Drayton Dayne became even bigger. Nevermind the glowing sword he wielded like an extension of what her father would call 'the spirit of self.' Not that Ally had ever admitted it, but it was a scary thing to have a Knight like Drayton stare at you, like he could stare into you. If anything, she was glad he was staring at Byron at this moment, and not her.
"You can't tell a Princess of Dorne what to do."
It came so quickly, it was as if her anger was always there. "Not even a Sword of the Morning." I can expose you, too. It was petty, and childish, and she knew that as soon as the words came out of her mouth.
Byron’s ears perked and he turned. “So she’s a princess, huh? That’s a pretty dangerous thing to admit to a person you barely even know, but maybe common sense isn’t taught to a ‘Sword of the Morning’.” Byron’s face did not show fear or even caution as the Sarwyck’s eyes hit the knights own—it was like blades clashing in the night. Byron clearly had nerves of steel to even show such apathy in the face of confrontation. Both of Allyria and Drayton’s big reveals brought a sense of wonder and intrigue to the damned Sarwyck. With his arms crossed he began to ponder his thoughts; he had wondered why they had been this capable as they traveled mysteriously alone on the road. Byron was devious and he began to think if he could use it as a benefit later on, but for now they were the people keeping him alive so he need not scheme.
“You also reveal this in front of a damned witness.” Byron added with a groan as he pointed to their ‘hostage’.
Ser Drayton chuckled, his eyes giving a quick glance this way and that--to the corpses on the ground. "Aye, 'pretty dangerous' sounds about right to me. You may be off on dangerous to just who, though."
Allyria felt her mood darken even more than the sky above. Finally she ceased touching and rubbing and picking at the dried blood on her brow, or the painful cut just above her right eyebrow. It wasn't very deep, thankfully, saving her from another scar. At the objection of a witness, Princess Allyria Martell simply stood, removed one of the daggers from her belt, and walked over to the boy. He had to be four or five years younger than she was. No doubt going off to raid to prove himself.
Even Drayton seemed afraid of what she was about to do, turning to face the unfolding scene and even taking a step in her direction--until the blade went down to the boy, and cut away the gag, before cutting away the rope that binded him, her left hand grabbing his arm and pulling him up to his feet. "C'mon, here you go. And just so you don't go back unscathed."
She gave the boy the dagger, right into his left shoulder, a good three inches deep. He yelled and clutched at the shoulder, but it didn't seem to phase Allyria. Her tone was calm, even soothing. "Now, see? You'll have a castle forged dagger all your own, and the honor of surviving despite injury to tell the tale. But just so we're not taking TOO many chances..."
The poor kid never saw the Knight come up behind him, nor did he see the blow coming that left him unconcious and crumpled upon the high road. There was no joy in the Knight's tone as he looked down at the boy, and it was clear from her appearance alone that the Princess was in a black mood. "Shall we?"
But Allyria gave no response, instead walking past all of them to Lightning, and hopping up onto his back, her eyes on the boy until she turned the horse to leave. "I hope wolves don't get him."
"Still some daylight left. He'll wake up or they'll find him before dark."
“I would’ve killed him.” Byron stated as he decided not to shield his own views on the matter as he too mounted his horse. “But tis your choice, I just hope it doesn’t come back to us in any form.”
"He's a child," was all Ally said on the matter before heading down the high road on Lightning. It took longer than she would've thought to make it the rest of the way along the high road, but finally dots of torch fires announced to her they were nearing the Bloody Gate. Once at the gate she waited for the two men to catch up. The Knight of the Bloody Gate recognized Ser Drayton, making their entrance into the Valley of Arryn a much easier experience.
Traveling with a famous knight wasn't all bad times. Once at Gulltown, 'hiding' wasn't even an option. There'd be no use. Not with a stupid famous knight with them. Give, and take, was the mixed blessing of Ser Drayton. Barely a word was spoken from the Bloody Gate to the gates of Gulltown. And at the gates of Gulltown, near the middle of the night when the trio arrived, they were met with resistance. "Towns all filled up," said a guardsman.
When Ser Drayton got them nowhere, and Byron little help in this situation, it fell on Allyria. Only after telling them she was Princess Allyria of House Martell did their attitudes change, and only after proving her Martell birth with a signet ring. Hoping to encourage a greater interaction with the other regions of Westeros, Ally's mother bought manses for House Martell from White Harbor to Oldtown to Lannisport.
The Gulltown manse was modest in size, but it's servants, led by a woman named Marta that had served her mother during Daenerys Targaryen's youth in King's Landing, were immaculate--much like the inside of the house. It was like a bad representation of her parents: the modesty of her father in the size of the manse, the royalty of her mother in the manse's equisite staff and rich trappings.
Though it could've been difficult to tell Allyria was more than the hedge rat she appeared at times. She gave a high whistle as she entered the entrance hall of the mid-sized Manse, impressed by how rich it looked. As if she'd been living in hovels her entire life. Instead of heading straight to the kitchens, she was straight to bed. Waking shortly after dawn, even Ally was surprised to find Drayton and Byron still very much in the thick of a hard, deep, sleep.
Despite pleas from Marta, Allyria declined the offer of a bath, instead pulling her well road worn garb back on and heading for Tent City. Upon finding the Master of Ceremonies, Allyria entered herself into the Archery competition. A woman in competition was one thing, and would have caused gossip...but the Princess of Dorne? Allyria knew the talkers would start, knew word would get around fast.
But now, as the morning sun rose higher and squires and pages and people all rushed here and there, the sheer chaos and commotion of the Tourney's tent city was more than enough amusement and distraction for her. So she smiled, folded her hands together behind the small of her back, and started wandering the Tourney grounds--to see just what she could see.
