'Still no rain, maester,', Fyren said, sleepy and displeased, as he was yawning and dragging his gear behind him. 'How sad. It would've been really convenient for you, woulnd't it? For your glorious new tale you are writing, I mean.' He dropped the load he was carrying and took a long swallow from his waterskin. It was near empty, he felt when he gave it a shake. He looked at the mostly obscured field around him and at the granite skies above him. Something was wrong with his health, he thought. His thirst had been insatiable for a few days, and his lips were always cracked and dry, and his eye watery. He did not feel weak, however. That was all that mattered. 'All the big battles in the books and songs are always taking place when it's raining. It's a pity yours will be so dry.'
He found a nice spot a little further on, with a huge solitary boulder hollowed out in such a way that it made a nice place to sit. The first big battle of his sellsword career would soon begin, and yet he did not have any grand thoughts to busy himself with while he was cleaning his sword and checking his gear. He did not care about any valour, or any spoils, or killing any great warrior, or any bloody tale for the posterity. There still had to be some fear in him, though, he thought, if nothing else. Yes, he feared for his life, but not because he was scared of death. He was afraid because he would never unravel the mystery that brought him there if he died that day. Or any day. He absolutely could not die, and he would do anything not to.
He cursed he knew not what and drained the waterskin of what little water remained in it. He wiped his mouth clean with his red cloak. 'That's all you were ever good for,' he said silently to the colour of his house, if his he could call it. 'Wiping myself.' There were lions in the enemy ranks, some man told him last night, large, trained to kill and starved before the battle. He even said there were dwarves riding them. Surely a lie, but interesting imagery nonetheless. He wondered what lord Lannister would think about it: lions caged by some brutes in the East and used like swine in those travelling bands of entertainers, in which dwarves ride pigs and pretend to be knights. Even at that moment it made him smile. 'Perhaps they'll spare us. For family's sake. What do you think?' he asked his cloak and gave the blade one last measuring look. Castle-forged and blazing in the pathetic ray of sunlight that made its way through the clouds. Somehow it looked shorter than it really was when observed with one eye that had little sense of depth. 'If not... Well, I've got a claw too.'
All in all, he was ready. Waiting was all that was left to do, the last and most annoying part of it all. If only things would begin as soon he was ready, that would be the life. To get it over with and move on. He got up and took his stuff. He decided to look for someone he knew, to pass the time somehow. Somehow time always passed more quickly if he had company. Company was no different than wine in that regard. He also liked to listen to others talking, the hard men all of them, because that way it felt as if they would all have a flawless victory, escape unscathed, and leave only enemy corpses burning behind them as they laugh because they are invincible. At least it felt that way before small skirmishes and raiding attacks they'd performed. This was different, he knew, a big battle on the open field, between thousands of men, hundreds of peoples. But the men in his band were the same, so surely they would all live to fight another day this time as well, wouldn't they? No, said a voice in his head. The maestar's tale won't be dry at all.
House: Lannister, at least in name, if not in wealth and status.
Appearance: The famous associations with his distant cousins are not present in Fyren's appearance, save for his green eye colour. He's not as tall as some with the same name. His hair is not gold at all, but coal black, soft and cut short. He is beardless, always. He couldn't grow a proper beard even if he wanted to. Luckily, he is not ugly. A girl might even call him handsome here and there. His nose is long and straight, his cheek get red in the sun, his eyebrows are thin just as his lips are full, and his forehead is high. He can't boast of any visible scars, a mere stripling in that gang of ragged veterans. Perhaps he's got a bit skinny, but that is to be expected of a depressed sellsword on constant march, although he started well-fed and strong. Most importantly, he only has his left eye. The right he lost foolishly in a game of dice. He often bears himself oddly because of that blind spot, turning his head left and right in such a way that one would think he's looking for someone or afraid of something. Perhaps that is not too far from the truth. He cloaks himself often, even when it's hot, and his hand often reaches for the hilt on its own, right there where the worn out image of a lion can barely be seen anymore.
Personality: Fyren does not ask too many personal questions and he prefers it when others treat him the same. There is something about inquisitiveness that rubs him the wrong way. He has no problems with orders and commands. He is a hard worker and obeys his superiors with utmost diligence. Those orders that are within reason, that is. Criminality and sadism, while he is ready to overlook it and turn his eye away when his comrades are engaged in it, is not something you will see him stoop to. Fyren is also quick to love and forgive, which might be a bad thing in a sellsword; but it is that very love that would make him give up his life for any of his friends and companions, a hundred times if he could and had to. That is not to say that he is free of vices, far from it. Drink and dice is what brought him across the Narrow Sea, ultimately. Now he only drinks; gambling he despises and runs away from, but he will give coin and more than coin for any information about the 'dragon girl'.
History: He was not much better off than the local bastard children growing up. His father bore the name of a famous house, but that did not do them much good. For all intents and purposes, his father was a commoner, no more noble than his commoner mother, a cold woman from the north with a good dowry left her by some generous lord she served or other. She married him because she was simple-minded, and put hopes into her husband's name even though he had nothing. (Fyren's grandfather questioned his cousin the lord one time too many and even threatened him with arms, and suddenly he had nothing except for a decrepit old house in the country where they lived. He was alive at least. 'It would be reputation, killing your own.') Tywin of course gave them alms now and that simply because of their name – or is it to mock them? – but he made it clear that they would never have anything.
And so he grew up in the decrepit old house. His father never spoke much, and his mother spent her days in regret. She loved him though, she never regretted having children. Lyra was older than Fyren. When he was 14 she left to King's Landing, 'to be a woman of faith', or whatever it was that she said. He missed her and her advice. She was always wise, his sister. And proud. And cruel. Perhaps he would've ended up somewhere else had she not left? He left too a year later, after working as a guard in Lannisport, hoping for nothing and looking for nothing. He simply wanted to move away. He found a troupe of actors and entertainers in the city, on their way East, and so he decided to follow them for a while before heading to King's Landing and perhaps one of the Free Cities.
And so on the road he got drunk one night, really drunk. A stranger head joined them somewhere along the way, an old man, gray and wrinkled, with a patch on his eye and a pouch full of gold. But his spirit was young, and he was merry and shouting, and everyone was laughing at his jokes and clapping at his stories. A charlatan , Fyren thought, or a conjurer from Essos dealing in cheap tricks. There was something odd about him, and no one could see it. And so, drunk, Fyren challenged him: a game of dice. He would take all of his money and chase him away with his sword. But he lost it all. All the money he had saved, and his golden buckle, and his ornate pipe. But the man gave him a chance to regain it all. And more. Suddenly, no one was awake, and the two of them were alone by the fire, and even the fire was dying. The man somehow knew all about him, and offered him one last game: if Fyren wins, he would be the lord, and he told him the stories of golden spoons and foreign women dancing in the castle, and feasts and wild exotic beasts brought for his entertainment. If he loses though, the man takes his eye. Fyren laughed and thought the man was insane, but everything he had lost, mixed with a lot of wine, made him accept the deal, thinking it was a joke. So he cast the dice, without thinking, mumbled random numbers. And lost. A second later the man's fingers were plucking his eye out and he was screaming, but no one in the camp woke up. He was rolling in the dirt, grabbing for his sword, but the man had it. The man thanked him, and told him not to cry and whine. 'You should be the one thanking me too,' he said, 'for with one eye gone you will keep the one you have left where you are supposed to keep it: on the road. I did you a favour,' he said. 'I have to go now,' he added. 'The dragon girl is far away, there's a long road in front of me. Perhaps we shall meet again.' He dropped the sword and left.
Skills: Swimming: Fyren has never met a man who beat him in a swimming race. Potions: Bring him a herb and he will know its name and its use, tell him of your ache and he will recommend you one. His mother taught him that. Literacy: He can read and write the Common Tongue. Singing: If a song's been sung in a tavern in the Seven Kingdoms, Fyren has heard of it, and he will sing it. Too bad he can't play any instrument.
Equipment: A longsword A dagger A tattered red cloak and tabard An old chainmail A helmet Riding gloves and boots A bedroll Some cooking equipment Waterskin
House: Lannister, at least in name, if not in wealth and status.
Appearance: The famous associations with his distant cousins are not present in Fyren's appearance, save for his green eye colour. He's not as tall as some with the same name. His hair is not gold at all, but coal black, soft and cut short. He is beardless, always. He couldn't grow a proper beard even if he wanted to. Luckily, he is not ugly. A girl might even call him handsome here and there. His nose is long and straight, his cheek get red in the sun, his eyebrows are thin just as his lips are full, and his forehead is high. He can't boast of any visible scars, a mere stripling in that gang of ragged veterans. Perhaps he's got a bit skinny, but that is to be expected of a depressed sellsword on constant march, although he started well-fed and strong. Most importantly, he only has his left eye. The right he lost foolishly in a game of dice. He often bears himself oddly because of that blind spot, turning his head left and right in such a way that one would think he's looking for someone or afraid of something. Perhaps that is not too far from the truth. He cloaks himself often, even when it's hot, and his hand often reaches for the hilt on its own, right there where the worn out image of a lion can barely be seen anymore.
Personality: Fyren does not ask too many personal questions and he prefers it when others treat him the same. There is something about inquisitiveness that rubs him the wrong way. He has no problems with orders and commands. He is a hard worker and obeys his superiors with utmost diligence. Those orders that are within reason, that is. Criminality and sadism, while he is ready to overlook it and turn his eye away when his comrades are engaged in it, is not something you will see him stoop to. Fyren is also quick to love and forgive, which might be a bad thing in a sellsword; but it is that very love that would make him give up his life for any of his friends and companions, a hundred times if he could and had to. That is not to say that he is free of vices, far from it. Drink and dice is what brought him across the Narrow Sea, ultimately. Now he only drinks; gambling he despises and runs away from, but he will give coin and more than coin for any information about the 'dragon girl'.
History: He was not much better off than the local bastard children growing up. His father bore the name of a famous house, but that did not do them much good. For all intents and purposes, his father was a commoner, no more noble than his commoner mother, a cold woman from the north with a good dowry left her by some generous lord she served or other. She married him because she was simple-minded, and put hopes into her husband's name even though he had nothing. (Fyren's grandfather questioned his cousin the lord one time too many and even threatened him with arms, and suddenly he had nothing except for a decrepit old house in the country where they lived. He was alive at least. 'It would be reputation, killing your own.') Tywin of course gave them alms now and that simply because of their name – or is it to mock them? – but he made it clear that they would never have anything.
And so he grew up in the decrepit old house. His father never spoke much, and his mother spent her days in regret. She loved him though, she never regretted having children. Lyra was older than Fyren. When he was 14 she left to King's Landing, 'to be a woman of faith', or whatever it was that she said. He missed her and her advice. She was always wise, his sister. And proud. And cruel. Perhaps he would've ended up somewhere else had she not left? He left too a year later, after working as a guard in Lannisport, hoping for nothing and looking for nothing. He simply wanted to move away. He found a troupe of actors and entertainers in the city, on their way East, and so he decided to follow them for a while before heading to King's Landing and perhaps one of the Free Cities.
And so on the road he got drunk one night, really drunk. A stranger head joined them somewhere along the way, an old man, gray and wrinkled, with a patch on his eye and a pouch full of gold. But his spirit was young, and he was merry and shouting, and everyone was laughing at his jokes and clapping at his stories. A charlatan , Fyren thought, or a conjurer from Essos dealing in cheap tricks. There was something odd about him, and no one could see it. And so, drunk, Fyren challenged him: a game of dice. He would take all of his money and chase him away with his sword. But he lost it all. All the money he had saved, and his golden buckle, and his ornate pipe. But the man gave him a chance to regain it all. And more. Suddenly, no one was awake, and the two of them were alone by the fire, and even the fire was dying. The man somehow knew all about him, and offered him one last game: if Fyren wins, he would be the lord, and he told him the stories of golden spoons and foreign women dancing in the castle, and feasts and wild exotic beasts brought for his entertainment. If he loses though, the man takes his eye. Fyren laughed and thought the man was insane, but everything he had lost, mixed with a lot of wine, made him accept the deal, thinking it was a joke. So he cast the dice, without thinking, mumbled random numbers. And lost. A second later the man's fingers were plucking his eye out and he was screaming, but no one in the camp woke up. He was rolling in the dirt, grabbing for his sword, but the man had it. The man thanked him, and told him not to cry and whine. 'You should be the one thanking me too,' he said, 'for with one eye gone you will keep the one you have left where you are supposed to keep it: on the road. I did you a favour,' he said. 'I have to go now,' he added. 'The dragon girl is far away, there's a long road in front of me. Perhaps we shall meet again.' He dropped the sword and left.
Skills: Swimming: Fyren has never met a man who beat him in a swimming race. Potions: Bring him a herb and he will know its name and its use, tell him of your ache and he will recommend you one. His mother taught him that. Literacy: He can read and write the Common Tongue. Singing: If a song's been sung in a tavern in the Seven Kingdoms, Fyren has heard of it, and he will sing it. Too bad he can't play any instrument.
Equipment: A longsword A dagger A tattered red cloak and tabard An old chainmail A helmet Riding gloves and boots A bedroll Some cooking equipment Waterskin