Member
MarshalSolgriev
Framing A Moose
Abstract Proxy
rabidbacon
Ezekiel
Izurich
Apollosarcher
Lildear18
Noctis
webboysurfBastards on a Mission
One could not say that there was not game to hunt in the Kingswood, but then game had long since grown used to the humans who stalked about with long bows being predators just as deadly as the wolves. Of course, the worst of the hunters dressed in silks with men to beat the brush so that deer and duck might spring from hidning to be a useful target for one to a noble lord to bring his exemplary skill to bear on. Which was utter poppycock. Alys Rivers glared at the distant retreat of a small herd of deer, their tails waving banners as she fingered the long bow that sat across her saddle’s pommel. “If you did not sound as though you were some tinkering merchant’s cart, I could have had us some nice supper and something to trade for coin as well.” The complaint held no edge of anger, but the stout grey mare switched her ears back at the tightened grip of the reins.
Dannel walked his horse gently, his eyes rolling at his partner’s chastisement. It was not the first time Alys had chastised him for his noise - unwarranted as he had corrected her the first dozen times - but now he let it slide. It was the normal rhythm of their travels. Dannel silently letting Alys fill the silence, until eventually he would be prodded enough to return a few words. He had always liked the silence of travel. Yet his years now spent with Alys gave him at least some appreciation of the woman’s quirks. He was, however, hungry, now that she mentioned it. His stomach betrayed his silence with a low rumble.
“Dannel, my boy, we are in desperate need of coin.” Which had run out at the last tavern leaving them to sleeping under elm and oak as they made their way through the Stormlands.
He grunted in response. Alys had a way of remembering things differently. “I believe it was not that it ran out, but that we ran out on it.” There had not been much coin left anyways, but it would have been enough for at least a loaf of bread and maybe even an ale to share. But he preferred sleeping beneath the sky than in the confined taverns they often found themselves in. Dannel never slept much those nights, he’d stay awake to keep watch over his companion and an ear for any disturbances.
Tossing her long braid over a shoulder, the short woman ignored the fact that to even hunt she would have had to dismount her mare, strung her bow and then hope the deer were still there. As long a shot as the chance would be that they were. For all she had the face of the lady, anyone passing the two would find her the oddity. A woman with tanned skin from the constant riding, dressing in a grey tunic with a leather vest trimmed with fox fur about the edges and breeches that were tucked into sturdy, if worn boots. Behind her, the shaggy packhorse looked longingly at a green patch of leaves and began taking the small stop to attempt a midday meal. Watching after where the deer had fled, the woman drummed her fingers on the shaft of the yew bow. Two strings along it’s shaft. One was the bowstring, the other a more durable and stubborn cord. Short as she was, Alys used the latter and a foot to string the bow rather than bending the thing. She was a small woman and for all she could pull any bow, height did not always help in the stringing.
Setting her cap back over her red hair, she cocked her head and gave a far drier comment. “My apologies, ser.” Her voice changed from it’s normally throaty tone to one of a boy’s with a cracking break on the border to manhood. “Ser Knight, might’n we be stoppin’ and winnin’ ye some glory an’ all in a tourney afore we starve of ‘unger?” Leaning back in the saddle, the woman’s lips thinned. She did not like being low on coin and in the middle of nowhere. Fawnton, the seat of House Cafferen, was a pleasant enough place, but it was no large city where she could get lost in the maze of streets with no one the wiser for a few coins missing. Switching back to her normal throaty voice she eyed the distant smoke of a village’s fireplaces. “I could perhaps find a merchant to swindle if we were closer to a town of some worth. Though you having a shield of a House would help.” She remarked more to herself than Dannel, seeming to toy with a plan she had in the works.
“Alys…” It was his turn for admonishment. He gave her a look that he must have given a hundred times before. His brow furrowed, the skin on his cheek pulled at the long scar that ran down it. His stomach rumbled again in contradiction to his tone. “We’re probably only a day or two’s ride from Summerhall.” His voice grated a bit at naming the castle. Damn nobles - and not just nobles - but the Royal Prince himself and his Dayne bitch. A day or two’s ride but they would not last without stopping somewhere as she had so rightly suggested. Her plans usually worked, but Seven help them when they didn’t. “What are you thinking, squire?” Gods, he hoped it wasn’t going to be another swindle where he bore the bruises and she the coin.
Alys waved away his worry with a hand as though shooing away a servant. "Two days to work then." She remarked with a smile that could match that of a fox's in a hen house. Putting her heels to the mare, she urged the grey on while the packhorse mournfully munched the last of his midday. Considering the tournament, she recalled what she knew of Summerhall, Prince Maekar and his lady wife, Dyanna Dayne. The names of such prestigious people were common enough on tongue that spoke of gossip surrounding the royal family and after Aegon IV had declared his Great Bastards legitimate tongue hardly ceased. They spoke of how likely it was that King Daeron the Good was a bastard himself leaving Daemon Blackfyre the true heir. Why else would Aegon have given the bastard, even a Targaryen bastard, the heirloom sword that had been handed from King to Heir since the Conqueror? Personally Alys was of the opinion that King Daeron or Daemon, the matter was hardly of note. The Realm was at peace while nobles bickered as they did.
"A prickly man, I'd not wager for my life to try to swindle Prince Maekar." She agreed, as good as a promise that she would not. Her own small attempt to soothe the hedge knight. "Though the tournament will be filled with others of our sort, good ser and those lofty nobles who wish to curry favor with the Prince. A good of place as any to see if I can swindle some coin come bet or beauty." Nobles were always bragging and she surely would be able to slip into a few tents, slip away a few shiny goblets and they be gone before anyone raised a hue or cry. Though she still thought to turn a deal perhaps posing as the infamous Lady Webber of Coldmoat, doubtful. Though they did say the Redwynes had some redheads among them… It would be a matter of getting a shield for Dannel to pose as a knight escort for a lady.
Even a year ago having her joke at swindling a Targaryen Prince would have given Dannel heart palpitations. But he allowed her to prattle on for she had already known it was no plan. This was the way of things, start at the absurd and Alys would talk herself down to a mostly manageable plan of attack. He picked at dirt beneath his fingers. “Pah, there should be plenty who are drunk enough on their Dornish red for it to be easy pickings.” Drunk nobles and knights, all their attendants; tourneys were always events that offered much for just a little work. And it would be good to put his sword arm to some actual use outside of scaring men in taverns or on the road.
Lost in thought, she paused and looked at the man with a glint in those pale blue eyes. "A good way to show your skills and under the eye of a Prince. My, good Ser, you could rise to some standing." It was also a risk of her losing her bodyguard and muscle. Yet, Alys could not begrudge him. If Dannel wished to move to better things? Then it was his right and she would only encourage him. Of course there was that matter of his dislike for nobles. "But then again, you could never scrape and bow without growling." All the better for the both of them.
He reflexively rolled his shoulders from a shudder that rolled down his back. “Don’t jest, I’ve no desire to rise in their ranks.” He had left House Lyberr, his adoptive home of sorts, having refused to pledge himself to them. He’d at least hope to avoid their tents should they make their way to Summerhall. “Besides, I couldn’t leave you out here on your lonesome. Not when you’ve finally gotten used to my growling.” He tossed her a half smile, from the unscarred side of his face. “But surely I must be a knight of some named place for whatever scheme you are brewing. Who shall I be this time? Perhaps a Knight of House Bushy?” He recalled their standard, a simple pattern to create. He couldn’t quite recall a single striking thing about them, but that was probably for the best. Another small family looking for a son or cousin to win a bit of coin and accolade.
Shaking her head at his attempt of a jest, the woman felt a twinge at amusement at how this man scorned nobles. The circumstances in her life seemed to play this as one of the minor amusements she could always laugh at. "The Bushy? They have enough family, even if you walked among them they would take you for a cousin of a cousin's cousin's, despite the Lord’s current family being small. A rarity." She remarked with dry humor, recalling what Septa Bessa had once said when a refusal of any daughter of that house was given to marry her father. Though there had developed a cease of worry between her brows as she recalled the past.
Dannel could appreciate the moments where they had seemed in step. It had not always been so. But he also knew her mannerisms. “What is it Alys? Don’t think I’m up to snuff to be a cousin’s-cousin’s cousin?” He spoke lightly, but if she fret, he would fret. His hand moved to rest on the hilt of his sword, a comforting act even if it could not dispel whatever had creased her brow.
“House Bushy will do well.” She remarked, shakinging her head which left her long braid flicking low across her horse’s withers. At least one sister would have been married quietly to a commoner who took up as a distant cousin to the Lothstons’. Her father would see to that and that it would be Danelle. Elayne would find a husband in a compliant Riverlord who Manfryd could see to his own use. They would have no reason to go to a tournament with no son to win the joust or melee. Danelle’s husband would be shaking in his boots, terrified to do more than press for a single son with his wife. As quickly as she had considered revealing that to Dannel, Alys dismissed it. It had been the better part of six if not seven years, and she had changed much. From a high brow lady who would carry on the Lothston name to a woman who could wear any face she chose. Of course she was no Faceless Man, but the appeal did carry to her of their legendary skill that her father had talked about in his study on dark nights. Their job as assassins, according to Manfryd Lothston, was what had her recoiling. Killing was never an easy thing, necessary at times but never easy. “I am merely thinking.” She admitted, hedging about the truth. “There are those that I like to avoid.” Which she had done so well, though mostly by staying away from the God’s Eye and Harrenhal. Avoiding the entirety of the Riverlands if she could.
Dannel nodded sharply in agreement, he could understand that all too well. The sellsword shifted in his saddle. It seemed they had decided a course; one that would bring him in proximity to a House that he had nursed a grudge against for over a decade. A familiar pang began behind his eyes. The pain would come and go, and it had been a constant reminder with this scar of what they had done to him - even if he could not remember the details, just flashes. His rough hand massaged at his temples as he gazed ahead of them. “Smoke, but I’m sure you noticed that already - I am always slower than you. Perhaps we can sing for some food and a spot in the stable.” Sing, steal, connive - Alys would have a plan.
“Sing?” The woman was incredulous as she looked at the knight. “I thought you wanted a place to sleep and a small feast, not to be tossed out on our ear so hard that we bounce on the cobbles.” She gave a startled laugh at the mere thought of her singing. “No, I shall not sing. Recite a tale, swindle some folk, I shall ser.” The woman was almost falling out of her saddle with a cackle. “Sing!” Chuckling to herself as she quickly regained control of herself, the woman dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. She had never sung in Dannel’s presence and with good reason, it was nice to know the man did not know everything about her. Drifting back beside the man she let him take a slight lead as she dipped a hand into a pocket and began pinning her long braid into a coil on her head. The chuckles and huffs of her laughter still breaking through at the mere thought of her singing, even as a child she had given it up early. Sing, indeed!
