Beneath Dread Banners
In his own very humble opinion, Oric had seen a lot in his day. He had marched under Ned Starks banner at the Trident and again on Pyke. He had seen a two-headed cat eat a cow long before mad things became as commonplace as they were now and when he saw blue eyes glow in the forest, he just clutched his axe tighter and gave the things as good as he got.
He did feel quite the dashing warrior, despite his age, when he came out of that scrap with only a few scratches and a rather impressive wolf-hare-duck-something-thing corpse to show off. However, he did regret showing it off right now. Under the gaze of the man before him, he felt more like a child awaiting a good thrashing for one misdeed or another. There was just something unnerving about his eyes, as if they stared right into your soul and peered straight at all those nooks and crannies where it was lacking.
"It would be foolish to let you keep something tainted by their powers." The voice of Lord Bolton barely rose above the whispers of the cold breeze driving the summer snow through the village square. A tiny, treacherous part of Orics mind objected to this. After all, it was his kill, but he was not going to gain say the bloody
Leech Lord.
Without a word being spoken at them, one of the armored giants roused. Four of them had come with Lord Bolton, each tall as a tree and silent as a crypt. Oric wasn't even sure they weren't statues, for they didn't even seem to move a toe without being told to. The strange southron who rounded out the Lords entourage and who had been examining the carcass, got out of the way as the giant picked the man-sized thing up by the hind legs like a plucked duck.
The crowd gasped as something was thrown at Orics feet in it's place. A tiny brown bag, but the clicking of coins was unmistakable and it was full indeed. "For a deed well done," were the quiet words spoken as Lord Bolton turned his horse around and Oric carefully took the bag to peek inside and see if it was all copper or some silver inside.
When he saw the gleam of gold among all the silver, he decided that the Leech Lord could bloody well keep the dead thing.
It took a moment for Daeryn of Sar Mell to catch up to his host. The horse still gave him trouble and Lord Bolton took little heed of these issues, silently telling that he was not performing as expected and letting the awkwardness of the situation speak as loud as an open reprimand.
The mage took quite some amusement from how alike the barbarian lord and Triarch Zherys were in their treatment of underlings and yet how mortally offended they would be at the comparison. Nevermind that they would likely get along marvelously after a while. He himself had to admit to some fondness of the pragmatic rudeness of the northern lord.
When he finally caught up, his horse nearly decided to bolt again, unnerved by the dead things masquerading as knights that escorted the Leech Lord. Maybe he should write a letter to that Wisdom Qyburn to get himself a horse as obedient as the mute giants.
Lord Bolton didn't even acknowledge Daeryns presence until they were a good bit away from the village and back on the mud 'road' leading to the Dreadfort, then a single glance was all the prompting he got or needed. "It is definitely Their work my lord. The form was twisted before death, so unless there is a hidden Forge in these lands, it is the handiwork of our quarry."
"The third this month," the Leech Lord replied as he looked over the beast that seemed stuck between at least four distinct forms, and life and death besides.
Daeryn just nodded, his hand instinctively reaching for a very special bottle on his belt. "That the closer alignment with winter strengthens it confirms my theory. It's using rituals, not direct spellcraft. We should be able to take it with the forces at your disposal my lord. Though I might advise that Wisdom Qyburns help wouldn't go amiss."
"Can you find it then?" The whispered question sent a chill up Daeryns spine. While this time the creature had been slain without causing much damage, that was not always the case and he did not miss the implications of his quarters having been moved after his latest failure to divine the location of the Others servant creating them. To a draftier part of the Dreadfort. Closer to the dungeons at that.
Very much like Zherys.
However, he still had some coin and favour to spend. "I will inquire with the House of Mirrors if you allow me to use the brazier my lord." There was a short pause between the men, the Dread Lord probably guessing at whom else Daeryn might want to call, but in the end he nodded none the less, taking quite some weight from the mages shoulders.
This whole mess was complicated enough without it being publicly known that he still had ties to the Red Priests.
AN: Content provided by my muse needing to purge stray ideas. Posted on request by @DragonParadox.
