42 Hirelings and Mentors
Cayde sat down on the ice rampart that stretched out in both directions until it hit the waters of the Green Fork. He'd made very good coin protecting the jewel merchant; the man had thought he could make a pretty penny coming through the Twins, but now that the damnable Northerners were here, the fool had decided he didn't need a sellsword anymore... or at least not a sellsword as good as he was, so he needed new work, and he'd found a man who was offering quite a lot of silver for a job; trial by combat for a food thief. Stuck-up highborn liked to pretend they were all high and mighty, but tell them they couldn't have what they wanted, be it wine, women, or, apparently, a honeyed roll and they screeched like a common fishwife.
He snorted, taking another bit of the bitter dark bread that had become the staple food of these breakaway kingdoms; it was cold, with a thick crust, and crunchy with rough-ground mixed grains. Not one maggot or worm in this piece, and only a handful of weevils in bread baked less than a day ago; what the man thought soldiers ate on campaign, or if the man was thinking at all, the sellsword didn't know, but he'd be paid half in advance if he took the job.
At first, rumor had it he'd be fighting some so-called First Sword; highborn girl taught by some greasy-haired foreigner had killed a bunch of Lannister conscripts, but she'd fucked off a few days ago. The tales of her were too ridiculous to be true; wine always made tales grow. Sure, she was more dangerous than some conscripts, but so was any sellsword worth their silver. Instead, he'd have to fight someone else, and the only other fighters he'd been worried was the Hound and another veteran sellsword, Myric. Myric, however, had fucked off to the South once his own employer got rid of him; said he was going to Essos to get away from the army of the dead, which was great; one less man competing for the gold. He'd grown up hearing tales of the Hound - not as huge as the Mountain, had killed his first man at twelve instead of ten, but a famous man who'd survived a price on his head for years... apparently by hiding. The sellsword shook his head; the man had gotten old. Look at him now!
Digging. The famous warrior was teaching a bunch of peasant conscripts to dig a fucking hole in the ground like he was a damned master-at-arms teaching conscripts how to use a sword. Sure, the moats they were digging would hold off a million men, but he wasn't going to bring a million men to take a castle; just a one on one duel to the death, and Lord Clegane the Ditchdigger over there was famous for fighting with a single weapon at a time; he'd be easy meat now. Even his reputation was overblown; he'd won the tourney near a decade ago without even participating! Myric had said the man was still dangerous and he wouldn't want to cross blades with the man, but Myric was perhaps nine and twenty, and getting over-cautious... his loss.
Cayde finished the bread and stood as Clegane climbed out of the hole he was in and went off with some wildling man. Hells, maybe it was a woman, he couldn't tell - ugly as sin, but not his problem. His problem was a hand and a half Valyrian steel sword, reputed to be Valyrian steel, a boot knife, and a belt knife in the hands of a man who was still strong, but... too old. Maybe he did fight these dead men, but if the training was any indication that was easy, because they had no skill, had no cunning.
He'd take the job, collect the first payment, kill the Hound in the trial by combat, collect the second half, and with that to boast of, he'd be able to charge five times what he did now! If the big man was getting beat by some woman knight who'd never fought a battle and a highborn girl of eight and ten, a veteran sellsword of three and twenty wouldn't have a problem.
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Wylla Manderly smiled at the guards and entered the room dedicated to naval affairs with the Master of Ships just before her and the rest of the Northern Essos contingent behind her. She ducked down to check under the table by habit as she passed the door, then leaned her spear in the rag-padded rest next to her seat at the map table, briefly glancing over the table to verify there were no changes in the positions of the fleets. Not finding any, the green-haired Harbormaster looked up at the others cheerfully; since she was the only Lady present, it was her duty to ensure everyone was properly supplied.
"Lord Grafton, Admiral Vollin, Admiral Phasselion, Admiral Ostoran, Captain H'raar, I'm parched; would you like refreshments?" asked Wylla as she walked past the spears, crossbows, and shields that kept handy to the side table with the cups and pitcher of water. A simple, economical blow with the heel of her hand like the way she'd seen Arya Stark do it cracked the thick skin of ice on top, which allowed her to pour herself a cup and place it atop a small shield for use as a serving platter as the others answered.
"A man has a thirst," replied H'raar in the manner of his home city of Lorath.
"I would be most grateful, my Lady," answered Phasselion, his the Ibbenese accent strong.
Wylla waited while the other two she was used to working with as well as Admiral Ostoran of Pentos declined politely, then poured two more cups full, sharply broken ice streaming into the cups in a way she knew would horrify the naval delegates from Tyrosh, Lys, Dorne, and other far Southron places. None of those were here now; they weren't involved, not yet, and quite possibly never. The men here knew snow and ice nearly as well as any Northerner. Better than most, in Admiral Phasselion's case, since his home island was farther north than even Winterfell.
Wylla balanced the shield on one hand gracefully, stepping quickly around her spear and setting the cups in front of those who has requested them and acknowledging their thanks before returning the shield and retaking her seat at the map table, looking at the Master of Ships politely. The Lorathi always spoke so oddly! Perhaps she could visit Lorath someday; maybe that was where Arya Stark learned to speak the same way, and she could follow in the Stark's footsteps.
"Lady Wylla, if you would cover the latest news for us all, to bring us all up to speed?" asked Lord Grafton, turning to the mistress of White Harbor's harbor. The young woman was surprisingly competent, and the amount of work he had was certainly far beyond what one man alone could do, so he thanked the Mother for her mercy in providing both Lady Wylla and Admiral Vollin. They would be valuable allies now... and respectable trading partners and trading rivals later, if any survived the Long Night. If Gulltown came out ahead of White Harbor and Seagard, he would provide more taxes and tithes to the Queen, and have the honor of helping the other kingdoms. If not, Gulltown would not suffer in winters for the other kingdoms would help them. The North had never, ever been a place where frivolity took precedence over preparing for winter, now least of all.
"Certainly, my Lord. I had the good fortune to be invited by Queen Sansa to speak with Lord Bran earlier today. Admiral Ostoran, your last fleet has cleared the ice shelf and is navigating the icebergs about as far north as Karhold or Hornwood. Captain H'raar, your latest outbound fleet is rounding Braavos with one casualty; the Wandering Table brushed an iceberg in a storm and all but eight of the crew were rescued. The ship and cargo, however, was lost entirely. Both fleets are still on course for Gulltown for trade and warehousing. Other fleets are on schedule, including the Summer Islanders," reported the green-haired woman. She'd gotten to speak to Bran Stark, to see the mysterious Three-Eyed Raven's powers at work in person! His eyes had gone white, then rolled back and he'd just pointed at the map and told her what had happened oceans away; truly the Starks had magic in their blood. She took another drink, chewing the ice pieces loudly while the news was being digested by the others.
"My condolences, Captain," said Lord Grafton. That the Lorathi had lost a ship while the Ibbenese had not was no surprise. The Ibbenese were the only people in the world to regularly sail through ice, to build ships fit to do so... and even those ships were quickly nearing their limit.
"The sea is a harsh mistress. A man is thankful for your concern; a ship was carrying salt cod, a cargo easily replaced. A man thinks only one ship lost in a deep winter storm on icy seas is a blessing," replied Captain H'raar stoically. A man had spent so long on the seas and in foreign ports that a man was no longer offended by personal addresses that would be rude at home.
Wylla reached down to the south of the map, tapped a point, withdrew a parchment from her cloak, spreading it out and showing the others a crude architectural drawing, and said, "Also, the 'independent trader' Cargoes of Wisdom, who flies Yunkish sails was boarded by a harbor pilot and guards on approach to Planky Town in Dorne; it opened up some kind of fold-out trebuchet on the foredeck and launched a single large wildfire barrel towards Sunspear, which fell short. The ship started to change course east towards the Dornish capital a few seconds before it detonated in a green explosion; the ship, crew, harbor pilot and small boat crew were all destroyed, with no damage to anyone or anything else. Lord Bran Stark confirmed that the ship had previously been captured by Euron's fleet and delivered to King's Landing, and the crew was Westerlanders under Cersei's orders. Qyburn designed and oversaw the new trebuchet design; there's only been the one made so far. A page was sent to appraise Princess Sarella of the situation; that's all the news I have to report."
"Thank you, Lady Wylla, and thanks to Lord Bran for the information. I suggest we send out a warning about attacks from even well known friendly vessels, and have all ships boarded and searched at least four thousand yards offshore and away from fleets. Let's cover sailing matters next, then, gentlemen and lady? How many ships will we need to pull from fleets to expand the protected area, Admiral Vollin?" said Lord Grafton as the Ibbenese and the Lorathi exchanged nods and the discussion commenced. They'd get the more Southron powers involved later, but they were here, now, and so could make short work of their own changes, which could serve as a guide to any other powers that wished to follow in the footsteps of the Northern fleets... particularly the greatest sea power in the world, Braavos. For as much more powerful as his own fleets and the Manderly fleets were now compared to a bare year ago, they were still no match for their greatest ally... whose Arsenal had built their new ships in the first place.
Wylla took out the rest of the notes she'd received from Bran Stark and adjusted the ship tokens on the map board. While the Three-Eyed Raven couldn't easily tell the position of a ship on the open sea with his greensight, he could very easily read the last log entry the pilot had made, and it was based on those reports that she measured bearing and distance and updated the fleets... both their own and the enemy's. The others covered their fleet movement, sea conditions, and what little the winds were changing with fairly easy familiarity... all but Admiral Ostoran, who was still somewhat resentful of what the Braavosi had done to his home of Pentos.
In some ways, she could understand that resentment; not entirely unlike the way the North had been conquered by the Targaryen, the Pentoshi had been conquered by the Braavosi. Both had still mostly ran themselves, but both had been under restrictions they chafed at, like restrictions on the Pentoshi fleets... which, of course, led to them having a harbor much larger than they currently needed. On the other hand, one of the restrictions put on the Pentoshi was forbidding slavery and the slave trade. By the Father's scales, this was hard to balance! Some good and some bad and some people seeking vengeance, century after century, nursing old grudges.
"Euron's fleet is nearly in position to ambush the convoy carrying Lord Tyrion... or they would be if they'd left days earlier, and for the low price of eight ships foundering in the reefs east of the Grey Gallows," commented Lord Grafton with amusement. Eight ships wasn't a lot, but that wasn't the first nor the last loss at sea for those fleets, and that kind of slow, steady damage that gave more and more advantage over time to the pirate Ironborn's enemies. The Ironborn had added a couple hundred ships to their fleet far faster than he or the Manderlies had, and they'd paid for it, putting coastal sailors on the deep water in ships built by common smallfolk instead of expert shipbuilders.
"That's what happens when you destroy their scout ships and send ravens with the wrong dates across territory you know the enemy has archers; they're forced to take a riskier route to achieve nothing. Take heed, young Lady Wylla; battles at sea are merely the very last thrust of a long, involved duel that leaves tracks over land and sea both. In many duels the outcome is nearly certain before the first blade is drawn, and in all naval battles the advantage is taken before the first sighting of the enemy is made. Anything else regarding sailing matters in the Shivering Sea? I think we've covered our Free Cities well enough, and it appears we owe Lord Greyjoy thanks for burning his uncle's flag squadron; he seems to have removed their best pilots. Lord Grafton, is there anything else from you?" said Admiral Vollin with a savage grin, carefully straightening his somber black velvet outfit and generally appearing quite self-satisfied. He thanked the Moon that the newly appointed Westerosi Master of Ships was a reasonable man, though he supposed only a great fool would appoint someone unreasonable during the Long Night. As it stood, the Gulltown lord continued with the policy that the Braavosi admiralty took the lead in matters of the open seas.
"Nothing else from me. Any other thoughts on fleet movements? No? All right, on to the matter of ports. Lady Wylla?"
Wylla gathered her thoughts, considering how what she'd just heard would affect the harbor situation, then spoke up, getting straight to the point just as Arya would, though with some of Sansa's courtesies, "Unless there are urgent objections, White Harbor is closed as a destination as of now; the current inbound fleets, including those just discussed, will be the last allowed in. The only ships allowed to stay will end up wintering there for the rest of the Second Long Night... if they aren't turned into firewood if we run out. The ice shelf is too near and the icebergs are increasing in both size and frequency; the Southron fleets especially have no experience with navigating Northern waters."
After joining the round of smirks about their warm-water brethren, she continued as she'd cleared with Lord Grafton and Lord Patrek a few hours before, "Gulltown will take all new convoys for Westeros; northbound convoys will also be redirected to Gulltown until and unless the ice shelf moves too far south, though we expect that will be thin enough that the Ibbenese kochs will be able to use it for quite awhile. Seagard will close before Gulltown does; at this point its primary use as a port is for Dornish and Summer Isles fleets, and avoiding Euron's forces. Any questions about Westeros before I advise about Essos?"
She looked around the room, taking a drink and crunching some more ice while the Braavosi and Pentoshi men spoke quietly in what she now easily recognized as Bastard Valyrian, but still couldn't hope to translate. She'd picked up quite an ear for languages and accents from all over the world, and had already learned a few words in nearly all of them; it was so exciting! And now, the Pentoshi didn't want to give the Braavosi control over their port, the Braavosi absolutely wouldn't let the Pentoshi have any say in theirs, and the Lorathi kept out of the mess, so they'd agreed to listen to Westerosi suggestions and then work out a mutual agreement! As she saw they were done, she started.
"Braavos is only a couple hundred miles south of White Harbor; that's going to close off both Braavos and Lorath quite soon. We can homeport another eighty ships to twenty and a hundred ships at Gulltown as long as they're mostly traveling, so until Braavos is impassable, we would be honored to host as much of the Ibbenese fleet as you'd like, Admiral Phasselion; your fishing and whaling fleets would provide very welcome supplies if you'd like to sell some in addition to shipping goods to Essos on sled caravans over the ice. Pentos is the next harbor south, about as far south as King's Landing; rivers will definitely be frozen, but the Maesters think the sea will remain passable for quite some time even for the more skilled Southron pilots, possibly the entire Long Night. Admiral Ostoran, your harbor is perhaps the single most protected harbor from storms in all the world, and you have very substantial port facilities for fleets that are currently not in full use," said Wylla, trying to be as diplomatic as Wynafryd or Sansa would be.
The Pentoshi had challenged Braavos at sea repeatedly, and come very close to winning more than once, but only about a hundred years ago they'd lost for the last time and been restricted to only a small number of warships by the Braavosi compared to their previous great numbers... which was why they had so many port facilities that weren't in use. In truth, that were rotten shells of what they had once been, but the harbor itself was truly excellent. Piers, wharves, warehouses, even roads could be built quickly and effectively, as she'd overseen in White Harbor. Dredging channels and making harbor space, however, was much, much more difficult. Pentos was the only practical option to keep trade flowing; Myr and Tyrosh were six hundred miles farther south, in line with Highgarden, where even river weren't expected to free, but they just weren't outfitted to handle that number of ships, especially if the Pentoshi had to move south as well... and they were slaver strongholds, with Myr in particular also sponsoring pirates.
"We do," said Phasselion grumpily, narrowing his eyes at Vollin for a moment before he looked back at the green-haired girl and continued with a sigh, admitting what everyone here knew but what was still shameful to say aloud, "But most of it's in disrepair. It costs money and effort to keep facilities up, as you know well, since we're still paying reparations to Braavos. Our trade is large, but not as large as it'd need to be to require those docks... not for a hundred years, not even with the road to Norvos and Qohor leading to our doorstep. Even if the Magisters wanted to rebuild it, the expense would be... daunting."
"I understand," said Wylla, pausing a bit while remembering discussing the political consequences of the very few practical options with Queen Sansa Stark and the suggestions she'd received, then drew in a breath and plunged ahead, "I would propose that we here arrange a sharing of cost; Ib, Lorath, Braavos, and the Winter Kingdoms will together completely pay for the restoring of the piers. We four will further arrange for an account at the Bank of Pentos to be funded with these monies, which will provide for ongoing legitimate expenses related to hiring more Pentoshi to expand the harbormaster's office in order to efficiently run and fully maintain that refurbished part of the harbor. In return, Pentos will loan that entire section of the harbor to us for a term of ten years, with options to extend the loan in five year increments for a fixed payment schedule written into the contract, which are required to be accepted by Pentos for long as winter lasts, and which Pentos may optionally accept once Spring comes. Additionally, Pentoshi taxes, tariffs, and prices for resupplies will be fixed in the contract. A minimum annual purchase amount for resupplies will also be fixed in the contract; for as long as the loan of the section of harbor lasts, we will buy at least that much supplies every year. All those funds will come out of the account with the Bank of Pentos, which will be fully funded, in advance, with the expected expenditures, and additional funds deposited each year should actual expenses exceed the expectation. If you would like, the Winter Kingdoms will also commit to negotiating with Dorne so that more of the Braavosi fleet can winter in Planky Town, and Winter Kingdoms warships will winter in Pentos. We all get through the winter with navigable home ports, Pentos doesn't lose anything during the winter and keeps dockworkers employed and experienced. Come spring the Pentoshi port will be fully repaired and in great condition for the first time in a hundred years, ready for trade."
Wylla drew a deep breath and waited for their response, her eyes darting between them. The basic ideas were hers, though it had been her grandfather who had told her she needed to specifically call out the Pentoshi bank; they would have taken grave offense at having to use the Iron Bank of Braavos instead of their own. She'd known that the Braavosi absolutely had to find ports that wouldn't be iced in, and that the Iron Bank was willing to work with other banks, as long as the rates were good. Everyone had to extend some trust, everyone gave up some things they didn't want to lose, and everyone got something valuable out of it... she hoped. Dealing with this wasn't the same as running her family's own port, but it had to be done, and her father wasn't here anymore.
She just hoped she hadn't just created a rift between their allies; she thought that the Braavosi wouldn't want too much of their navy housed in the harbor of a resentful rival, and the Pentoshi also wouldn't want too much of the Braavosi military in their city. On the other hand, if the Braavosi established a firm presence in Dorne, that would further extend their reach and influence not just in Westeros but also in the Stepstones, Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys, and give them a major advantage in any Sothoryos trade that might develop. Unexpectedly, it was Captain H'raar who spoke first.
"A man thinks a Master of Ships might be safe after all. A young woman might be seeking to be Master of Coin instead," said the Lorathi with respectful amusement, a tilt of his head and a small smile, continuing, "A Free City will support this plan, if the payments negotiated are proportional to size of fleets and size of ships."
"Safe or not, I'm not resigning just yet. Lady Wylla, you'll have to wait a few more years before you consider taking my position... and you'll need seafaring experience, and to see more than just the North, or even Westeros. Since your duties as harbormaster are about to come to a close at White Harbor, perhaps you might see fit to come to Gulltown, learn how we do things in the Vale, and lend your experience to make sure everything is shipshape for the increased traffic it'll see, and then, perhaps, another port might wish to benefit from her presence..." said Lord Grafton, looking inquiringly at his counterparts from Essos and studiously ignoring the furious blush adorning the young woman's cheeks. Reports aside, he'd been skeptical of an unmarried young lady as harbormaster... and then he'd sailed a small fleet into White Harbor amidst a pair of other fleets, with a dozen unaligned ships entering and half a dozen ships and a fleet exiting, all in an orderly fashion on the water and the docks both. The defenses were well done - none of her work, it was true, but she also knew better than to interfere where would cause more harm than good.
He didn't think that she would be a good Master of Coin; she was too open and easily read for the negotiations that post entailed. Master of Ships, though? He wasn't sure that such a post for three entire kingdoms would be suitable to a lady... but he wasn't sure it wouldn't be, either, anymore. So, there was only one thing to do with a young seaman who lacked experience; throw them into the deep seas! He expected the same would work for young ladies as well. It was dangerous - especially so, now, and with the sea conditions as they were, not to mention the wight dragon as an ever present danger, and Euron's fleet on the loose... but her spear had killed wights, and Lord Woolfield, an honorable man, had praised her courage. He could push, just a little, to give her a chance to prove herself. If nothing else, he was certain she would not embarrass their navy; everyone knew she was still a landlubber, gifted harbormaster or no. Moreover, she would undoubtedly forge relationships among the Essosi fleets and merchant houses that would serve the Winter Kingdoms well... he'd talk to Lord Manderly and they'd assign his granddaughter a trade advisor to be sure the opportunities would not be missed.
"I wouldn't be averse to a neutral observer overseeing this agreement; I suspect an independent assessment of both the quality of the work performed and the costs incurred would reassure both of us," replied Admiral Vollin, giving the green-haired woman a thoughtful look, "I would consider Harbormaster Wylla Manderly to be an adequate candidate for the post, and I would further be delighted to have a Braavosi fleet transport her and whatever staff she deems necessary... and show her how a professional fleet operates at sea. She can then provide an unbiased accounting of the readiness of the port after it is built, as well as, if she agrees, annual reviews of its maintenance and repairs, and ensure that the costs are all paid for promptly... and precisely."
"Nonsense! Your Braavosi fleet can take the Harbormaster to Braavos to pick up the gold, then she can escort the gold aboard a Pentoshi fleet and be shown how to handle the fleets of a trueborn daughter of Valyria before she sees the greatest natural harbor in the world! She can then oversee the work to refurbish the harbor, and only she will have the right to draw from the account to pay for the work; neither prince nor magister shall have access. She shall have jurisdiction over the Magisters in charge of the work, as well, to ensure they proceed swiftly!" replied Admiral Ostoran sharply, then continued with a blatantly sly grin.
"But... to host such a mighty gathering of foreign ships, and to continue to meet our existing commitments to all the living, we shall need the terms of the old treaty amended to allow us more warsh... armed customs ships, and more soldiers for... customs and peacekeeping duties. Sailors on leave are a rambunctious lot, and prone to all sorts of damages, after all, and fleets may contain all manner of unwelcome pirates."
He turned his head up to stare at the ceiling as he said to 'himself' in a loud mutter, "And someone to keep Magister Maegenohr from dragging it out by trying to give all the business to his own cousins and nephews wouldn't go awry."
Wylla, seeing the Braavosi was thinking deeply, turned wide eyes to the Lord of Gulltown to see him looking at her with an expression that reminded her of her father. When he gave her a deep approving nod, her felt her cheeks start to ache, she was smiling so hard. They were going to follow her plan; two of the Free Cities were going to spend thousands of gold dragons and move hundreds of ships across entire seas to survive the Second Long Night, on a plan she'd designed. And she was going to Braavos, where Arya Stark had been trained! She could see the House of Black and White, and then go to Pentos, too, and learn how to handle ships and fleets on the open sea, even if it was only for a few days. Her mother would be proud and worried; her grandfather had said he was already proud of what she'd done... and she thought her father would have been proud, too, of how she'd represented the Manderly name. Even if she wasn't quite a traditional girl, it was up to her or Wynafryd to carry on their House, one way or another, and managing a port had shown her how important it was to her people and to the North as a whole for White Harbor to be seen as a great port and destination, the North as a great trading partner, which she could help with if she wintered at a port that wasn't iced in.
Admiral Vollin responded slowly, with a thoughtful tone as he worked through the options, "I'm a seaman, not a politician, but from the navy's point of view, I'm sure we would be happy to spare the Pentoshi Magisters the expense of paying for dockside customs and security by providing our own on the rented docks. That said, if the new Pentoshi... customs and peacekeeping forces... would commit to permanent joint patrols to hunt down slavers and pirates, I would be willing to recommend to the Sealord an amendment of the treaty to increase the number of armed ships by..."
Hours later, Wylla stretched as she crossed the courtyard towards the forge, hungry and ready to go out into Winter Town. She'd finished the naval meeting, gone through the ravens reporting from harbors all over the world and reconciled those against what Bran had told her already, then spent a little time sewing with Sansa Stark, and she was disappointed indeed. Lady Meera was organizing what she could, but it was awfully sparse for a celebration, and her old friend Sansa was about to have her name day! She knew Meera had been living on the run beyond the wall for years, she knew the rationing wouldn't be changed for celebrations, especially ones for a Stark so as not to appear selfish, but really!
Her good friend the Queen would be one and twenty soon, and that deserved a celebration, something without the politics, just to cheer her up! After that, she'd talked to the Princess Meera, who also agreed, and her grandfather would be making her and Gendry's excuses for dinner tonight. Wynafryd would be proud; she'd noticed that she'd been paired with the well-built and famous smith Gendry every meal so far. Further, Sansa Stark had 'happened' to confirm the rumors that he was King Robert's natural son; given his close relationship with the Starks, he was quite a fine match, if a lady wanted to keep her name, and it was clear her friend approved of the idea.
Once the courtyard guard had announced her and opened the door, she thanked him and entered, where she could again enjoy the view of the shirtless man working the forge while she set her spear in the rest and hung her cloak on the nearby hook. He was muscled in a different way from the dockworkers and sailors, and dressed in less, too, given the heat of the forge... though he bundled up going outside, the silly Southron. She had both Andal and First Men blood already, so some more Andal blood wouldn't matter, and he'd certainly father strong children. And if he was still of a mind to prefer a less traditional woman, well, she had a chance at him, and she was going to do her best. He'd apparently liked Arya Stark; while she wasn't as amazing as the Master of Whisperers, she was still a woman grown, second daughter of a great house, had trained to fight, was a lot more wild than most ladies, didn't mind bastards, and was blunt and outspoken... well, Arya had used to be blunt and outspoken, before. Now she was only some of the time.
"I know, I know, m'Lady Wylla. Could you hold that torch here, please?" said Gendry as he carefully watched the color of the greave, working the small bellows with one hand while he slowly rotated the piece, then withdrew it from the forge and slowly used the angled tongs to sink it into the oil bath and watch the color change in the light of the torch his visitor held, rotating it under the surface in preparation to withdraw it, his eyes glancing up at her chest for a moment when her arm pressed in while she braced herself on the table and leaned over more, getting coal dust on her clothes again ang caring as little as Arya did.
He snapped his eyes back down to the steel and continued, "I'm late for dinner, I should finish and come to the Great Hall."
"My condolences, Gendry; I heard about your lack of success making Valyrian steel this morning. Don't worry, though! There's no need to dress; you and I are going to Winter Town instead, our excuses have already been made. You can tell me all about what you tried with Queen Daenerys's dragon," said Wylla, pausing while he started pulling the steel out of the oil; this was a delicate moment that she wouldn't disturb, any more than she'd disturb a pilot just as the ship docked.
"All right," said Gendry as he set the piece on a wooden block to finish cooling slowly and took the towel she handed him, noting her grin as she did so, "But I don't think I'm going to fit into that fancy place of Sansa's."
"Oh, no, we're going to a scummy tavern! A man told me his deck crew found a little hole with a good pottage, extra grease if it's your meat ration day, and some of the best fences and smugglers do business there," replied Wylla as she opened the window shutter wider and leaned out at the waist like her sister had shown her, though she didn't add in the wiggle, "Send an apprentice to bank the forge, please, Kruin! Come, Gendry! We have lots to do!"
"Why are you looking for fences and smugglers, m'Lady?" asked Gendry cautiously; this Lady was... overly exuberant, sometimes, and always full of energy when she had an idea.
"Because it's almost Sansa's name day, and they're the only ones we can trade with if we want to give her a surprise! And I've told you, the Queen herself calls you brother; you can just call me Wylla. Or Harbormaster if you like ladies with titles! Come; tell me about what you tried and what you'll try next on the way, then we can eat and buy goods of ill repute, and on the way back you can tell me what you think of Lady Tarly; she's much more traditional than me, isn't she, and so pretty," said the green-haired girl with a sly grin and a sharp glance at him before twisting to grab her cloak and give him a view of her dress pulled tight just before covering herself in her cloak again and offering him her arm, "For the Valyrian steel, have you considered a seawater quench, perhaps even with water from near the Fourteen Fires? I can have some regular seawater shipped in from White Harbor quickly, and from Valyria in several weeks; perhaps there's something in the water there that's necessary. Valyrian steel was never made anywhere else, was it? Not even the other Free Cities?"
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Sansa strolled through Winter Town, her thick, dusty maid's dress swishing as she looked around carelessly, squinting a little at the dark areas between the widely spaced, low-burning lamps, mostly empty and quiet but for those walking and the beggars tonight; she'd heard tales from her spies of a Faceless Man giving away a staff after administering a beating here, and that had certainly caught her interest. Construction had nearly finished, not because it was done, but because they were out of good building materials until the dead were no longer keeping Winterfell under siege. Here and there her people and their guests were idly carving decorations into the wood, or sanding it smooth, in both cases there were tight-woven canvas sheets spread out to catch the scrap in the Free Folk way; the shavings from carvings were excellent tinder, and the Maesters and alchemists would pay good coin for sawdust when a street banded together to sell it all at once. Or, for the wisest of her people, they would offer healing, architectural designs, or education.
This was the North, the Winter Kingdoms, and here the Maesters were more concerned with ability and less with birth. She could see the differences already; the same skills that allowed the calculation of siege engine aiming tables were good for keeping books for a business. The calculations and skills for building tall buildings with strength to handle snows, winds, and storage would be useful all across her kingdoms. Past lords had been leery of towns full of merchants, but that was where the wealth of Essos came from - cities. That was where most of the wealth of the North came from - White Harbor, Barrowton. She had three kingdoms; the Vale was doing well, spared the carnage of the wars, but the Riverlands had been burned and raided. Oldstones in the Northern Riverlands had been abandoned since the Andal invasion, villages were empty or ashes. The North had dozens of abandoned holdfasts... plus, of course, the Dreadfort which she had to give to someone. Possibly the Maesters, she thought with a vicious satisfaction that she reveled in before pushing it down again; Ramsay would have hated that idea.
The streets under the lamps, on the other hand, were full of people talking, which was quite normal. She kept an eye out for any hints of changes after the disturbance spies and guards both had reported the previous night; there was some more grumbling about rationing, since as the need for heavy manual labor lessened, the amount of food was lessened as well. An idle person out of the winds needed about half what a truly active person did in the outdoors in the winter; that meant she could feed her people twice as long with the same stores. Armies, however, needed to train, and training hard meant eating more; risk starving or risk the dead winning, those were the only choices, and of those, she'd rather starve. On her arm was her 'paramour', Sandy, the disguised Princess Sarella, who had suddenly stopped regaling her with a seafaring tale and now sported a frown... a genuine frown, actually, not a pretend one, while looking first at one particular beggar and then around the area.
On alert, Sansa gave her functional maid's staff a brief squeeze to resettle her grip on it, looking around herself; there weren't any sounds of distress; Daenerys, 'Darlene' and her 'father', Jorah Mormont disguised as a laborer, were both just behind her while behind and in front were the loyal people she'd sent to this area just in case. They weren't alarmed, the people standing around weren't alarmed, everyone was chattering normally... a whore had found a customer, a woman was scolding her son, a bravo with brightly dyed hair marking him as a Tyroshi peeking out from below his Northern fur hat was strutting away, fresh purple feather in their brightly dyed hair. Some squires from the Vale and two acolyte Maesters were telling tales to a group of mountain clan and Free Folk girls, one of which was also a novice Maester; an older Essosi man and a young girl both with darker skin and similar features were sitting on a balcony made in the style of Braavos, talking to each other; perhaps father and daughter. There was a whore in an alley, a few beggars, a small pack of smallfolk boys, and other locals tired from a long day's work or getting ready to perform a long night's work.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary... not for the Second Long Night. When she was a girl, all of that would have been fantastically strange. The North had kept to itself, and the rest of the world had in large part left it alone; now, however, it was a major trading nation and Winterfell, four hundred miles inland, a bustling international hub. Nobody was lurking, nobody was giving her undue attention for a pretty maid; the sounds from all around were as she expected. Sansa thought of what Arya might do; she inhaled the cold, cold air deeply; the scents were as she expected. Not pleasant, but still far cleaner than King's Landing had been.
She was sure her sister would have noticed before anyone else did; the elder sister pushed down her disappointment at not being able to discern whatever it was for herself and turned to Sarella and what, who, had caught her notice. The beggar that had attracted her companion's attention was dressed in normal thick Northern rags; he was dirty... and clearly blind, she could see once his head turned towards a lantern and she could see reflections in all-white eyes. She murmured quietly to the disguised Princess, "Sandy? What is it?"
"That's not One-armed Harry," replied Sarella, using her deeper 'manly' voice by dint of the habits she'd developed as Alleras, and turned back to get a better look down the alley her teacher usually appeared from. Down there was the dead end with the old shipping crate he lived in. She saw no sign of him; he'd been begging like normal just two days ago, hadn't seemed ill, but he had never once not been in his spot before. She'd observed that every beggar had their own place; each one was nearly always in the same spot, and when they weren't, it was a permanent move. She gave Sansa an apologetic look, worried about her teacher. She'd mentioned to him that she did have space allotted to her that wasn't filled yet, and he'd laughed at her; he was proud of begging for his livelihood. She'd never seen him with anyone else; he'd always been alone. If he hadn't left for the warm comfort of the Dornish area of the castle, he wouldn't have left his spot for anything else, either.
"I'm sorry, lovely Alaya, but I must check on a friend of mine," continued 'Sandy', 'his' voice worried. Being a beggar anywhere was dangerous; being one in Winterfell in the Second Long Night was very dangerous. Sickness hadn't overtaken the city because of rigidly enforced bathing backed by the Maesters and acolytes checking samples of the population for disease regularly and both providing medical aid to, and quarantining, those who could pass their sickness to others. She'd studied history; disease was the deadliest part of any siege, whether one was the besieged or the besieging. Assuming the besieging were living, at least.
"Youse gots no needs ta check me, as loud as youse are," said One-armed Harry, turning the corner in the alley and approaching them, coming to a halt and gesturing at the blind beggar across the street with annoyance, "Ain't gonna matter; them's gonna make a bunch o' noise now anyways. Looks, there them comes!"
"You're all right!" exclaimed Sarella with relief, "You are all right, aren't you? You lost your spot! My offer is always open; you are welcome in my home."
"Bah! O' course I'se all right!"
Daenerys, 'Darlene', tightened her grip on both Jorah's arm and even more on her staff while she turned to follow Sandy's friend's gaze down the street to see what turned out to be a hoodless Faceless Man; an acolyte, as he walked down the street towards them holding a wooden staff. The assassin ignored how the people stepped out of his way to make space as they noticed his vestments, but he was alone and clearly heading for the blind man. She glanced at the beggar, who continued to hold out a wooden bowl quietly, then at the much older one-armed old beggar who had come up to them. She'd finally figured out that Sandy was a disguised Princess Sarella... but why would the ruler of Dorne be worried about a beggar? Were they friends? The banter wouldn't have been out of place with some of the Second Sons, but he was obviously not a fighter. Then again, here there were many rougher people, whether they fought or not.
Dany looked back to the approaching acolyte, studying his gait and movements, how he held the staff professionally even as Jorah kepy himself between her and the assassin. The staff wasn't padded, but neither was it encrusted with sharp flakes of dragonglass... or even the normal iron or bronze caps on the end, just knurled wood. He moved... with great certainty; not a hint of concern for his footing on the cobblestones, even covered in filthy snow as they were.
Sansa noticed how others were reacting, then turned her head fully to see the vestments, making sure to let out a small gasp and take three steps away from them to put her back against the wall behind her, as some of the other women and a handful of the men were doing. She'd learned a lot as Alayne Stone in the Vale; the first lesson Baelish had taught her was to watch what the other bastards did, and when in surprised, do as they do. Arya, of course, had said she should watch what they did before she was surprised in the first place; she pushed down the combination of exasperation at the useless advice she'd been given and her fondness for her absent sister.
Just coming around the corner, fifty yards behind the assassin was one of the elderly guards Meera had arranged for; he wasn't there to interfere, merely to follow any Faceless Man who was obviously wearing vestments in public... so he could put dragonglass flakes into any corpses, and so she'd have a report from one of her own people. This must be the blind beggar training she'd heard of, taking place on the open street, in public, in her kingdom, just as she'd heard it did across the Narrow Sea; the only part of the training of a Faceless Man that anyone outside the secretive order got to see. Sansa watched carefully; this was what her sister must have gone through, all alone in a strange kingdom.
"Paid to takes me spot, theyse did. Didn't try ta cheat an old beggar, not like some peoples, eh?"
THWACK
They watched as the assassin's staff cracked across the blind man's face, a simple horizontal strike at a fairly slow speed, but made without any warning she could see. The beggar's bowl thumped down on the frozen ground as he reached behind him and scrambled gracelessly to his feet with an identical staff in his hands, raised into a clumsy guard before he doubled over from a thrust to the belly and slammed into the ground after a downward strike to his back. The man rose and was struck down again, over and over.
"Slower than he could be, I bet," murmured Daenerys, watching the continuing beating with the same kind of interest many of the rest of the many onlookers had, while wondering if this was better or worse than the fighting pits. There probably wouldn't be a death... but the man was blind and didn't stand a chance, either. She continued her assessment of the acolyte administering the beating, "No windup, no preparation. No wasted motions."
"Excellent form and footwork," replied the Queen of the Winter Kingdoms as the assassin sidestepped an easily predictable attack from the blind man and then smashed him across the bare face again while even more spectators joined the crowd, pointing and murmuring, "Brutal, too. That could have broken bones."
"Look at that return to guard; not too fast, but perfect," commented Jorah just loud enough for his Khaleesi to hear, "The novice is tough, stubborn; they're getting up again. If they're only bruised, that speaks to the assassin's control of their blows."
"By all the gods, you Westerosi are savage," said Sarella disapprovingly as the acolyte administered a final beating, the last stroke a vicious horizontal hit to the face, then without a sound strolled off back the way they came, the blind man painfully drawing himself to his feet and swiping uselessly at empty air a few times before realizing the man had gone and sat down again in obvious pain, laying the staff down and tucking it back against the wall. They couldn't see, they obviously hadn't determined the acolyte had left by hearing them... the crowd, they'd heard the crowd commenting on it.
"Youse ointment's wearing off, careless oaf," said One-armed Harry in a low growl, "I seen a stupid child of six takes more care of themself than you! Youse trying to make me look a fool in front of the others? Are youse too stupid to learn, too blind to see, too lazy to care, or are you trying to tell me you needs to go over the basic lesson again? Maybe youse needs to find yourself a teacher at your own level and pay them triple. Youse so bad youse probably couldn't manage to collect the rats to pay the cat to teach you to groom youself."
Sarella paused as her teacher told her she'd made a mistake. Her feet were hidden under boots, her extra-long leggings tucked into the top of the boots and bloused over them so seawater would run off outside the boots, there could be no visible skin there. Layers of trousers above that, layers of shirts, long sleeves; all tight-woven to keep out the sea or the cold Northern wind. Two layers of thick velvet on the inside for well hidden warmth, which couldn't be visible or her teacher would have really laid into her, not given a gentle warning. Her face hadn't been touched; the long fur around the edge might have picked up some tint if she hadn't used the right mixture or she hadn't let it cure properly, but she had applied it at dawn and done paperwork by herself all day. The fur border, while ticklish, wasn't able to exert enough force to rub the ointment off.
Her hands were covered by thick gloves, the fur near the wrists would be much the same as the hood's fur, with the same results. She moved hands and arms more, bent at the wrist, that could have a meaningful and significant effect, but with the amount of time and movement compared studiously to the number of properly applied coats, it shouldn't be visible yet. Narrowing her eyes, she held up her arm and tucked her fingers in the sleeve, separating the layers and pulling it open a bit; there it was! Her 'paramour', Sansa, had taken her arm tightly enough and for long enough that the inside of the fabric had started picking up a faint dark stain! She addressed Harry sharply, "All right, I see it, but you couldn't have seen that!"
"Youse so slow I wonder how youse manages to gets to food before youse starve to death," said the beggar with a sigh, then turned to Sansa, muttering, "And youse! Youse gots them pretty creases; youse changed clothes for your outing, eh?"
"Youse ride often while carrying laundry, do youse?" he said in a low tone before looking Jorah up and down, "Youse hopeless. Show's over, shove off, you lot."
After a long moment of them looking at each other while One-armed Harry went back down the alley towards his home, muttering to himself, Sarella carefully rearranged the layers of her sleeve and gestured grandly down the street before offering her arm to Sansa, "Pay no attention to the beggar in the alley, for our meal awaits!"
"Does it await soon, Sandy, or will I be finding another man to escort me? One who prefers the company of a maiden to that of old men who refuse to work for a living?" asked Sansa acerbically, pushing her laughter down and scowling while Sarella made a contrite expression and shuffled her foot back and forth a bit, only then 'relenting' and taking the offered arm. Now she'd seen a hint of the kind of training her sister had been through; training that was obviously not how to fight, but rather something else entirely. And, she thought, of course it was Arya who had thought a beggar - an actual street beggar - was an appropriate companion and instructor for a Princess of Dorne, even a bastard-born one. Only Arya would do that... and now she was off on her own, doing something else where not even Bran could find her.
"A hungry maiden," said Daenerys sharply, starting down the street in the direction indicated.
"I'm not hopeless, am I?" asked Jorah, then sighed as the others exchanged looks, the Queens giggling while the man escorting the disguised Queen in the North shrugged at him, "I am, aren't I?"
"Father!" exclaimed Dany with a grin, "You're not hopeless! Just old! Very old... how many winters have you seen, again?"
************************
Lord Mallister gazed out across his city from the top of the command tower, surveying the tens of thousands of men working, and the women working with them. The smell was again closer to the smell of the sea he was used to, the plague of dysentery having been brought under control, but it wasn't over yet. Nothing was the same, not anymore. Moats were being widened, hoardings constructed, roofs leveled, buttressed, and armed. Building interiors braced, interior walls removed, and small siege engines hidden inside in the expectation that those up above would be attacked; what kind of mind did it take to envision defenses like these being overwhelmed or bypassed?
"Lord Commander, would you answer a personal question, as a favor to an old man?" asked the Lord of Seagard.
"It depends on the question," replied Jamie, cautiously, as he peered through one of the Myrish far-eyes mounted on the railing, murmuring to his pages, "Signal again to clear working parties on the west for attack drills. You, run to Justman ring two and personally make sure the moats are clear and the group of idiots having lunch on ring three between the hedgehogs are cleared out. They were going to get run over or pummeled to death by training shafts, and right now they're wasting what little daylight we have left."
As the young man dressed in thick black furs raced off and the drums rattled out new commands, he sighed and turned to Jason Mallister, "Don't tell them, but the attacking force isn't ready yet either. Better if they think they're responsible. What's your question?"
Jason looked to the side uncomfortably once before turning back to the Kingslayer and replying, "You've met Princess Arya... Lady Winter? And seen my son?"
"I have been trained by her, yes," answered Jaime tiredly, "And as a word of warning, you do need to take care how you address her. She'll happily take any random peasant yelling out Arya, but one hint of being called Princess and she shows her fangs. Your son I but saw."
"Thank you, Ser Jaime. He's a good lad, a decent swordsman, a better horseman and jouster, honorable and dutiful, and my heir. Was there anything he or I could have done such that Queen Sansa might have betrothed her to Lady Winter?"
Jaime stared for a moment, shaking his head once at the memory of Walder Frey's voice murmuring in his ear at Queen Sansa's coronation, coming from the girl's mouth, 'You're not going to mock me anymore, eh'. He then shook his head again and said with a half-smile, "You're asking the wrong question; even I can see that. Those two, they're not like the Ladies you know. Sansa was, once, but she's not anymore, not after what she's seen. She wouldn't betroth her sister for anything. And Arya? She's never been like the Ladies you know, never showed any interest in men or boys, and still doesn't, much less marriage. My sister bridled at every attempt of my father or anyone else telling her what to do; in that regard, at least, the Stark women are no different. If she marries, it'll be on her terms alone, just like everything else in her life."
"I see," replied Lord Mallister. There were many strange things in this new world, but the Starks were the Starks; they had always been a bit strange, even to Lord Eddard Stark's sister Lyanna. To think Prince Rhaegar had married her! A forced marriage was normal enough, though he'd never have it in his family... but a forced marriage when a man was already married, with children? That was the past, though, and wouldn't help him now.
"It doesn't help he came in without any respect for women warriors. Even I could see his disdain."
"Ah. Yes," said Jason with a hint of shame, "We didn't, I didn't, really know women could fight like that. We've never seen any before, and still hadn't when he'd left. Now? I can recognize skill and grip when I see it in the Dornish spears and archers, in some of the... Free Folk. Some of our own smallfolk are uncommonly talented, too, women included. Even Lady Terrick is showing rapid improvement and she's better than a few of my knights already. It's going to be rough on Lord Terrick if she surpasses him."
"He'll get used to it. You should have known about women warriors, though; Lady Brienne beat Loras Tyrell years ago at Renly's tournament, and nobody ever said Loras was a poor fighter," replied Jaime with pride in Lady Brienne clear in his voice. Loras had been an annoying twat in addition to a cheating asshole on the jousting field.
"Ah. Yes, we had heard of that, but... hadn't considered what it might mean for other women. Have you met Lady Mormont? I understand she's recently flowered and has been named Master of Coin, as well as being a siege engine commander. Surely my son, heir to Seagard, would be a good match?"
"Lady Mormont," repeated Jamie in disbelief, "You're thinking of betrothing your son to Lady Mormont, ruling lady of Bear Island, daughter of Maege Mormont, who raised multiple daughters and no sons, all fathered by men, bears, or Old Gods unknown? The Scorpion Bear might take your son, and then ship him back to her home to rule the castle while she sits on the Small Council. She's not one to give up on what she has, though you'd probably get an heir out of it. Probably a second granddaughter, the first being heir to Bear Island. She's very proud. If you're happy to have your son be a husband consort, of course..."
"Oh. No, of course not a consort. Are all Northern women so... difficult?"
"Just half of them. And all the ruling ones. You remember Lyanna Stark, of course."
"I do. Lady Meera was the heir to House Reed, though, so I had hoped only Queen Sansa and Lady A... Winter were so... strong-willed."
"I'm sure Lady Meera's second child will be named the Reed heir; she's as like as any in the North to lean towards Dornish or Free Folk customs. If you're thinking only the side you chose will make it difficult on your son, rest assured, Queen Daenerys and Princess Sarella aren't wilting flowers either; men everywhere are going to have to come to terms with them and those like them. Lady Karstark is a ruling Lady, and while she's more traditional, she still wears the family sword and trains as diligently as any other in the North... and is as devoted to her house. Do you want my advice?" asked the Kingslayer.
"Yes," answered the Lord of Seagard, then added, "Please."
"You want to arrange a marriage for your son to ensure legitimate heirs and political power, and bind your family to the North through marriage. My father tried to arrange the futures of his children by himself, and look at us now; not one marriage that produced heirs, and the only political power any of us have is in spite of him. Nearly half the North's population is inside the Winterfell defenses; ask your son if any ladies have caught his eye. After his answer, ask Queen Sansa what her recommendation for an introduction is. There's plenty of second and third daughters who aren't the heirs, and she'll have her hand in those affairs. The North, like the Riverlands, has something of a shortage of young men."
"I'll send my son a raven. Thank you, Lord Commander."
"He's a man grown... a young man, but grown and able to think on his own. Starting off a marriage with even a little happiness to go with his duty to the legacy to his House might give him a better future than some of us ever got," replied Jamie thoughtfully. The man was surprisingly open to ideas that would have had his own father frothing at the mouth, so he decided to continue, "If you could give me some advice in return, Lord Mallister, you could repay that favor."
"Of course. What do you need advice on?"
"Princess Stark, with Queen Sansa's support, has offered to buy back the New Gift - and only the New Gift - from the Night's Watch, with payments to be made on a regular schedule over the next hundred years, with interest. Very low interest, but interest nonetheless."
"Good Queen Alysanne's New Gift? Didn't that double the amount of land the Night's Watch had? Wouldn't you need that land to support the Watch?" asked Lord Mallister.
"More than doubled; it moved the border from twenty five leagues to fifty, and the land's wider there. The watch wasn't able to take care of the original gift fifty and two hundred years ago; adding more to it added wealth only for as long as it took the smallfolk to follow their lords farther South, where they could be better protected than the Night's Watch could manage. She did pay for a new, smaller castle to replace the Nightfort, but the records that survived show the New Gift never actually helped."
"Will it help in the future? The Watch is bigger now than it's been in centuries. Feeding and paying thousands is far different than hundreds. Maintaining seventeen castles properly is very expensive; renovating them more so. I can't even imagine what you'd have to do about the hole where Eastwatch used to be."
"It could, but what will the Night's Watch do in the future? If the dead move south and kill us all, the Night's Watch won't need the money or the land. If the dead are destroyed, we won't need the Night's Watch; certainly not at the Wall. If we drive the dead back again, we'll need the Watch... but in another thousand, or eight thousand, or twenty thousand years; plenty of time to build what we can."
"That's clever of Princess Stark, then. If the Night's Watch is disbanded, there'll be nobody to pay for the land."
"Yes, a cunning plan to leave debts unpaid in the case everyone dies," said the Lannister sarcastically.
"You're morose for a man of your age, you know."
"I've had a lot of experience, but you should really meet my First Ranger, Dolorous Edd; he's the most morose man I've ever met. So, what is your advice?"
"How rich is the land? There doesn't seem to be much on the maps, but maps only show the most major landmarks."
"Not very; Queenscrown is the only serious keep, and it's both fairly small and as abandoned as the rest of the holdfasts are."
"Were I you, I'd take the money, and use it to build up the original Gift slowly and steadily. Make trade with the Free Folk, and use that trade to establish a good relation and mutual trust; it's easier to cut raiding down when there's less raiding to cut down on. Beating back unaligned bandits was easy; beating back Lannister backed bandits was hard. Negotiate with the Iron Bank to try and use what's left to set up an account that can be funded century after century while the Night's Watch lives off of interest payments. It'll be expensive now, but in a few thousand years, if the Iron Bank and the Night's Watch both survive?"
************************
Ser Jorah entered the sickroom in the First Keep, clapping a Dothraki with a broken leg on the shoulder as he passed, greeting the Unsullied with a head wound that was next to him, and the other men still here recovering from the battles they'd been in. Losses may have been very light, but there were still wounded with each caravan, often dead, particularly among those who were newest. Eventually, he got to the boy in the corner who was finally awake, and was looking just as lost as he'd expected. The boy did sit up as he came near.
"Lord Commander!" exclaimed Gerrar, struggling to rise, the small stump that was all that remained of his right arm wiggling under the bandages, prompting him to groan and stop moving as the pain crashed over him like a wave.
"Stay still, Lord Gerrar. The Maester left orders for you to stay still and rest until you've healed," said Jorah, watching as the boy slumped back; his arrogance, it seemed, had been cut away just as his arm had been.
"Then what? I'll never be knighted, I'll never rule a keep. I can't even be master-at-arms for my brother," said the injured young man, closing his eyes for a moment, and collapsed bonelessly back in the sickbed, dejected, "I was a fool, and now I won't even be able to fight. I won't even be able to dress myself! It'd have been better if the wight would have killed me."
"No one can survive in this world without help. No one. If you need help to dress, then let your people help you dress. You made mistakes, many mistakes. So have I. So has every man who lives long enough. You're owning your mistakes, and you have time, now. Time to think about your mistakes, time to learn from them," said the Mormont quietly, looking down at the boy.
"What's the point?"
"You are alive. You're young. You'll find a point, eventually, or one will find you. Until then, I have a use for you."
"What use could you possibly have for me? I can't fight. I can't lead. I can barely feed myself without making a mess," he said, blinking back tears, then admitted, "I froze. I'd prayed to the Warrior for courage, just like Septon Tadd always taught me, but the bears and wolves, the wights were so fast. I could see their ribs, and there were so many, then a tree was flying and I just couldn't think. I didn't even swing at them! I should be dead!"
"You are still alive."
"Ser Carn and Ser Eliar killed the giant wolf wight that ripped my armor straps open and chewed on my arm, they got me out. I'm just worthless; nothing Septon said was true! I didn't get the Warrior's strength, the Father didn't protect me, whose cause was just."
"You spent a lot of time with your Septon? What did your Maester say about what the Septon taught?"
"Father didn't trust the Maesters; Septon Tadd taught me everything but arms, and I even failed at that, too. I was foolish at home, foolish on the trip, foolish in the North, and foolish on the battlefield."
"You aren't the first to be taught tales and songs who found they were of no help in battle. The Septons have pretty words, but I've never seen the gods help a man. I've seen men help men, I've seen horses and dogs help men. I've even seen dragons help men. Gods? No. You might be surprised, but you also aren't the only young fool full of himself our Queen has been sent that won't, wouldn't, listen to old men like me... and you won't be the last. I need you to talk to them, to tell them what you believed when you came here, and how it worked out for you on the battlefield. You won't reach all of them, but you'll keep some from making the same mistakes you did."
The boy blinked a few times, "You really think so? Even with only one arm?"
"I do. Queen Daenerys's hand is a dwarf; he serves her well with his mind, instead of skill at arms; and like all men, he too has made mistakes. Like wise men, he's owned them, learned from them. Stay here and serve the Queen... unless you'd rather go home?"
"And face my mother, my brother like this? No. Ser Jorah, would you pass on a message to my men, please? I've been told they took only minor bruises."
"I will."
"Tell them to gather up whatever gems I had left and sell them. Half they should split between themselves as a reward for saving my life; I remember them pulling me back after I left the battle line and the wights swarmed me. The other half, buy whatever supplies we'll need to stay here as long as possible. You're from here, aren't you? Can you help them with what they'll need?"
"I am, and I can. Rest now; it's time to recover your strength. When you're up to it, talk to the others here; you can learn more than you think from the Unsullied and the Dothraki."
"I don't speak their languages."
"You have the time to learn, and teachers right here. The Dothraki will be bored; they need something to occupy their minds while they're healing."
"Yes, Ser Jorah."
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Arya was hunched over on his hands and knees, head down, still wearing the physical face of the horse thief as a protection against magical detection, eyes closed. There was his snow cape and then two feet of snow over his back, a hidden pile of chopped logs close by. Any Free Folk who got close enough would know it wasn't entirely natural, but a Qartheen wouldn't have the experience. He'd made it down the Kingsroad, having sold the more skittish horse and one set of snowshoes for the mare a few days before, sleeping in the small tent under a pile of whatever he had found in the saddlebags that might keep him warm, just like any other Southron horse thief would, and then he'd passed a small group of merchants.
Four suspiciously strong merchants in excellent physical shape, who moved in sure and certain motions, whose heartbeats were altogether too steady when they were doing work each night, whose skin tones weren't quite Westerosi. Two had a very very good Volantine accent without a hint of Qarth, and the other two only a very faint Qartheen making it through under their Volantine accent. They also smelled not just of spices, but also of poisons and oils for steel and leather both, rare powders and wildfire besides - though whether that was them or the cart his nose couldn't tell when they were on the cart itself. On the other hand, the faint rasp of blade hilts and sheathes under clothes? The clinking of vials in pouches? The rubbing of glass against leather? That was loud enough any acolyte of the Faceless Men would have noticed, and those he knew exactly where they were. Larger and deadlier weapons were hidden on the cart
Sorrowful men. Two who very confidently thought themselves to be among the best in their order, one who thought himself a close third, and one who strongly felt he should be ranked much higher. All of whom fondly thought they were being quiet as they talked in camp each night, far enough from the Kingsroad that even Littlefinger wouldn't have heard them, which spoke to more self-awareness than he'd thought. They sent a member to chop wood each night, a bit away from their camp; north of camp, it'd been the last three nights.
The youngest didn't seem very alert, the middle two were all right, just about Baelish's level, but their leader? That man was more of a challenge than she'd expected. He moved very carefully, and occasionally clinked when he moved... and once he'd separated from the cart and she still caught a whiff of the scents of wildfire and powders. That would be nothing, but he was also far more observant than the others, and quicker than any but the youngest, who was nearly as fast as the Volantine bravo he'd traded honors with. They didn't have the senses of a Faceless Man, but they were good enough that sneaking up on all four in full armor in the snow would take real time and effort, and they were definitely all far more dangerous than common Lannister soldiers.
He kept his distance; the snowshoes on her horse let her stay well off the road, out of sight, and yet still easily outpace a heavy wheeled cart on winter roads, stopping ahead of them and then closing on foot. Not once did they give any sign of noticing being seen, not even the first two heavily overcast nights when he'd used a small collapsing far-eye poking through a hole in the snow. The next night the snow had fallen thickly, and the night after that... then it stopped, four feet of fresh snow on the ground, even this far south.
Now, hidden and waiting for the inevitable bickering before wood gathering, Arya could just barely make out their words from the other side of a hill, through the small, angled holes through the snow above her that also let her breathe, even as the wind through the trees around her obscured their words a bit.
"Go get the wood."
"I get the wood every night! I shouldn't be stuck fetching wood every night."
The senior Sorrowful Man sighed, and pulled out a small stick of incense, igniting it in the lantern and waving it in the complex pattern, the smoke dissipating slowly even as he set it in the small holder, "Magical protections are up; we can talk again."
"I've killed a Red Priest! Just like you!" said the youngest quietly but with clear irritation in his voice.
"You killed one acolyte off on a mission by himself, youngster. You're ten years too early to be in his league, or mine, so quit puffing yourself up."
"That's only because you always got the best assignments, and I keep getting sent to the ass end of the world, or stuck with more sword training! How am I supposed to get more assignments if I'm on a ship for months! If I'm stuck doing drills! I deserve better!"
"Shut it, the both of you, and keep your voices down," growled the leader, fed up with the constant complaining. Complaining when acting as the young merchant sold the act, but it never stopped, not even when they were well off the road with thick scarves covering their mouths so not even visions in the flames could tell what they were saying by reading their lips. The fabled greensight of Westeros could hear, too, but they were too far away for that. When they were closer to the targets, they'd have to be in character all the time, but for now it didn't matter. Either the purported Three-Eyed Raven had spotted them, or he hadn't, and if he had, the only threats were the Faceless Man that had been seen leaving the area or sudden dragonfire. The assassins of the Many-Faced God were very dangerous, but if there were all legend claimed, they won't need their spies and their acolytes wouldn't be beaten in the street... and dragons would only notice them if they were burning everyone anyway, which they'd almost certainly hear in advance and be able to scatter and hide first; great hunters, dragons were not, nor dragonlords.
"Rody, go get the wood, now; I'm tired of hearing you whine. You are being recognized, you're here with us. You want recognition? Fine. The first target's Faceless Man sister was seen taking ship north, so if she tracks us down after the mission's complete, kill her, and we'll confirm your success and you won't have to do a single chore the entire rest of the journey. We're going to have to kill her if we don't get away clean anyway, since reports are there's no way she'll just let us go. Bracks, quit riling him up and clear snow for the fire. No, I don't care how deep it is, I'm not freezing to death because you were lazy. Why I got this assignment with you lot I don't know, but I'll be glad to get back home, where it's warm; having a fire is just giving us away, but without it we'll freeze to death in this hell."
"You really think we can get away clean? All they have to do is pull the bridges over the moats and we're trapped."
"If we're careful? Yes. We'll have to time things just right, kill them very quietly, and get out before the bodies are noticed. Faceless Men get killed all the time; there was one just a couple years ago in Braavos. Two girls chasing each other through the streets, no swords; the window one jumped through belonged to some freshly killed mummer. One girl was found dead in an abandoned basement without a face, also freshly killed. The old priests are dangerous, very dangerous, but with four of us against one not even twenty namedays, who can actually be found? Knowing that this one goes around as Arya Stark means we know where she is. If we know where she is, we can make sure she's not around when we take the targets. When we're closer, we're in character all the time. No exceptions - we'll live, talk, drink, eat, breath, piss, shit, fuck, and trade like we're merchants. It's going to be hard, but we're the best."
"Even the best bravos can't do any killing when they aren't around; First Sword or not, if she's not there, she can't fight, or see. Still, reports are the targets are going to be well guarded, both of them."
"That's why there's four of us. This job's not like an everyday assassination; this one's worth doing because it's hard, because it'll put our order on top again. Nobody important hires the Faceless Men to go after their rivals, since there's no profit in their death if you give up everything to pay for it... but everyone thinks of them first anyway! Our traditions began thousands of years before the Faceless Men have existed. Just because they charge mystical prices, do some flashy training, talk about their God and keep sending men until the target's dead without any extra fees doesn't mean we should be thought of as second to them! Our order changes the course of Empires! Now that they're showing they aren't really 'no one' after all, and it's time we showed we're the best order of assassins that ever was or ever will be."
Their voices dropped low as Rody left, to below a level at which the junior assassin could hear, talking among themselves.
"I thought that nobody who ever killed a Faceless Man survived more than a year."
"They didn't; mostly the Faceless Men kill each other. We've killed a handful over the centuries, but the one that delivered the killing blow? They died soon after. Every one of them. And not one Faceless Man that's been killed by us was hooded; just acolytes. Young or not, this has never been done before, never in all history. It's up to us... and him."
"I guess I'll put up with Rody, then. He's an annoying jackass, and a poor assassin, but a fantastic fighter. We'll need that before the end."
"We'll just have to pile onto this Arya Stark when she comes for us after the job, keep her turning and distracted until we can kill her. To do what's never been done, we'll have to notice her first. Right after we're clear, we'll have three on watch while one sleeps; we can't afford to be taken unawares, and if she's present, she'll be on our tail, fast. Even if we die killing her, we'll be legends for the order, so don't hold back against her. If it gives you an advantage, sacrifice yourselves to get her and your name will be remembered for a thousand years... and it's not like the Faceless Men are likely to let us survive if we kill her anyway. If we can make it to the open sea, it's only this Targaryen boy and his dragon to worry about, and he's got the Night King to keep him in check."
"What if she attacks at range? She's supposed to be a master archer, too."
"Hope we're in a forest or canyon where we can find cover... if that fails, hope she's arrogant enough to come in close. There's only so much we can plan for; someone sprouts an arrow, the rest of us dodge immediately and call out the direction it came from. We split up and scatter away, once we know it's coming, arrows from a single archer are easy to avoid at range; Faceless Men are no warlocks, they can't be in more than one place at once. We'll keep to forests as much as possible, but we'll also have to worry about some very pissed off armies, too, so we've got to blend in. Those sleds will move fast, and we won't be able to fool all the dogs close up."
"Don't forget the angry dragons."
"And that. I'm more concerned about the Faceless Man; the rest will have a hard time finding us."
"Gods damned Faceless Men. About time one of us really took them down a peg! Thinking they're too good to take gold from Princes or Magisters while killing for peasants. If they really cared about the peasants, they'd take the gold and prevent wars, like we do."
"Enough chatter," said the leader, ending the discussion.
The crunching in the snow approached and Arya prepared himself silently; the Sorrowful Man stopped at another tree, chopping at a branch, cutting it up, then moved to another tree to collect more, but farther away rather than closer; that was it, there would be no more chance to get close tonight. He listened to the sounds as the man chopped the wood into rough logs, did the same to a smaller branch, then carried it all back to the campsite in the usual three trips; there was a little bickering, then they set watches again and retired.
It wasn't easy to predict what kind of branches the man would prefer after seeing him for only a few nights, but that was all right; a man could not make a thing happen before its time... and those men had told death 'not today'. That was all right. Death would require their response again on the morrow, and Arya Stark would be the one to receive it. Eventually it would be time, and he'd add four new faces would be added to his personal collection.
Three nights later, Arya stayed still and silent as the cocky young Sorrowful Man finally came closer instead of farther, coming to a halt just in front of his hiding place to chop at the branch; it was one of only two good places to stand for this particular tree. While the man's back made an easy target, the Faceless Man waited patiently until he was nearly through, tensing one set of muscles each time the ax hit, untensing them the next stroke to prepare for sudden movement after such a long stillness. Eventually, the branch creaked loudly, then again, groaning and crackling as frozen wood started to break and fold over as it gave way.
Arya reared her body up, planting her feet under her and springing up in a great shower of snow with a precise swing of the thick branch held in his left hand towards where he knew the back of the man's head was; there was only one chance at this for this to work perfectly; he had no desire to hear what Jaqen would say when next they saw each other should the ambush fail here and he had to hunt them through the snows one at a time.
THUMP
The makeshift club impacted the back of the target's fur hat, and the horse-thief's face finished the upward leap by landing on the target, driving him down into the snow face-first, quickly packing snow into his nose and mouth. Arya stayed atop the unmoving body for a moment, listened to the heartbeat weaken, slow, and then stop before he then lifted himself off and quickly retrieved the corpse's axe, setting it down beside the body.
The campsite had the usual sounds of setting up, so the Stark quickly went to retrieve his thin blanket, laying it out and placing what he'd need on it, then set the branch behind him, just beyond where his feet would need to be. With a few quick loops, he fastened the Qartheen man's ax handle along his own right leg, then knelt next to the body and started chopping at the log with the same tempo as the remaining three Sorrowful Men would expect to hear, using enough strength so it sounded exactly as loud as it had before. Continuing, he committed how each piece of cloth and weapon had been worn to memory, stripped down the corpse efficiently, before he and placed each on the blanket; he could afford neither blood nor bark that wasn't where it was expected.
With that, Arya gathered the Many-Faced God's power, formed the correct patterns to protect himself from at least basic magical observation, then reached up and removed the horse-thief's face from herself, placing it on the blanket carefully. She drew in a deep breath, holding onto those patterns, then took up her tools, called up more magic and formed the additional patterns she needed while she began the delicate work of removing Rody's chilled but undamaged face while she chopped at a branch with the ax attached to her leg.
Some time later, the youngest Sorrowful Man came out of the darkness with the third somewhat poorly stacked load of snow-covered logs into the camp and knelt down, removed the dark and damp torch from the stack and tossed it on the fire before he piled the logs up on the cart for the others to start a fire the next night and cook while he was, again, out chopping wood. He wouldn't have needed that much wood, wouldn't have had to chop and carry and trip over a fallen, rotten tree trunk hidden under the damned snow.
"Oh, look, it's the snow monster come again!"
"The monster ate Rody! We must flee before it kills us!" said the next assassin, laughing at him.
"Piss off; as if you could trudge through this crap in the dark without tripping once," said Rody, grousing, before ladling himself a bowl of already cooling soup from the pot and leaving the bowl to sit on his bedroll. Moving over to the cart to fetch a wooden spoon and taking a few minutes to fill it with spices, carefully shielding it from the wind as he returned to his seat and mixed it in before starting to eat, the others already having finished while it was hot.
"Still trying to eat all our wares before we arrive?"
"Bracks, shut up and just clean out the pot. Same watches," commanded the leading Sorrowful Man.
"I've been second watch this entire damn..." said Rody sullenly before being interrupted, just like he'd been the previous night, and the night before that. Couldn't even.
"Shut up. When you're the senior man, you can set the watches as you like. You're the junior man, you get middle watch."
Arya 'woke' as his 'fellow' assassin shook his shoulder lightly, turned his head into the cold wind, wincing and adjusting the scarf over his lips, and sat up quickly, scanning the area illuminated by the firelight from behind, then nodded grumpily and stood with his back to the fire, stretching and crowding closer to the fire, gloved hands out and behind him. These men at least know that the fire ruined their night vision, but they had a fatal combination of problems; they didn't actually know how to live with the snows, and even if they did, they couldn't maintain cover doing so as spice merchants traveling North to make profit.
Naturally, the man on first watch hadn't bothered to tend to the fire before waking his relief. And now it was the second most dangerous time; muttered grousing that he wasn't perfectly certain how to do properly, since the inconsiderate Sorrowful Man had done so very quietly, while he was making noise in the fire, and he'd kept his lips hidden... but his breathing, she could see, and there was a regularity to it. The man on first watch would be one danger, but while the leader hadn't moved, his breathing and heartbeat had sped up and still wasn't quite back to where it had been while asleep again.
"Every night. Every single night," muttered Rody very quietly, hopefully just enough for them to hear patterns, but too quietly for them to make out any words, while picking up a nice thick, long stick and slipping it under logs in the fire to lever them up and then flip them over before adding new wood, just as this face had done every night previous, "I'm the one trudging through the snow, I'm the one chopping, I'm the one carrying it back, I'm the one tending the fire in the middle of the night, I'm the one not getting enough sleep because I don't get two sleep watches in a row..."
The disguised Stark heard Bracks drink some water and lay down again, heartbeat steady but not yet sleeping, the other two both resting soundly again. Thus reassured, he warmed himself, then moved a little farther from the fire, slowly pacing counterclockwise in the manner this face had preferred. Arya continued his patrols, occasionally moving closer to the fire again to feed it more wood and warm half-frozen hands, waiting for the brisk wind to die down. It was blowing towards from the fire from his bedroll in the north, directly towards the second most senior assassin's bedroll, but two of the others weren't really in the wind's path. The senior and most dangerous Qartheen man didn't like to have ash and smoke in his face, even in the cold. Wise of him... not that it would matter.
Another slow circuit keeping the fire out of his line of sight, then again, back to the fire, then another circuit as the wind quieted; enough to carry the smoke, but not enough to disperse it too much. With his right hand, he picked up a particularly strong sword-length stick he'd put into a prepared bundle days ago, and rolled the logs again, leaving the tip in the bed of hot coals for a while as the flames rose up at the exposure to the air. Arya took Rody's mental face off while keeping his physical face on, reached inside his cloak, wrapped a hand around the vial. Taking two quick steps, he pulled the vial down so the cork, tied to the fabric, was yanked out; the wide-mouthed vial's contents were cast outwards through the flames in a wide arc to scatter the resulting smoke as the powder flared up, while the stick was brought up into a guard position and the vial itself let loose into the snows.
Arya moved on the most dangerous of the Sorrowful Man who, as he caught the slightest whiff of the smoke from the burned powder, immediately awakened, pressed his lips tight and threw a dagger while rolling to the side instantly. The Stark lunged forward, right hand batting the thrown knife aside as the stick whipped around to smash the tip into the man's rapidly moving hand with a sharp crack of bone even through the soft glove, the leader's second dagger falling to the ground immediately as his knuckles were shattered. The other two were awake, but unable to move; for thirty thousand gold dragons worth of Asshai paralysis powder, he'd have hoped so. Sansa would be aghast at the cost... if she ever found out about it.
Arya snarled as his opponent started drawing another dagger; he jabbed the hot end of the stick towards the man's balls, angling it up as a thigh was raised in protection to threaten the man's throat while side-stepping his body to avoid the powerful kick from the man on the ground, going for Rody's own throwing dagger. The Qartheen man rolled backwards away from the blow to come to his feet and take a deep breath of the clear air here, a second dagger in his own uninjured hand, the injured one raised in a guard as he lunged forwards. The first rule of knife fights between anyone nearly remotely equal came to mind; everybody gets cut. With properly poisoned blades like these that was doubly true since nobody had to try for immediately lethal strikes to kill... and he had no sword, only a stick and knives.
Arya threw the dagger at the man's chest as a distraction while lunging forwards with the stick, going straight for his face; when he used his injured arm to deflect the wood, Arya rotates his wrist and sent the still-glowing tip in a tight half-circle down to smash into a group of vials under the clothes; glass shattered inside. The Sorrowful Man clamped his mouth closed again as he flitted back along the edge of the little area of packed snow, his heartbeats sped up while he threw the second dagger with little more than a snap of the wrist. Arya batted the dagger aside contemptuously with the stick... he wasn't going for a blade, he was going for the vials!
Without the benefit of his own weapons, pathetic excuse for an assassin or not, this man was too dangerous to take his face intact, not when he was reaching for powders, or more likely wildfire. It was just like a Sorrowful man to decide to give himself to the Many-Faced God to take a better assassin with him. Arya threw his own dagger and danced backwards as his fullest speed, the stick moving behind him to give him extra leverage to stop on a copper. He planted one booted foot and swept the other strongly through the side of the fire while he covered his face with his arm, throwing burning branches and a wave of glowing embers and hot ash at the man... igniting the vial of wildfire he had indeed reached for, causing it to explode in his hand and light him up like a screaming human torch. He wasn't fighting, not anymore, and the other two were conscious but completely unable to move, so Arya relaxed to a ready posture and taunted the pathetic fools.
"I'm so sorry. So, so sorry I decided to join a group of pathetic fools pretending to be real assassins," said Arya in the youngest Sorrowful Man's voice, dropping the longer stick and picking up a heavier, shorter branch as the senior assassin went quiet, the green giving way to yellow and orange flames, "So sorry I wasn't willing to risk taking the training to become a real assassin. So sorry I couldn't hack serving in the greatest order of assassins anywhere in the world, so sorry I settled for a very, very distant second best. So sorry I'm not a Faceless Man."
He strode casually over by the fire to where the two still-living men could see, reaching up and pulling their companion's face off, smirking at them.
"A Faceless Man would have heard me coming. A Faceless Man would have known I wasn't the face I was wearing. A Faceless Man wouldn't have taken a payment from Cersei that was a mere token of what the job should have cost. You charge your amount of gold, and never consider what the true price should be. Never consider that perhaps some jobs shouldn't be taken in the first place. Like a job trying to kill my sister while she's working for the good of the living. While she's not the monster she fears she might become. Valar Morghulis."
Arya moved over behind one and smashed in the back of the man's head with the branch, repeating the action on the other paralyzed man before slipping tiny flakes of dragonglass into their arms, adjusting the now ill-fitting clothes and wading off through the snows. She had clothes to change, tools to retrieve, faces to remove, bodies and a cart to burn, and a ship to meet at an isolated inlet on the coast. Throwing her head back, she let loose a long howl; half a dozen howls rose in response from a few miles away; her little piece of the pack would be here soon to carry her to the coast. If she was very lucky, they'd bring her a nice rabbit to roast on the fire while she cleaned up this little mess. The risk of being tracked magically was higher, but the speed she'd gain would be well worth it, and she'd change faces again near there.
As she worked, she prayed quietly.
"Cersei. Illyn Payne. The Mountain. Beric."
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He snorted, taking another bit of the bitter dark bread that had become the staple food of these breakaway kingdoms; it was cold, with a thick crust, and crunchy with rough-ground mixed grains. Not one maggot or worm in this piece, and only a handful of weevils in bread baked less than a day ago; what the man thought soldiers ate on campaign, or if the man was thinking at all, the sellsword didn't know, but he'd be paid half in advance if he took the job.
At first, rumor had it he'd be fighting some so-called First Sword; highborn girl taught by some greasy-haired foreigner had killed a bunch of Lannister conscripts, but she'd fucked off a few days ago. The tales of her were too ridiculous to be true; wine always made tales grow. Sure, she was more dangerous than some conscripts, but so was any sellsword worth their silver. Instead, he'd have to fight someone else, and the only other fighters he'd been worried was the Hound and another veteran sellsword, Myric. Myric, however, had fucked off to the South once his own employer got rid of him; said he was going to Essos to get away from the army of the dead, which was great; one less man competing for the gold. He'd grown up hearing tales of the Hound - not as huge as the Mountain, had killed his first man at twelve instead of ten, but a famous man who'd survived a price on his head for years... apparently by hiding. The sellsword shook his head; the man had gotten old. Look at him now!
Digging. The famous warrior was teaching a bunch of peasant conscripts to dig a fucking hole in the ground like he was a damned master-at-arms teaching conscripts how to use a sword. Sure, the moats they were digging would hold off a million men, but he wasn't going to bring a million men to take a castle; just a one on one duel to the death, and Lord Clegane the Ditchdigger over there was famous for fighting with a single weapon at a time; he'd be easy meat now. Even his reputation was overblown; he'd won the tourney near a decade ago without even participating! Myric had said the man was still dangerous and he wouldn't want to cross blades with the man, but Myric was perhaps nine and twenty, and getting over-cautious... his loss.
Cayde finished the bread and stood as Clegane climbed out of the hole he was in and went off with some wildling man. Hells, maybe it was a woman, he couldn't tell - ugly as sin, but not his problem. His problem was a hand and a half Valyrian steel sword, reputed to be Valyrian steel, a boot knife, and a belt knife in the hands of a man who was still strong, but... too old. Maybe he did fight these dead men, but if the training was any indication that was easy, because they had no skill, had no cunning.
He'd take the job, collect the first payment, kill the Hound in the trial by combat, collect the second half, and with that to boast of, he'd be able to charge five times what he did now! If the big man was getting beat by some woman knight who'd never fought a battle and a highborn girl of eight and ten, a veteran sellsword of three and twenty wouldn't have a problem.
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Wylla Manderly smiled at the guards and entered the room dedicated to naval affairs with the Master of Ships just before her and the rest of the Northern Essos contingent behind her. She ducked down to check under the table by habit as she passed the door, then leaned her spear in the rag-padded rest next to her seat at the map table, briefly glancing over the table to verify there were no changes in the positions of the fleets. Not finding any, the green-haired Harbormaster looked up at the others cheerfully; since she was the only Lady present, it was her duty to ensure everyone was properly supplied.
"Lord Grafton, Admiral Vollin, Admiral Phasselion, Admiral Ostoran, Captain H'raar, I'm parched; would you like refreshments?" asked Wylla as she walked past the spears, crossbows, and shields that kept handy to the side table with the cups and pitcher of water. A simple, economical blow with the heel of her hand like the way she'd seen Arya Stark do it cracked the thick skin of ice on top, which allowed her to pour herself a cup and place it atop a small shield for use as a serving platter as the others answered.
"A man has a thirst," replied H'raar in the manner of his home city of Lorath.
"I would be most grateful, my Lady," answered Phasselion, his the Ibbenese accent strong.
Wylla waited while the other two she was used to working with as well as Admiral Ostoran of Pentos declined politely, then poured two more cups full, sharply broken ice streaming into the cups in a way she knew would horrify the naval delegates from Tyrosh, Lys, Dorne, and other far Southron places. None of those were here now; they weren't involved, not yet, and quite possibly never. The men here knew snow and ice nearly as well as any Northerner. Better than most, in Admiral Phasselion's case, since his home island was farther north than even Winterfell.
Wylla balanced the shield on one hand gracefully, stepping quickly around her spear and setting the cups in front of those who has requested them and acknowledging their thanks before returning the shield and retaking her seat at the map table, looking at the Master of Ships politely. The Lorathi always spoke so oddly! Perhaps she could visit Lorath someday; maybe that was where Arya Stark learned to speak the same way, and she could follow in the Stark's footsteps.
"Lady Wylla, if you would cover the latest news for us all, to bring us all up to speed?" asked Lord Grafton, turning to the mistress of White Harbor's harbor. The young woman was surprisingly competent, and the amount of work he had was certainly far beyond what one man alone could do, so he thanked the Mother for her mercy in providing both Lady Wylla and Admiral Vollin. They would be valuable allies now... and respectable trading partners and trading rivals later, if any survived the Long Night. If Gulltown came out ahead of White Harbor and Seagard, he would provide more taxes and tithes to the Queen, and have the honor of helping the other kingdoms. If not, Gulltown would not suffer in winters for the other kingdoms would help them. The North had never, ever been a place where frivolity took precedence over preparing for winter, now least of all.
"Certainly, my Lord. I had the good fortune to be invited by Queen Sansa to speak with Lord Bran earlier today. Admiral Ostoran, your last fleet has cleared the ice shelf and is navigating the icebergs about as far north as Karhold or Hornwood. Captain H'raar, your latest outbound fleet is rounding Braavos with one casualty; the Wandering Table brushed an iceberg in a storm and all but eight of the crew were rescued. The ship and cargo, however, was lost entirely. Both fleets are still on course for Gulltown for trade and warehousing. Other fleets are on schedule, including the Summer Islanders," reported the green-haired woman. She'd gotten to speak to Bran Stark, to see the mysterious Three-Eyed Raven's powers at work in person! His eyes had gone white, then rolled back and he'd just pointed at the map and told her what had happened oceans away; truly the Starks had magic in their blood. She took another drink, chewing the ice pieces loudly while the news was being digested by the others.
"My condolences, Captain," said Lord Grafton. That the Lorathi had lost a ship while the Ibbenese had not was no surprise. The Ibbenese were the only people in the world to regularly sail through ice, to build ships fit to do so... and even those ships were quickly nearing their limit.
"The sea is a harsh mistress. A man is thankful for your concern; a ship was carrying salt cod, a cargo easily replaced. A man thinks only one ship lost in a deep winter storm on icy seas is a blessing," replied Captain H'raar stoically. A man had spent so long on the seas and in foreign ports that a man was no longer offended by personal addresses that would be rude at home.
Wylla reached down to the south of the map, tapped a point, withdrew a parchment from her cloak, spreading it out and showing the others a crude architectural drawing, and said, "Also, the 'independent trader' Cargoes of Wisdom, who flies Yunkish sails was boarded by a harbor pilot and guards on approach to Planky Town in Dorne; it opened up some kind of fold-out trebuchet on the foredeck and launched a single large wildfire barrel towards Sunspear, which fell short. The ship started to change course east towards the Dornish capital a few seconds before it detonated in a green explosion; the ship, crew, harbor pilot and small boat crew were all destroyed, with no damage to anyone or anything else. Lord Bran Stark confirmed that the ship had previously been captured by Euron's fleet and delivered to King's Landing, and the crew was Westerlanders under Cersei's orders. Qyburn designed and oversaw the new trebuchet design; there's only been the one made so far. A page was sent to appraise Princess Sarella of the situation; that's all the news I have to report."
"Thank you, Lady Wylla, and thanks to Lord Bran for the information. I suggest we send out a warning about attacks from even well known friendly vessels, and have all ships boarded and searched at least four thousand yards offshore and away from fleets. Let's cover sailing matters next, then, gentlemen and lady? How many ships will we need to pull from fleets to expand the protected area, Admiral Vollin?" said Lord Grafton as the Ibbenese and the Lorathi exchanged nods and the discussion commenced. They'd get the more Southron powers involved later, but they were here, now, and so could make short work of their own changes, which could serve as a guide to any other powers that wished to follow in the footsteps of the Northern fleets... particularly the greatest sea power in the world, Braavos. For as much more powerful as his own fleets and the Manderly fleets were now compared to a bare year ago, they were still no match for their greatest ally... whose Arsenal had built their new ships in the first place.
Wylla took out the rest of the notes she'd received from Bran Stark and adjusted the ship tokens on the map board. While the Three-Eyed Raven couldn't easily tell the position of a ship on the open sea with his greensight, he could very easily read the last log entry the pilot had made, and it was based on those reports that she measured bearing and distance and updated the fleets... both their own and the enemy's. The others covered their fleet movement, sea conditions, and what little the winds were changing with fairly easy familiarity... all but Admiral Ostoran, who was still somewhat resentful of what the Braavosi had done to his home of Pentos.
In some ways, she could understand that resentment; not entirely unlike the way the North had been conquered by the Targaryen, the Pentoshi had been conquered by the Braavosi. Both had still mostly ran themselves, but both had been under restrictions they chafed at, like restrictions on the Pentoshi fleets... which, of course, led to them having a harbor much larger than they currently needed. On the other hand, one of the restrictions put on the Pentoshi was forbidding slavery and the slave trade. By the Father's scales, this was hard to balance! Some good and some bad and some people seeking vengeance, century after century, nursing old grudges.
"Euron's fleet is nearly in position to ambush the convoy carrying Lord Tyrion... or they would be if they'd left days earlier, and for the low price of eight ships foundering in the reefs east of the Grey Gallows," commented Lord Grafton with amusement. Eight ships wasn't a lot, but that wasn't the first nor the last loss at sea for those fleets, and that kind of slow, steady damage that gave more and more advantage over time to the pirate Ironborn's enemies. The Ironborn had added a couple hundred ships to their fleet far faster than he or the Manderlies had, and they'd paid for it, putting coastal sailors on the deep water in ships built by common smallfolk instead of expert shipbuilders.
"That's what happens when you destroy their scout ships and send ravens with the wrong dates across territory you know the enemy has archers; they're forced to take a riskier route to achieve nothing. Take heed, young Lady Wylla; battles at sea are merely the very last thrust of a long, involved duel that leaves tracks over land and sea both. In many duels the outcome is nearly certain before the first blade is drawn, and in all naval battles the advantage is taken before the first sighting of the enemy is made. Anything else regarding sailing matters in the Shivering Sea? I think we've covered our Free Cities well enough, and it appears we owe Lord Greyjoy thanks for burning his uncle's flag squadron; he seems to have removed their best pilots. Lord Grafton, is there anything else from you?" said Admiral Vollin with a savage grin, carefully straightening his somber black velvet outfit and generally appearing quite self-satisfied. He thanked the Moon that the newly appointed Westerosi Master of Ships was a reasonable man, though he supposed only a great fool would appoint someone unreasonable during the Long Night. As it stood, the Gulltown lord continued with the policy that the Braavosi admiralty took the lead in matters of the open seas.
"Nothing else from me. Any other thoughts on fleet movements? No? All right, on to the matter of ports. Lady Wylla?"
Wylla gathered her thoughts, considering how what she'd just heard would affect the harbor situation, then spoke up, getting straight to the point just as Arya would, though with some of Sansa's courtesies, "Unless there are urgent objections, White Harbor is closed as a destination as of now; the current inbound fleets, including those just discussed, will be the last allowed in. The only ships allowed to stay will end up wintering there for the rest of the Second Long Night... if they aren't turned into firewood if we run out. The ice shelf is too near and the icebergs are increasing in both size and frequency; the Southron fleets especially have no experience with navigating Northern waters."
After joining the round of smirks about their warm-water brethren, she continued as she'd cleared with Lord Grafton and Lord Patrek a few hours before, "Gulltown will take all new convoys for Westeros; northbound convoys will also be redirected to Gulltown until and unless the ice shelf moves too far south, though we expect that will be thin enough that the Ibbenese kochs will be able to use it for quite awhile. Seagard will close before Gulltown does; at this point its primary use as a port is for Dornish and Summer Isles fleets, and avoiding Euron's forces. Any questions about Westeros before I advise about Essos?"
She looked around the room, taking a drink and crunching some more ice while the Braavosi and Pentoshi men spoke quietly in what she now easily recognized as Bastard Valyrian, but still couldn't hope to translate. She'd picked up quite an ear for languages and accents from all over the world, and had already learned a few words in nearly all of them; it was so exciting! And now, the Pentoshi didn't want to give the Braavosi control over their port, the Braavosi absolutely wouldn't let the Pentoshi have any say in theirs, and the Lorathi kept out of the mess, so they'd agreed to listen to Westerosi suggestions and then work out a mutual agreement! As she saw they were done, she started.
"Braavos is only a couple hundred miles south of White Harbor; that's going to close off both Braavos and Lorath quite soon. We can homeport another eighty ships to twenty and a hundred ships at Gulltown as long as they're mostly traveling, so until Braavos is impassable, we would be honored to host as much of the Ibbenese fleet as you'd like, Admiral Phasselion; your fishing and whaling fleets would provide very welcome supplies if you'd like to sell some in addition to shipping goods to Essos on sled caravans over the ice. Pentos is the next harbor south, about as far south as King's Landing; rivers will definitely be frozen, but the Maesters think the sea will remain passable for quite some time even for the more skilled Southron pilots, possibly the entire Long Night. Admiral Ostoran, your harbor is perhaps the single most protected harbor from storms in all the world, and you have very substantial port facilities for fleets that are currently not in full use," said Wylla, trying to be as diplomatic as Wynafryd or Sansa would be.
The Pentoshi had challenged Braavos at sea repeatedly, and come very close to winning more than once, but only about a hundred years ago they'd lost for the last time and been restricted to only a small number of warships by the Braavosi compared to their previous great numbers... which was why they had so many port facilities that weren't in use. In truth, that were rotten shells of what they had once been, but the harbor itself was truly excellent. Piers, wharves, warehouses, even roads could be built quickly and effectively, as she'd overseen in White Harbor. Dredging channels and making harbor space, however, was much, much more difficult. Pentos was the only practical option to keep trade flowing; Myr and Tyrosh were six hundred miles farther south, in line with Highgarden, where even river weren't expected to free, but they just weren't outfitted to handle that number of ships, especially if the Pentoshi had to move south as well... and they were slaver strongholds, with Myr in particular also sponsoring pirates.
"We do," said Phasselion grumpily, narrowing his eyes at Vollin for a moment before he looked back at the green-haired girl and continued with a sigh, admitting what everyone here knew but what was still shameful to say aloud, "But most of it's in disrepair. It costs money and effort to keep facilities up, as you know well, since we're still paying reparations to Braavos. Our trade is large, but not as large as it'd need to be to require those docks... not for a hundred years, not even with the road to Norvos and Qohor leading to our doorstep. Even if the Magisters wanted to rebuild it, the expense would be... daunting."
"I understand," said Wylla, pausing a bit while remembering discussing the political consequences of the very few practical options with Queen Sansa Stark and the suggestions she'd received, then drew in a breath and plunged ahead, "I would propose that we here arrange a sharing of cost; Ib, Lorath, Braavos, and the Winter Kingdoms will together completely pay for the restoring of the piers. We four will further arrange for an account at the Bank of Pentos to be funded with these monies, which will provide for ongoing legitimate expenses related to hiring more Pentoshi to expand the harbormaster's office in order to efficiently run and fully maintain that refurbished part of the harbor. In return, Pentos will loan that entire section of the harbor to us for a term of ten years, with options to extend the loan in five year increments for a fixed payment schedule written into the contract, which are required to be accepted by Pentos for long as winter lasts, and which Pentos may optionally accept once Spring comes. Additionally, Pentoshi taxes, tariffs, and prices for resupplies will be fixed in the contract. A minimum annual purchase amount for resupplies will also be fixed in the contract; for as long as the loan of the section of harbor lasts, we will buy at least that much supplies every year. All those funds will come out of the account with the Bank of Pentos, which will be fully funded, in advance, with the expected expenditures, and additional funds deposited each year should actual expenses exceed the expectation. If you would like, the Winter Kingdoms will also commit to negotiating with Dorne so that more of the Braavosi fleet can winter in Planky Town, and Winter Kingdoms warships will winter in Pentos. We all get through the winter with navigable home ports, Pentos doesn't lose anything during the winter and keeps dockworkers employed and experienced. Come spring the Pentoshi port will be fully repaired and in great condition for the first time in a hundred years, ready for trade."
Wylla drew a deep breath and waited for their response, her eyes darting between them. The basic ideas were hers, though it had been her grandfather who had told her she needed to specifically call out the Pentoshi bank; they would have taken grave offense at having to use the Iron Bank of Braavos instead of their own. She'd known that the Braavosi absolutely had to find ports that wouldn't be iced in, and that the Iron Bank was willing to work with other banks, as long as the rates were good. Everyone had to extend some trust, everyone gave up some things they didn't want to lose, and everyone got something valuable out of it... she hoped. Dealing with this wasn't the same as running her family's own port, but it had to be done, and her father wasn't here anymore.
She just hoped she hadn't just created a rift between their allies; she thought that the Braavosi wouldn't want too much of their navy housed in the harbor of a resentful rival, and the Pentoshi also wouldn't want too much of the Braavosi military in their city. On the other hand, if the Braavosi established a firm presence in Dorne, that would further extend their reach and influence not just in Westeros but also in the Stepstones, Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys, and give them a major advantage in any Sothoryos trade that might develop. Unexpectedly, it was Captain H'raar who spoke first.
"A man thinks a Master of Ships might be safe after all. A young woman might be seeking to be Master of Coin instead," said the Lorathi with respectful amusement, a tilt of his head and a small smile, continuing, "A Free City will support this plan, if the payments negotiated are proportional to size of fleets and size of ships."
"Safe or not, I'm not resigning just yet. Lady Wylla, you'll have to wait a few more years before you consider taking my position... and you'll need seafaring experience, and to see more than just the North, or even Westeros. Since your duties as harbormaster are about to come to a close at White Harbor, perhaps you might see fit to come to Gulltown, learn how we do things in the Vale, and lend your experience to make sure everything is shipshape for the increased traffic it'll see, and then, perhaps, another port might wish to benefit from her presence..." said Lord Grafton, looking inquiringly at his counterparts from Essos and studiously ignoring the furious blush adorning the young woman's cheeks. Reports aside, he'd been skeptical of an unmarried young lady as harbormaster... and then he'd sailed a small fleet into White Harbor amidst a pair of other fleets, with a dozen unaligned ships entering and half a dozen ships and a fleet exiting, all in an orderly fashion on the water and the docks both. The defenses were well done - none of her work, it was true, but she also knew better than to interfere where would cause more harm than good.
He didn't think that she would be a good Master of Coin; she was too open and easily read for the negotiations that post entailed. Master of Ships, though? He wasn't sure that such a post for three entire kingdoms would be suitable to a lady... but he wasn't sure it wouldn't be, either, anymore. So, there was only one thing to do with a young seaman who lacked experience; throw them into the deep seas! He expected the same would work for young ladies as well. It was dangerous - especially so, now, and with the sea conditions as they were, not to mention the wight dragon as an ever present danger, and Euron's fleet on the loose... but her spear had killed wights, and Lord Woolfield, an honorable man, had praised her courage. He could push, just a little, to give her a chance to prove herself. If nothing else, he was certain she would not embarrass their navy; everyone knew she was still a landlubber, gifted harbormaster or no. Moreover, she would undoubtedly forge relationships among the Essosi fleets and merchant houses that would serve the Winter Kingdoms well... he'd talk to Lord Manderly and they'd assign his granddaughter a trade advisor to be sure the opportunities would not be missed.
"I wouldn't be averse to a neutral observer overseeing this agreement; I suspect an independent assessment of both the quality of the work performed and the costs incurred would reassure both of us," replied Admiral Vollin, giving the green-haired woman a thoughtful look, "I would consider Harbormaster Wylla Manderly to be an adequate candidate for the post, and I would further be delighted to have a Braavosi fleet transport her and whatever staff she deems necessary... and show her how a professional fleet operates at sea. She can then provide an unbiased accounting of the readiness of the port after it is built, as well as, if she agrees, annual reviews of its maintenance and repairs, and ensure that the costs are all paid for promptly... and precisely."
"Nonsense! Your Braavosi fleet can take the Harbormaster to Braavos to pick up the gold, then she can escort the gold aboard a Pentoshi fleet and be shown how to handle the fleets of a trueborn daughter of Valyria before she sees the greatest natural harbor in the world! She can then oversee the work to refurbish the harbor, and only she will have the right to draw from the account to pay for the work; neither prince nor magister shall have access. She shall have jurisdiction over the Magisters in charge of the work, as well, to ensure they proceed swiftly!" replied Admiral Ostoran sharply, then continued with a blatantly sly grin.
"But... to host such a mighty gathering of foreign ships, and to continue to meet our existing commitments to all the living, we shall need the terms of the old treaty amended to allow us more warsh... armed customs ships, and more soldiers for... customs and peacekeeping duties. Sailors on leave are a rambunctious lot, and prone to all sorts of damages, after all, and fleets may contain all manner of unwelcome pirates."
He turned his head up to stare at the ceiling as he said to 'himself' in a loud mutter, "And someone to keep Magister Maegenohr from dragging it out by trying to give all the business to his own cousins and nephews wouldn't go awry."
Wylla, seeing the Braavosi was thinking deeply, turned wide eyes to the Lord of Gulltown to see him looking at her with an expression that reminded her of her father. When he gave her a deep approving nod, her felt her cheeks start to ache, she was smiling so hard. They were going to follow her plan; two of the Free Cities were going to spend thousands of gold dragons and move hundreds of ships across entire seas to survive the Second Long Night, on a plan she'd designed. And she was going to Braavos, where Arya Stark had been trained! She could see the House of Black and White, and then go to Pentos, too, and learn how to handle ships and fleets on the open sea, even if it was only for a few days. Her mother would be proud and worried; her grandfather had said he was already proud of what she'd done... and she thought her father would have been proud, too, of how she'd represented the Manderly name. Even if she wasn't quite a traditional girl, it was up to her or Wynafryd to carry on their House, one way or another, and managing a port had shown her how important it was to her people and to the North as a whole for White Harbor to be seen as a great port and destination, the North as a great trading partner, which she could help with if she wintered at a port that wasn't iced in.
Admiral Vollin responded slowly, with a thoughtful tone as he worked through the options, "I'm a seaman, not a politician, but from the navy's point of view, I'm sure we would be happy to spare the Pentoshi Magisters the expense of paying for dockside customs and security by providing our own on the rented docks. That said, if the new Pentoshi... customs and peacekeeping forces... would commit to permanent joint patrols to hunt down slavers and pirates, I would be willing to recommend to the Sealord an amendment of the treaty to increase the number of armed ships by..."
Hours later, Wylla stretched as she crossed the courtyard towards the forge, hungry and ready to go out into Winter Town. She'd finished the naval meeting, gone through the ravens reporting from harbors all over the world and reconciled those against what Bran had told her already, then spent a little time sewing with Sansa Stark, and she was disappointed indeed. Lady Meera was organizing what she could, but it was awfully sparse for a celebration, and her old friend Sansa was about to have her name day! She knew Meera had been living on the run beyond the wall for years, she knew the rationing wouldn't be changed for celebrations, especially ones for a Stark so as not to appear selfish, but really!
Her good friend the Queen would be one and twenty soon, and that deserved a celebration, something without the politics, just to cheer her up! After that, she'd talked to the Princess Meera, who also agreed, and her grandfather would be making her and Gendry's excuses for dinner tonight. Wynafryd would be proud; she'd noticed that she'd been paired with the well-built and famous smith Gendry every meal so far. Further, Sansa Stark had 'happened' to confirm the rumors that he was King Robert's natural son; given his close relationship with the Starks, he was quite a fine match, if a lady wanted to keep her name, and it was clear her friend approved of the idea.
Once the courtyard guard had announced her and opened the door, she thanked him and entered, where she could again enjoy the view of the shirtless man working the forge while she set her spear in the rest and hung her cloak on the nearby hook. He was muscled in a different way from the dockworkers and sailors, and dressed in less, too, given the heat of the forge... though he bundled up going outside, the silly Southron. She had both Andal and First Men blood already, so some more Andal blood wouldn't matter, and he'd certainly father strong children. And if he was still of a mind to prefer a less traditional woman, well, she had a chance at him, and she was going to do her best. He'd apparently liked Arya Stark; while she wasn't as amazing as the Master of Whisperers, she was still a woman grown, second daughter of a great house, had trained to fight, was a lot more wild than most ladies, didn't mind bastards, and was blunt and outspoken... well, Arya had used to be blunt and outspoken, before. Now she was only some of the time.
"I know, I know, m'Lady Wylla. Could you hold that torch here, please?" said Gendry as he carefully watched the color of the greave, working the small bellows with one hand while he slowly rotated the piece, then withdrew it from the forge and slowly used the angled tongs to sink it into the oil bath and watch the color change in the light of the torch his visitor held, rotating it under the surface in preparation to withdraw it, his eyes glancing up at her chest for a moment when her arm pressed in while she braced herself on the table and leaned over more, getting coal dust on her clothes again ang caring as little as Arya did.
He snapped his eyes back down to the steel and continued, "I'm late for dinner, I should finish and come to the Great Hall."
"My condolences, Gendry; I heard about your lack of success making Valyrian steel this morning. Don't worry, though! There's no need to dress; you and I are going to Winter Town instead, our excuses have already been made. You can tell me all about what you tried with Queen Daenerys's dragon," said Wylla, pausing while he started pulling the steel out of the oil; this was a delicate moment that she wouldn't disturb, any more than she'd disturb a pilot just as the ship docked.
"All right," said Gendry as he set the piece on a wooden block to finish cooling slowly and took the towel she handed him, noting her grin as she did so, "But I don't think I'm going to fit into that fancy place of Sansa's."
"Oh, no, we're going to a scummy tavern! A man told me his deck crew found a little hole with a good pottage, extra grease if it's your meat ration day, and some of the best fences and smugglers do business there," replied Wylla as she opened the window shutter wider and leaned out at the waist like her sister had shown her, though she didn't add in the wiggle, "Send an apprentice to bank the forge, please, Kruin! Come, Gendry! We have lots to do!"
"Why are you looking for fences and smugglers, m'Lady?" asked Gendry cautiously; this Lady was... overly exuberant, sometimes, and always full of energy when she had an idea.
"Because it's almost Sansa's name day, and they're the only ones we can trade with if we want to give her a surprise! And I've told you, the Queen herself calls you brother; you can just call me Wylla. Or Harbormaster if you like ladies with titles! Come; tell me about what you tried and what you'll try next on the way, then we can eat and buy goods of ill repute, and on the way back you can tell me what you think of Lady Tarly; she's much more traditional than me, isn't she, and so pretty," said the green-haired girl with a sly grin and a sharp glance at him before twisting to grab her cloak and give him a view of her dress pulled tight just before covering herself in her cloak again and offering him her arm, "For the Valyrian steel, have you considered a seawater quench, perhaps even with water from near the Fourteen Fires? I can have some regular seawater shipped in from White Harbor quickly, and from Valyria in several weeks; perhaps there's something in the water there that's necessary. Valyrian steel was never made anywhere else, was it? Not even the other Free Cities?"
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Sansa strolled through Winter Town, her thick, dusty maid's dress swishing as she looked around carelessly, squinting a little at the dark areas between the widely spaced, low-burning lamps, mostly empty and quiet but for those walking and the beggars tonight; she'd heard tales from her spies of a Faceless Man giving away a staff after administering a beating here, and that had certainly caught her interest. Construction had nearly finished, not because it was done, but because they were out of good building materials until the dead were no longer keeping Winterfell under siege. Here and there her people and their guests were idly carving decorations into the wood, or sanding it smooth, in both cases there were tight-woven canvas sheets spread out to catch the scrap in the Free Folk way; the shavings from carvings were excellent tinder, and the Maesters and alchemists would pay good coin for sawdust when a street banded together to sell it all at once. Or, for the wisest of her people, they would offer healing, architectural designs, or education.
This was the North, the Winter Kingdoms, and here the Maesters were more concerned with ability and less with birth. She could see the differences already; the same skills that allowed the calculation of siege engine aiming tables were good for keeping books for a business. The calculations and skills for building tall buildings with strength to handle snows, winds, and storage would be useful all across her kingdoms. Past lords had been leery of towns full of merchants, but that was where the wealth of Essos came from - cities. That was where most of the wealth of the North came from - White Harbor, Barrowton. She had three kingdoms; the Vale was doing well, spared the carnage of the wars, but the Riverlands had been burned and raided. Oldstones in the Northern Riverlands had been abandoned since the Andal invasion, villages were empty or ashes. The North had dozens of abandoned holdfasts... plus, of course, the Dreadfort which she had to give to someone. Possibly the Maesters, she thought with a vicious satisfaction that she reveled in before pushing it down again; Ramsay would have hated that idea.
The streets under the lamps, on the other hand, were full of people talking, which was quite normal. She kept an eye out for any hints of changes after the disturbance spies and guards both had reported the previous night; there was some more grumbling about rationing, since as the need for heavy manual labor lessened, the amount of food was lessened as well. An idle person out of the winds needed about half what a truly active person did in the outdoors in the winter; that meant she could feed her people twice as long with the same stores. Armies, however, needed to train, and training hard meant eating more; risk starving or risk the dead winning, those were the only choices, and of those, she'd rather starve. On her arm was her 'paramour', Sandy, the disguised Princess Sarella, who had suddenly stopped regaling her with a seafaring tale and now sported a frown... a genuine frown, actually, not a pretend one, while looking first at one particular beggar and then around the area.
On alert, Sansa gave her functional maid's staff a brief squeeze to resettle her grip on it, looking around herself; there weren't any sounds of distress; Daenerys, 'Darlene' and her 'father', Jorah Mormont disguised as a laborer, were both just behind her while behind and in front were the loyal people she'd sent to this area just in case. They weren't alarmed, the people standing around weren't alarmed, everyone was chattering normally... a whore had found a customer, a woman was scolding her son, a bravo with brightly dyed hair marking him as a Tyroshi peeking out from below his Northern fur hat was strutting away, fresh purple feather in their brightly dyed hair. Some squires from the Vale and two acolyte Maesters were telling tales to a group of mountain clan and Free Folk girls, one of which was also a novice Maester; an older Essosi man and a young girl both with darker skin and similar features were sitting on a balcony made in the style of Braavos, talking to each other; perhaps father and daughter. There was a whore in an alley, a few beggars, a small pack of smallfolk boys, and other locals tired from a long day's work or getting ready to perform a long night's work.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary... not for the Second Long Night. When she was a girl, all of that would have been fantastically strange. The North had kept to itself, and the rest of the world had in large part left it alone; now, however, it was a major trading nation and Winterfell, four hundred miles inland, a bustling international hub. Nobody was lurking, nobody was giving her undue attention for a pretty maid; the sounds from all around were as she expected. Sansa thought of what Arya might do; she inhaled the cold, cold air deeply; the scents were as she expected. Not pleasant, but still far cleaner than King's Landing had been.
She was sure her sister would have noticed before anyone else did; the elder sister pushed down her disappointment at not being able to discern whatever it was for herself and turned to Sarella and what, who, had caught her notice. The beggar that had attracted her companion's attention was dressed in normal thick Northern rags; he was dirty... and clearly blind, she could see once his head turned towards a lantern and she could see reflections in all-white eyes. She murmured quietly to the disguised Princess, "Sandy? What is it?"
"That's not One-armed Harry," replied Sarella, using her deeper 'manly' voice by dint of the habits she'd developed as Alleras, and turned back to get a better look down the alley her teacher usually appeared from. Down there was the dead end with the old shipping crate he lived in. She saw no sign of him; he'd been begging like normal just two days ago, hadn't seemed ill, but he had never once not been in his spot before. She'd observed that every beggar had their own place; each one was nearly always in the same spot, and when they weren't, it was a permanent move. She gave Sansa an apologetic look, worried about her teacher. She'd mentioned to him that she did have space allotted to her that wasn't filled yet, and he'd laughed at her; he was proud of begging for his livelihood. She'd never seen him with anyone else; he'd always been alone. If he hadn't left for the warm comfort of the Dornish area of the castle, he wouldn't have left his spot for anything else, either.
"I'm sorry, lovely Alaya, but I must check on a friend of mine," continued 'Sandy', 'his' voice worried. Being a beggar anywhere was dangerous; being one in Winterfell in the Second Long Night was very dangerous. Sickness hadn't overtaken the city because of rigidly enforced bathing backed by the Maesters and acolytes checking samples of the population for disease regularly and both providing medical aid to, and quarantining, those who could pass their sickness to others. She'd studied history; disease was the deadliest part of any siege, whether one was the besieged or the besieging. Assuming the besieging were living, at least.
"Youse gots no needs ta check me, as loud as youse are," said One-armed Harry, turning the corner in the alley and approaching them, coming to a halt and gesturing at the blind beggar across the street with annoyance, "Ain't gonna matter; them's gonna make a bunch o' noise now anyways. Looks, there them comes!"
"You're all right!" exclaimed Sarella with relief, "You are all right, aren't you? You lost your spot! My offer is always open; you are welcome in my home."
"Bah! O' course I'se all right!"
Daenerys, 'Darlene', tightened her grip on both Jorah's arm and even more on her staff while she turned to follow Sandy's friend's gaze down the street to see what turned out to be a hoodless Faceless Man; an acolyte, as he walked down the street towards them holding a wooden staff. The assassin ignored how the people stepped out of his way to make space as they noticed his vestments, but he was alone and clearly heading for the blind man. She glanced at the beggar, who continued to hold out a wooden bowl quietly, then at the much older one-armed old beggar who had come up to them. She'd finally figured out that Sandy was a disguised Princess Sarella... but why would the ruler of Dorne be worried about a beggar? Were they friends? The banter wouldn't have been out of place with some of the Second Sons, but he was obviously not a fighter. Then again, here there were many rougher people, whether they fought or not.
Dany looked back to the approaching acolyte, studying his gait and movements, how he held the staff professionally even as Jorah kepy himself between her and the assassin. The staff wasn't padded, but neither was it encrusted with sharp flakes of dragonglass... or even the normal iron or bronze caps on the end, just knurled wood. He moved... with great certainty; not a hint of concern for his footing on the cobblestones, even covered in filthy snow as they were.
Sansa noticed how others were reacting, then turned her head fully to see the vestments, making sure to let out a small gasp and take three steps away from them to put her back against the wall behind her, as some of the other women and a handful of the men were doing. She'd learned a lot as Alayne Stone in the Vale; the first lesson Baelish had taught her was to watch what the other bastards did, and when in surprised, do as they do. Arya, of course, had said she should watch what they did before she was surprised in the first place; she pushed down the combination of exasperation at the useless advice she'd been given and her fondness for her absent sister.
Just coming around the corner, fifty yards behind the assassin was one of the elderly guards Meera had arranged for; he wasn't there to interfere, merely to follow any Faceless Man who was obviously wearing vestments in public... so he could put dragonglass flakes into any corpses, and so she'd have a report from one of her own people. This must be the blind beggar training she'd heard of, taking place on the open street, in public, in her kingdom, just as she'd heard it did across the Narrow Sea; the only part of the training of a Faceless Man that anyone outside the secretive order got to see. Sansa watched carefully; this was what her sister must have gone through, all alone in a strange kingdom.
"Paid to takes me spot, theyse did. Didn't try ta cheat an old beggar, not like some peoples, eh?"
THWACK
They watched as the assassin's staff cracked across the blind man's face, a simple horizontal strike at a fairly slow speed, but made without any warning she could see. The beggar's bowl thumped down on the frozen ground as he reached behind him and scrambled gracelessly to his feet with an identical staff in his hands, raised into a clumsy guard before he doubled over from a thrust to the belly and slammed into the ground after a downward strike to his back. The man rose and was struck down again, over and over.
"Slower than he could be, I bet," murmured Daenerys, watching the continuing beating with the same kind of interest many of the rest of the many onlookers had, while wondering if this was better or worse than the fighting pits. There probably wouldn't be a death... but the man was blind and didn't stand a chance, either. She continued her assessment of the acolyte administering the beating, "No windup, no preparation. No wasted motions."
"Excellent form and footwork," replied the Queen of the Winter Kingdoms as the assassin sidestepped an easily predictable attack from the blind man and then smashed him across the bare face again while even more spectators joined the crowd, pointing and murmuring, "Brutal, too. That could have broken bones."
"Look at that return to guard; not too fast, but perfect," commented Jorah just loud enough for his Khaleesi to hear, "The novice is tough, stubborn; they're getting up again. If they're only bruised, that speaks to the assassin's control of their blows."
"By all the gods, you Westerosi are savage," said Sarella disapprovingly as the acolyte administered a final beating, the last stroke a vicious horizontal hit to the face, then without a sound strolled off back the way they came, the blind man painfully drawing himself to his feet and swiping uselessly at empty air a few times before realizing the man had gone and sat down again in obvious pain, laying the staff down and tucking it back against the wall. They couldn't see, they obviously hadn't determined the acolyte had left by hearing them... the crowd, they'd heard the crowd commenting on it.
"Youse ointment's wearing off, careless oaf," said One-armed Harry in a low growl, "I seen a stupid child of six takes more care of themself than you! Youse trying to make me look a fool in front of the others? Are youse too stupid to learn, too blind to see, too lazy to care, or are you trying to tell me you needs to go over the basic lesson again? Maybe youse needs to find yourself a teacher at your own level and pay them triple. Youse so bad youse probably couldn't manage to collect the rats to pay the cat to teach you to groom youself."
Sarella paused as her teacher told her she'd made a mistake. Her feet were hidden under boots, her extra-long leggings tucked into the top of the boots and bloused over them so seawater would run off outside the boots, there could be no visible skin there. Layers of trousers above that, layers of shirts, long sleeves; all tight-woven to keep out the sea or the cold Northern wind. Two layers of thick velvet on the inside for well hidden warmth, which couldn't be visible or her teacher would have really laid into her, not given a gentle warning. Her face hadn't been touched; the long fur around the edge might have picked up some tint if she hadn't used the right mixture or she hadn't let it cure properly, but she had applied it at dawn and done paperwork by herself all day. The fur border, while ticklish, wasn't able to exert enough force to rub the ointment off.
Her hands were covered by thick gloves, the fur near the wrists would be much the same as the hood's fur, with the same results. She moved hands and arms more, bent at the wrist, that could have a meaningful and significant effect, but with the amount of time and movement compared studiously to the number of properly applied coats, it shouldn't be visible yet. Narrowing her eyes, she held up her arm and tucked her fingers in the sleeve, separating the layers and pulling it open a bit; there it was! Her 'paramour', Sansa, had taken her arm tightly enough and for long enough that the inside of the fabric had started picking up a faint dark stain! She addressed Harry sharply, "All right, I see it, but you couldn't have seen that!"
"Youse so slow I wonder how youse manages to gets to food before youse starve to death," said the beggar with a sigh, then turned to Sansa, muttering, "And youse! Youse gots them pretty creases; youse changed clothes for your outing, eh?"
"Youse ride often while carrying laundry, do youse?" he said in a low tone before looking Jorah up and down, "Youse hopeless. Show's over, shove off, you lot."
After a long moment of them looking at each other while One-armed Harry went back down the alley towards his home, muttering to himself, Sarella carefully rearranged the layers of her sleeve and gestured grandly down the street before offering her arm to Sansa, "Pay no attention to the beggar in the alley, for our meal awaits!"
"Does it await soon, Sandy, or will I be finding another man to escort me? One who prefers the company of a maiden to that of old men who refuse to work for a living?" asked Sansa acerbically, pushing her laughter down and scowling while Sarella made a contrite expression and shuffled her foot back and forth a bit, only then 'relenting' and taking the offered arm. Now she'd seen a hint of the kind of training her sister had been through; training that was obviously not how to fight, but rather something else entirely. And, she thought, of course it was Arya who had thought a beggar - an actual street beggar - was an appropriate companion and instructor for a Princess of Dorne, even a bastard-born one. Only Arya would do that... and now she was off on her own, doing something else where not even Bran could find her.
"A hungry maiden," said Daenerys sharply, starting down the street in the direction indicated.
"I'm not hopeless, am I?" asked Jorah, then sighed as the others exchanged looks, the Queens giggling while the man escorting the disguised Queen in the North shrugged at him, "I am, aren't I?"
"Father!" exclaimed Dany with a grin, "You're not hopeless! Just old! Very old... how many winters have you seen, again?"
************************
Lord Mallister gazed out across his city from the top of the command tower, surveying the tens of thousands of men working, and the women working with them. The smell was again closer to the smell of the sea he was used to, the plague of dysentery having been brought under control, but it wasn't over yet. Nothing was the same, not anymore. Moats were being widened, hoardings constructed, roofs leveled, buttressed, and armed. Building interiors braced, interior walls removed, and small siege engines hidden inside in the expectation that those up above would be attacked; what kind of mind did it take to envision defenses like these being overwhelmed or bypassed?
"Lord Commander, would you answer a personal question, as a favor to an old man?" asked the Lord of Seagard.
"It depends on the question," replied Jamie, cautiously, as he peered through one of the Myrish far-eyes mounted on the railing, murmuring to his pages, "Signal again to clear working parties on the west for attack drills. You, run to Justman ring two and personally make sure the moats are clear and the group of idiots having lunch on ring three between the hedgehogs are cleared out. They were going to get run over or pummeled to death by training shafts, and right now they're wasting what little daylight we have left."
As the young man dressed in thick black furs raced off and the drums rattled out new commands, he sighed and turned to Jason Mallister, "Don't tell them, but the attacking force isn't ready yet either. Better if they think they're responsible. What's your question?"
Jason looked to the side uncomfortably once before turning back to the Kingslayer and replying, "You've met Princess Arya... Lady Winter? And seen my son?"
"I have been trained by her, yes," answered Jaime tiredly, "And as a word of warning, you do need to take care how you address her. She'll happily take any random peasant yelling out Arya, but one hint of being called Princess and she shows her fangs. Your son I but saw."
"Thank you, Ser Jaime. He's a good lad, a decent swordsman, a better horseman and jouster, honorable and dutiful, and my heir. Was there anything he or I could have done such that Queen Sansa might have betrothed her to Lady Winter?"
Jaime stared for a moment, shaking his head once at the memory of Walder Frey's voice murmuring in his ear at Queen Sansa's coronation, coming from the girl's mouth, 'You're not going to mock me anymore, eh'. He then shook his head again and said with a half-smile, "You're asking the wrong question; even I can see that. Those two, they're not like the Ladies you know. Sansa was, once, but she's not anymore, not after what she's seen. She wouldn't betroth her sister for anything. And Arya? She's never been like the Ladies you know, never showed any interest in men or boys, and still doesn't, much less marriage. My sister bridled at every attempt of my father or anyone else telling her what to do; in that regard, at least, the Stark women are no different. If she marries, it'll be on her terms alone, just like everything else in her life."
"I see," replied Lord Mallister. There were many strange things in this new world, but the Starks were the Starks; they had always been a bit strange, even to Lord Eddard Stark's sister Lyanna. To think Prince Rhaegar had married her! A forced marriage was normal enough, though he'd never have it in his family... but a forced marriage when a man was already married, with children? That was the past, though, and wouldn't help him now.
"It doesn't help he came in without any respect for women warriors. Even I could see his disdain."
"Ah. Yes," said Jason with a hint of shame, "We didn't, I didn't, really know women could fight like that. We've never seen any before, and still hadn't when he'd left. Now? I can recognize skill and grip when I see it in the Dornish spears and archers, in some of the... Free Folk. Some of our own smallfolk are uncommonly talented, too, women included. Even Lady Terrick is showing rapid improvement and she's better than a few of my knights already. It's going to be rough on Lord Terrick if she surpasses him."
"He'll get used to it. You should have known about women warriors, though; Lady Brienne beat Loras Tyrell years ago at Renly's tournament, and nobody ever said Loras was a poor fighter," replied Jaime with pride in Lady Brienne clear in his voice. Loras had been an annoying twat in addition to a cheating asshole on the jousting field.
"Ah. Yes, we had heard of that, but... hadn't considered what it might mean for other women. Have you met Lady Mormont? I understand she's recently flowered and has been named Master of Coin, as well as being a siege engine commander. Surely my son, heir to Seagard, would be a good match?"
"Lady Mormont," repeated Jamie in disbelief, "You're thinking of betrothing your son to Lady Mormont, ruling lady of Bear Island, daughter of Maege Mormont, who raised multiple daughters and no sons, all fathered by men, bears, or Old Gods unknown? The Scorpion Bear might take your son, and then ship him back to her home to rule the castle while she sits on the Small Council. She's not one to give up on what she has, though you'd probably get an heir out of it. Probably a second granddaughter, the first being heir to Bear Island. She's very proud. If you're happy to have your son be a husband consort, of course..."
"Oh. No, of course not a consort. Are all Northern women so... difficult?"
"Just half of them. And all the ruling ones. You remember Lyanna Stark, of course."
"I do. Lady Meera was the heir to House Reed, though, so I had hoped only Queen Sansa and Lady A... Winter were so... strong-willed."
"I'm sure Lady Meera's second child will be named the Reed heir; she's as like as any in the North to lean towards Dornish or Free Folk customs. If you're thinking only the side you chose will make it difficult on your son, rest assured, Queen Daenerys and Princess Sarella aren't wilting flowers either; men everywhere are going to have to come to terms with them and those like them. Lady Karstark is a ruling Lady, and while she's more traditional, she still wears the family sword and trains as diligently as any other in the North... and is as devoted to her house. Do you want my advice?" asked the Kingslayer.
"Yes," answered the Lord of Seagard, then added, "Please."
"You want to arrange a marriage for your son to ensure legitimate heirs and political power, and bind your family to the North through marriage. My father tried to arrange the futures of his children by himself, and look at us now; not one marriage that produced heirs, and the only political power any of us have is in spite of him. Nearly half the North's population is inside the Winterfell defenses; ask your son if any ladies have caught his eye. After his answer, ask Queen Sansa what her recommendation for an introduction is. There's plenty of second and third daughters who aren't the heirs, and she'll have her hand in those affairs. The North, like the Riverlands, has something of a shortage of young men."
"I'll send my son a raven. Thank you, Lord Commander."
"He's a man grown... a young man, but grown and able to think on his own. Starting off a marriage with even a little happiness to go with his duty to the legacy to his House might give him a better future than some of us ever got," replied Jamie thoughtfully. The man was surprisingly open to ideas that would have had his own father frothing at the mouth, so he decided to continue, "If you could give me some advice in return, Lord Mallister, you could repay that favor."
"Of course. What do you need advice on?"
"Princess Stark, with Queen Sansa's support, has offered to buy back the New Gift - and only the New Gift - from the Night's Watch, with payments to be made on a regular schedule over the next hundred years, with interest. Very low interest, but interest nonetheless."
"Good Queen Alysanne's New Gift? Didn't that double the amount of land the Night's Watch had? Wouldn't you need that land to support the Watch?" asked Lord Mallister.
"More than doubled; it moved the border from twenty five leagues to fifty, and the land's wider there. The watch wasn't able to take care of the original gift fifty and two hundred years ago; adding more to it added wealth only for as long as it took the smallfolk to follow their lords farther South, where they could be better protected than the Night's Watch could manage. She did pay for a new, smaller castle to replace the Nightfort, but the records that survived show the New Gift never actually helped."
"Will it help in the future? The Watch is bigger now than it's been in centuries. Feeding and paying thousands is far different than hundreds. Maintaining seventeen castles properly is very expensive; renovating them more so. I can't even imagine what you'd have to do about the hole where Eastwatch used to be."
"It could, but what will the Night's Watch do in the future? If the dead move south and kill us all, the Night's Watch won't need the money or the land. If the dead are destroyed, we won't need the Night's Watch; certainly not at the Wall. If we drive the dead back again, we'll need the Watch... but in another thousand, or eight thousand, or twenty thousand years; plenty of time to build what we can."
"That's clever of Princess Stark, then. If the Night's Watch is disbanded, there'll be nobody to pay for the land."
"Yes, a cunning plan to leave debts unpaid in the case everyone dies," said the Lannister sarcastically.
"You're morose for a man of your age, you know."
"I've had a lot of experience, but you should really meet my First Ranger, Dolorous Edd; he's the most morose man I've ever met. So, what is your advice?"
"How rich is the land? There doesn't seem to be much on the maps, but maps only show the most major landmarks."
"Not very; Queenscrown is the only serious keep, and it's both fairly small and as abandoned as the rest of the holdfasts are."
"Were I you, I'd take the money, and use it to build up the original Gift slowly and steadily. Make trade with the Free Folk, and use that trade to establish a good relation and mutual trust; it's easier to cut raiding down when there's less raiding to cut down on. Beating back unaligned bandits was easy; beating back Lannister backed bandits was hard. Negotiate with the Iron Bank to try and use what's left to set up an account that can be funded century after century while the Night's Watch lives off of interest payments. It'll be expensive now, but in a few thousand years, if the Iron Bank and the Night's Watch both survive?"
************************
Ser Jorah entered the sickroom in the First Keep, clapping a Dothraki with a broken leg on the shoulder as he passed, greeting the Unsullied with a head wound that was next to him, and the other men still here recovering from the battles they'd been in. Losses may have been very light, but there were still wounded with each caravan, often dead, particularly among those who were newest. Eventually, he got to the boy in the corner who was finally awake, and was looking just as lost as he'd expected. The boy did sit up as he came near.
"Lord Commander!" exclaimed Gerrar, struggling to rise, the small stump that was all that remained of his right arm wiggling under the bandages, prompting him to groan and stop moving as the pain crashed over him like a wave.
"Stay still, Lord Gerrar. The Maester left orders for you to stay still and rest until you've healed," said Jorah, watching as the boy slumped back; his arrogance, it seemed, had been cut away just as his arm had been.
"Then what? I'll never be knighted, I'll never rule a keep. I can't even be master-at-arms for my brother," said the injured young man, closing his eyes for a moment, and collapsed bonelessly back in the sickbed, dejected, "I was a fool, and now I won't even be able to fight. I won't even be able to dress myself! It'd have been better if the wight would have killed me."
"No one can survive in this world without help. No one. If you need help to dress, then let your people help you dress. You made mistakes, many mistakes. So have I. So has every man who lives long enough. You're owning your mistakes, and you have time, now. Time to think about your mistakes, time to learn from them," said the Mormont quietly, looking down at the boy.
"What's the point?"
"You are alive. You're young. You'll find a point, eventually, or one will find you. Until then, I have a use for you."
"What use could you possibly have for me? I can't fight. I can't lead. I can barely feed myself without making a mess," he said, blinking back tears, then admitted, "I froze. I'd prayed to the Warrior for courage, just like Septon Tadd always taught me, but the bears and wolves, the wights were so fast. I could see their ribs, and there were so many, then a tree was flying and I just couldn't think. I didn't even swing at them! I should be dead!"
"You are still alive."
"Ser Carn and Ser Eliar killed the giant wolf wight that ripped my armor straps open and chewed on my arm, they got me out. I'm just worthless; nothing Septon said was true! I didn't get the Warrior's strength, the Father didn't protect me, whose cause was just."
"You spent a lot of time with your Septon? What did your Maester say about what the Septon taught?"
"Father didn't trust the Maesters; Septon Tadd taught me everything but arms, and I even failed at that, too. I was foolish at home, foolish on the trip, foolish in the North, and foolish on the battlefield."
"You aren't the first to be taught tales and songs who found they were of no help in battle. The Septons have pretty words, but I've never seen the gods help a man. I've seen men help men, I've seen horses and dogs help men. I've even seen dragons help men. Gods? No. You might be surprised, but you also aren't the only young fool full of himself our Queen has been sent that won't, wouldn't, listen to old men like me... and you won't be the last. I need you to talk to them, to tell them what you believed when you came here, and how it worked out for you on the battlefield. You won't reach all of them, but you'll keep some from making the same mistakes you did."
The boy blinked a few times, "You really think so? Even with only one arm?"
"I do. Queen Daenerys's hand is a dwarf; he serves her well with his mind, instead of skill at arms; and like all men, he too has made mistakes. Like wise men, he's owned them, learned from them. Stay here and serve the Queen... unless you'd rather go home?"
"And face my mother, my brother like this? No. Ser Jorah, would you pass on a message to my men, please? I've been told they took only minor bruises."
"I will."
"Tell them to gather up whatever gems I had left and sell them. Half they should split between themselves as a reward for saving my life; I remember them pulling me back after I left the battle line and the wights swarmed me. The other half, buy whatever supplies we'll need to stay here as long as possible. You're from here, aren't you? Can you help them with what they'll need?"
"I am, and I can. Rest now; it's time to recover your strength. When you're up to it, talk to the others here; you can learn more than you think from the Unsullied and the Dothraki."
"I don't speak their languages."
"You have the time to learn, and teachers right here. The Dothraki will be bored; they need something to occupy their minds while they're healing."
"Yes, Ser Jorah."
************************
Arya was hunched over on his hands and knees, head down, still wearing the physical face of the horse thief as a protection against magical detection, eyes closed. There was his snow cape and then two feet of snow over his back, a hidden pile of chopped logs close by. Any Free Folk who got close enough would know it wasn't entirely natural, but a Qartheen wouldn't have the experience. He'd made it down the Kingsroad, having sold the more skittish horse and one set of snowshoes for the mare a few days before, sleeping in the small tent under a pile of whatever he had found in the saddlebags that might keep him warm, just like any other Southron horse thief would, and then he'd passed a small group of merchants.
Four suspiciously strong merchants in excellent physical shape, who moved in sure and certain motions, whose heartbeats were altogether too steady when they were doing work each night, whose skin tones weren't quite Westerosi. Two had a very very good Volantine accent without a hint of Qarth, and the other two only a very faint Qartheen making it through under their Volantine accent. They also smelled not just of spices, but also of poisons and oils for steel and leather both, rare powders and wildfire besides - though whether that was them or the cart his nose couldn't tell when they were on the cart itself. On the other hand, the faint rasp of blade hilts and sheathes under clothes? The clinking of vials in pouches? The rubbing of glass against leather? That was loud enough any acolyte of the Faceless Men would have noticed, and those he knew exactly where they were. Larger and deadlier weapons were hidden on the cart
Sorrowful men. Two who very confidently thought themselves to be among the best in their order, one who thought himself a close third, and one who strongly felt he should be ranked much higher. All of whom fondly thought they were being quiet as they talked in camp each night, far enough from the Kingsroad that even Littlefinger wouldn't have heard them, which spoke to more self-awareness than he'd thought. They sent a member to chop wood each night, a bit away from their camp; north of camp, it'd been the last three nights.
The youngest didn't seem very alert, the middle two were all right, just about Baelish's level, but their leader? That man was more of a challenge than she'd expected. He moved very carefully, and occasionally clinked when he moved... and once he'd separated from the cart and she still caught a whiff of the scents of wildfire and powders. That would be nothing, but he was also far more observant than the others, and quicker than any but the youngest, who was nearly as fast as the Volantine bravo he'd traded honors with. They didn't have the senses of a Faceless Man, but they were good enough that sneaking up on all four in full armor in the snow would take real time and effort, and they were definitely all far more dangerous than common Lannister soldiers.
He kept his distance; the snowshoes on her horse let her stay well off the road, out of sight, and yet still easily outpace a heavy wheeled cart on winter roads, stopping ahead of them and then closing on foot. Not once did they give any sign of noticing being seen, not even the first two heavily overcast nights when he'd used a small collapsing far-eye poking through a hole in the snow. The next night the snow had fallen thickly, and the night after that... then it stopped, four feet of fresh snow on the ground, even this far south.
Now, hidden and waiting for the inevitable bickering before wood gathering, Arya could just barely make out their words from the other side of a hill, through the small, angled holes through the snow above her that also let her breathe, even as the wind through the trees around her obscured their words a bit.
"Go get the wood."
"I get the wood every night! I shouldn't be stuck fetching wood every night."
The senior Sorrowful Man sighed, and pulled out a small stick of incense, igniting it in the lantern and waving it in the complex pattern, the smoke dissipating slowly even as he set it in the small holder, "Magical protections are up; we can talk again."
"I've killed a Red Priest! Just like you!" said the youngest quietly but with clear irritation in his voice.
"You killed one acolyte off on a mission by himself, youngster. You're ten years too early to be in his league, or mine, so quit puffing yourself up."
"That's only because you always got the best assignments, and I keep getting sent to the ass end of the world, or stuck with more sword training! How am I supposed to get more assignments if I'm on a ship for months! If I'm stuck doing drills! I deserve better!"
"Shut it, the both of you, and keep your voices down," growled the leader, fed up with the constant complaining. Complaining when acting as the young merchant sold the act, but it never stopped, not even when they were well off the road with thick scarves covering their mouths so not even visions in the flames could tell what they were saying by reading their lips. The fabled greensight of Westeros could hear, too, but they were too far away for that. When they were closer to the targets, they'd have to be in character all the time, but for now it didn't matter. Either the purported Three-Eyed Raven had spotted them, or he hadn't, and if he had, the only threats were the Faceless Man that had been seen leaving the area or sudden dragonfire. The assassins of the Many-Faced God were very dangerous, but if there were all legend claimed, they won't need their spies and their acolytes wouldn't be beaten in the street... and dragons would only notice them if they were burning everyone anyway, which they'd almost certainly hear in advance and be able to scatter and hide first; great hunters, dragons were not, nor dragonlords.
"Rody, go get the wood, now; I'm tired of hearing you whine. You are being recognized, you're here with us. You want recognition? Fine. The first target's Faceless Man sister was seen taking ship north, so if she tracks us down after the mission's complete, kill her, and we'll confirm your success and you won't have to do a single chore the entire rest of the journey. We're going to have to kill her if we don't get away clean anyway, since reports are there's no way she'll just let us go. Bracks, quit riling him up and clear snow for the fire. No, I don't care how deep it is, I'm not freezing to death because you were lazy. Why I got this assignment with you lot I don't know, but I'll be glad to get back home, where it's warm; having a fire is just giving us away, but without it we'll freeze to death in this hell."
"You really think we can get away clean? All they have to do is pull the bridges over the moats and we're trapped."
"If we're careful? Yes. We'll have to time things just right, kill them very quietly, and get out before the bodies are noticed. Faceless Men get killed all the time; there was one just a couple years ago in Braavos. Two girls chasing each other through the streets, no swords; the window one jumped through belonged to some freshly killed mummer. One girl was found dead in an abandoned basement without a face, also freshly killed. The old priests are dangerous, very dangerous, but with four of us against one not even twenty namedays, who can actually be found? Knowing that this one goes around as Arya Stark means we know where she is. If we know where she is, we can make sure she's not around when we take the targets. When we're closer, we're in character all the time. No exceptions - we'll live, talk, drink, eat, breath, piss, shit, fuck, and trade like we're merchants. It's going to be hard, but we're the best."
"Even the best bravos can't do any killing when they aren't around; First Sword or not, if she's not there, she can't fight, or see. Still, reports are the targets are going to be well guarded, both of them."
"That's why there's four of us. This job's not like an everyday assassination; this one's worth doing because it's hard, because it'll put our order on top again. Nobody important hires the Faceless Men to go after their rivals, since there's no profit in their death if you give up everything to pay for it... but everyone thinks of them first anyway! Our traditions began thousands of years before the Faceless Men have existed. Just because they charge mystical prices, do some flashy training, talk about their God and keep sending men until the target's dead without any extra fees doesn't mean we should be thought of as second to them! Our order changes the course of Empires! Now that they're showing they aren't really 'no one' after all, and it's time we showed we're the best order of assassins that ever was or ever will be."
Their voices dropped low as Rody left, to below a level at which the junior assassin could hear, talking among themselves.
"I thought that nobody who ever killed a Faceless Man survived more than a year."
"They didn't; mostly the Faceless Men kill each other. We've killed a handful over the centuries, but the one that delivered the killing blow? They died soon after. Every one of them. And not one Faceless Man that's been killed by us was hooded; just acolytes. Young or not, this has never been done before, never in all history. It's up to us... and him."
"I guess I'll put up with Rody, then. He's an annoying jackass, and a poor assassin, but a fantastic fighter. We'll need that before the end."
"We'll just have to pile onto this Arya Stark when she comes for us after the job, keep her turning and distracted until we can kill her. To do what's never been done, we'll have to notice her first. Right after we're clear, we'll have three on watch while one sleeps; we can't afford to be taken unawares, and if she's present, she'll be on our tail, fast. Even if we die killing her, we'll be legends for the order, so don't hold back against her. If it gives you an advantage, sacrifice yourselves to get her and your name will be remembered for a thousand years... and it's not like the Faceless Men are likely to let us survive if we kill her anyway. If we can make it to the open sea, it's only this Targaryen boy and his dragon to worry about, and he's got the Night King to keep him in check."
"What if she attacks at range? She's supposed to be a master archer, too."
"Hope we're in a forest or canyon where we can find cover... if that fails, hope she's arrogant enough to come in close. There's only so much we can plan for; someone sprouts an arrow, the rest of us dodge immediately and call out the direction it came from. We split up and scatter away, once we know it's coming, arrows from a single archer are easy to avoid at range; Faceless Men are no warlocks, they can't be in more than one place at once. We'll keep to forests as much as possible, but we'll also have to worry about some very pissed off armies, too, so we've got to blend in. Those sleds will move fast, and we won't be able to fool all the dogs close up."
"Don't forget the angry dragons."
"And that. I'm more concerned about the Faceless Man; the rest will have a hard time finding us."
"Gods damned Faceless Men. About time one of us really took them down a peg! Thinking they're too good to take gold from Princes or Magisters while killing for peasants. If they really cared about the peasants, they'd take the gold and prevent wars, like we do."
"Enough chatter," said the leader, ending the discussion.
The crunching in the snow approached and Arya prepared himself silently; the Sorrowful Man stopped at another tree, chopping at a branch, cutting it up, then moved to another tree to collect more, but farther away rather than closer; that was it, there would be no more chance to get close tonight. He listened to the sounds as the man chopped the wood into rough logs, did the same to a smaller branch, then carried it all back to the campsite in the usual three trips; there was a little bickering, then they set watches again and retired.
It wasn't easy to predict what kind of branches the man would prefer after seeing him for only a few nights, but that was all right; a man could not make a thing happen before its time... and those men had told death 'not today'. That was all right. Death would require their response again on the morrow, and Arya Stark would be the one to receive it. Eventually it would be time, and he'd add four new faces would be added to his personal collection.
Three nights later, Arya stayed still and silent as the cocky young Sorrowful Man finally came closer instead of farther, coming to a halt just in front of his hiding place to chop at the branch; it was one of only two good places to stand for this particular tree. While the man's back made an easy target, the Faceless Man waited patiently until he was nearly through, tensing one set of muscles each time the ax hit, untensing them the next stroke to prepare for sudden movement after such a long stillness. Eventually, the branch creaked loudly, then again, groaning and crackling as frozen wood started to break and fold over as it gave way.
Arya reared her body up, planting her feet under her and springing up in a great shower of snow with a precise swing of the thick branch held in his left hand towards where he knew the back of the man's head was; there was only one chance at this for this to work perfectly; he had no desire to hear what Jaqen would say when next they saw each other should the ambush fail here and he had to hunt them through the snows one at a time.
THUMP
The makeshift club impacted the back of the target's fur hat, and the horse-thief's face finished the upward leap by landing on the target, driving him down into the snow face-first, quickly packing snow into his nose and mouth. Arya stayed atop the unmoving body for a moment, listened to the heartbeat weaken, slow, and then stop before he then lifted himself off and quickly retrieved the corpse's axe, setting it down beside the body.
The campsite had the usual sounds of setting up, so the Stark quickly went to retrieve his thin blanket, laying it out and placing what he'd need on it, then set the branch behind him, just beyond where his feet would need to be. With a few quick loops, he fastened the Qartheen man's ax handle along his own right leg, then knelt next to the body and started chopping at the log with the same tempo as the remaining three Sorrowful Men would expect to hear, using enough strength so it sounded exactly as loud as it had before. Continuing, he committed how each piece of cloth and weapon had been worn to memory, stripped down the corpse efficiently, before he and placed each on the blanket; he could afford neither blood nor bark that wasn't where it was expected.
With that, Arya gathered the Many-Faced God's power, formed the correct patterns to protect himself from at least basic magical observation, then reached up and removed the horse-thief's face from herself, placing it on the blanket carefully. She drew in a deep breath, holding onto those patterns, then took up her tools, called up more magic and formed the additional patterns she needed while she began the delicate work of removing Rody's chilled but undamaged face while she chopped at a branch with the ax attached to her leg.
Some time later, the youngest Sorrowful Man came out of the darkness with the third somewhat poorly stacked load of snow-covered logs into the camp and knelt down, removed the dark and damp torch from the stack and tossed it on the fire before he piled the logs up on the cart for the others to start a fire the next night and cook while he was, again, out chopping wood. He wouldn't have needed that much wood, wouldn't have had to chop and carry and trip over a fallen, rotten tree trunk hidden under the damned snow.
"Oh, look, it's the snow monster come again!"
"The monster ate Rody! We must flee before it kills us!" said the next assassin, laughing at him.
"Piss off; as if you could trudge through this crap in the dark without tripping once," said Rody, grousing, before ladling himself a bowl of already cooling soup from the pot and leaving the bowl to sit on his bedroll. Moving over to the cart to fetch a wooden spoon and taking a few minutes to fill it with spices, carefully shielding it from the wind as he returned to his seat and mixed it in before starting to eat, the others already having finished while it was hot.
"Still trying to eat all our wares before we arrive?"
"Bracks, shut up and just clean out the pot. Same watches," commanded the leading Sorrowful Man.
"I've been second watch this entire damn..." said Rody sullenly before being interrupted, just like he'd been the previous night, and the night before that. Couldn't even.
"Shut up. When you're the senior man, you can set the watches as you like. You're the junior man, you get middle watch."
Arya 'woke' as his 'fellow' assassin shook his shoulder lightly, turned his head into the cold wind, wincing and adjusting the scarf over his lips, and sat up quickly, scanning the area illuminated by the firelight from behind, then nodded grumpily and stood with his back to the fire, stretching and crowding closer to the fire, gloved hands out and behind him. These men at least know that the fire ruined their night vision, but they had a fatal combination of problems; they didn't actually know how to live with the snows, and even if they did, they couldn't maintain cover doing so as spice merchants traveling North to make profit.
Naturally, the man on first watch hadn't bothered to tend to the fire before waking his relief. And now it was the second most dangerous time; muttered grousing that he wasn't perfectly certain how to do properly, since the inconsiderate Sorrowful Man had done so very quietly, while he was making noise in the fire, and he'd kept his lips hidden... but his breathing, she could see, and there was a regularity to it. The man on first watch would be one danger, but while the leader hadn't moved, his breathing and heartbeat had sped up and still wasn't quite back to where it had been while asleep again.
"Every night. Every single night," muttered Rody very quietly, hopefully just enough for them to hear patterns, but too quietly for them to make out any words, while picking up a nice thick, long stick and slipping it under logs in the fire to lever them up and then flip them over before adding new wood, just as this face had done every night previous, "I'm the one trudging through the snow, I'm the one chopping, I'm the one carrying it back, I'm the one tending the fire in the middle of the night, I'm the one not getting enough sleep because I don't get two sleep watches in a row..."
The disguised Stark heard Bracks drink some water and lay down again, heartbeat steady but not yet sleeping, the other two both resting soundly again. Thus reassured, he warmed himself, then moved a little farther from the fire, slowly pacing counterclockwise in the manner this face had preferred. Arya continued his patrols, occasionally moving closer to the fire again to feed it more wood and warm half-frozen hands, waiting for the brisk wind to die down. It was blowing towards from the fire from his bedroll in the north, directly towards the second most senior assassin's bedroll, but two of the others weren't really in the wind's path. The senior and most dangerous Qartheen man didn't like to have ash and smoke in his face, even in the cold. Wise of him... not that it would matter.
Another slow circuit keeping the fire out of his line of sight, then again, back to the fire, then another circuit as the wind quieted; enough to carry the smoke, but not enough to disperse it too much. With his right hand, he picked up a particularly strong sword-length stick he'd put into a prepared bundle days ago, and rolled the logs again, leaving the tip in the bed of hot coals for a while as the flames rose up at the exposure to the air. Arya took Rody's mental face off while keeping his physical face on, reached inside his cloak, wrapped a hand around the vial. Taking two quick steps, he pulled the vial down so the cork, tied to the fabric, was yanked out; the wide-mouthed vial's contents were cast outwards through the flames in a wide arc to scatter the resulting smoke as the powder flared up, while the stick was brought up into a guard position and the vial itself let loose into the snows.
Arya moved on the most dangerous of the Sorrowful Man who, as he caught the slightest whiff of the smoke from the burned powder, immediately awakened, pressed his lips tight and threw a dagger while rolling to the side instantly. The Stark lunged forward, right hand batting the thrown knife aside as the stick whipped around to smash the tip into the man's rapidly moving hand with a sharp crack of bone even through the soft glove, the leader's second dagger falling to the ground immediately as his knuckles were shattered. The other two were awake, but unable to move; for thirty thousand gold dragons worth of Asshai paralysis powder, he'd have hoped so. Sansa would be aghast at the cost... if she ever found out about it.
Arya snarled as his opponent started drawing another dagger; he jabbed the hot end of the stick towards the man's balls, angling it up as a thigh was raised in protection to threaten the man's throat while side-stepping his body to avoid the powerful kick from the man on the ground, going for Rody's own throwing dagger. The Qartheen man rolled backwards away from the blow to come to his feet and take a deep breath of the clear air here, a second dagger in his own uninjured hand, the injured one raised in a guard as he lunged forwards. The first rule of knife fights between anyone nearly remotely equal came to mind; everybody gets cut. With properly poisoned blades like these that was doubly true since nobody had to try for immediately lethal strikes to kill... and he had no sword, only a stick and knives.
Arya threw the dagger at the man's chest as a distraction while lunging forwards with the stick, going straight for his face; when he used his injured arm to deflect the wood, Arya rotates his wrist and sent the still-glowing tip in a tight half-circle down to smash into a group of vials under the clothes; glass shattered inside. The Sorrowful Man clamped his mouth closed again as he flitted back along the edge of the little area of packed snow, his heartbeats sped up while he threw the second dagger with little more than a snap of the wrist. Arya batted the dagger aside contemptuously with the stick... he wasn't going for a blade, he was going for the vials!
Without the benefit of his own weapons, pathetic excuse for an assassin or not, this man was too dangerous to take his face intact, not when he was reaching for powders, or more likely wildfire. It was just like a Sorrowful man to decide to give himself to the Many-Faced God to take a better assassin with him. Arya threw his own dagger and danced backwards as his fullest speed, the stick moving behind him to give him extra leverage to stop on a copper. He planted one booted foot and swept the other strongly through the side of the fire while he covered his face with his arm, throwing burning branches and a wave of glowing embers and hot ash at the man... igniting the vial of wildfire he had indeed reached for, causing it to explode in his hand and light him up like a screaming human torch. He wasn't fighting, not anymore, and the other two were conscious but completely unable to move, so Arya relaxed to a ready posture and taunted the pathetic fools.
"I'm so sorry. So, so sorry I decided to join a group of pathetic fools pretending to be real assassins," said Arya in the youngest Sorrowful Man's voice, dropping the longer stick and picking up a heavier, shorter branch as the senior assassin went quiet, the green giving way to yellow and orange flames, "So sorry I wasn't willing to risk taking the training to become a real assassin. So sorry I couldn't hack serving in the greatest order of assassins anywhere in the world, so sorry I settled for a very, very distant second best. So sorry I'm not a Faceless Man."
He strode casually over by the fire to where the two still-living men could see, reaching up and pulling their companion's face off, smirking at them.
"A Faceless Man would have heard me coming. A Faceless Man would have known I wasn't the face I was wearing. A Faceless Man wouldn't have taken a payment from Cersei that was a mere token of what the job should have cost. You charge your amount of gold, and never consider what the true price should be. Never consider that perhaps some jobs shouldn't be taken in the first place. Like a job trying to kill my sister while she's working for the good of the living. While she's not the monster she fears she might become. Valar Morghulis."
Arya moved over behind one and smashed in the back of the man's head with the branch, repeating the action on the other paralyzed man before slipping tiny flakes of dragonglass into their arms, adjusting the now ill-fitting clothes and wading off through the snows. She had clothes to change, tools to retrieve, faces to remove, bodies and a cart to burn, and a ship to meet at an isolated inlet on the coast. Throwing her head back, she let loose a long howl; half a dozen howls rose in response from a few miles away; her little piece of the pack would be here soon to carry her to the coast. If she was very lucky, they'd bring her a nice rabbit to roast on the fire while she cleaned up this little mess. The risk of being tracked magically was higher, but the speed she'd gain would be well worth it, and she'd change faces again near there.
As she worked, she prayed quietly.
"Cersei. Illyn Payne. The Mountain. Beric."
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