THE KING NOBODY WANTED--(ASOIAF AU)

[Space Oddity]

With all of Oswell Whent's doubts about the Red Dragon cause, the fact that everyone keep bring up the fact that his elder brother killed a Ninepenny king and the matter that the only people to treat him with respect are Falena Lothston and her girlfriend Miss NotaBlackfyre, means we might see Golden Company/Blackfyre backing Oswell Whent.

Also I do love little Aesnyth Waeyte and the way she horrifyingly adorable.

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Walter killed TWO Ninepenny Kings. The only reason he's not the undisputed Ninepenny King killing champion is that Barristan got Maelys.

As for Wednesday Aesnyth, yes she's a gem, and she actually gave Oswell some very good advice, though he as usual missed the point.

 

[Space Oddity]

In other Garth news, I'm surprised no one has put together (or at least commented on) the little fact about his Murder Goblet.

Bonus points if you can figure out his Braavosi sources.

 

[dptullos]

I feel that Garth the Gross is right, and that the rebuke is well deserved.

At the same time, this is what knighthood is. This is what the Kingsguard are. Their story, like the story of the samurai, is one of unquestioning obedience to their master. Their honor is loyalty.

You can question whether that "honor" is worthy of the name, but it's the only honor that the lords of Westeros are willing to acknowledge or praise. Even the enemies of the Mad King do not love Jaime for killing him. The rulers of the land do not wish to hear bards sing of a bodyguard who turned against his master, no matter what his reasons were. Only the loyal knight is praised and honored.

The Westerosi speak often of loyalty, but so few mean it. Lords change sides for survival or simple profit; kings break solemn oaths without a moment's hesitation. They swear and swear and swear, and then they do whatever is convenient.

Just as those who dwell in the desert value water more than gold or jewels, the lords of Westeros value loyalty. If it is loyalty to a mad and monstrous king, well, the masters of the Seven Kingdoms are not saints. They do not wish for knights who will actually defend the weak against the strong.

 

[King of Discord]

Where exactly in the crownlands is Rollingford, anyway?

 

[Space Oddity]

Where exactly in the crownlands is Rollingford, anyway?

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It's one of the many places that GRRM never exactly placed anywhere. I tend to imagine it as being north of King's Landing and west of the Rosby and Stokeworth holdings, alongside the River Rolling, a tributary of the God's Eye river that joins up with the Blackwater Rush. The Rolling generally doesn't show up on maps because, well, it's gone from 'Major River' to 'does not actually reach the sea'.

 

[Space Oddity]

GERION

The girl quickly put down her tile. "There, a match," she said, merrily. "My hand is empty. I win!"

Gerion smiled at her. "Well done! You are… let's see… yes, three of five now." He spread his hand. "You take the crown."

"Only crown I'm like to get in my life," said Dandy with a smile. Her name was short for 'Dandelion', and her hair put you in mind of one, a frizzy, bright blonde mess. A fine girl, but too young, and too fair for… the other business. Tywin preferred his companions for a night to be dark, and it was generally better for them to be… experienced.

Dandy saw his gaze and smiled. "Shall we try another hand, lord? Make it four of seven?"

"I'm no lord, sweetling," said Gerion.

"Ahh," she said with a nod. "Ser, then."

"I'm no 'ser' either," he chuckled.

Dandy blinked. "Then what are you?"

"Just… Gerion," he replied with a shrug. "Anyways, we've not the time for another few games of tiles."

She smiled at him. "Well, Just Gerion, perhaps we can…" She bit her lip nervously and nodded towards the bed.

"We've less time for that," he said. "And as I said, surprising as it may be, I'm not in the mood for it." He seldom was, when he did this. He'd learned from hard experience that if you brought one whore, and someone chanced upon you and found you alone during the matter, people wondered and talked. But if you brought two, and people found you with one, well, they still talked, but they didn't wonder. Even if you and she wound up doing nothing but talk for the night.

I've gotten entirely too good at this, he thought, taking a swig of his drink. Dandy fidgeted nervously. "You rode at Harrenhal," she said suddenly. "I saw you."

"Saw me get unhorsed by Arthur Dayne," said Gerion with a smile. She stared at him for a moment, and then managed a nod. "That's what I do at tourneys and jousts – I get unhorsed. I've gotten unhorsed by the finest lances of the age. Ser Arthur Dayne – Lord Whent – Ser Barristan Selmy – Prince Oberyn Martell – Simon Toyne – my brother Tyg – oh, and Prince Rhaegar, of course." He gave a shrug. "I fall very nicely. My teacher praised me for it. 'Well, Geri,' he'd say, 'you'll not win any honors at the joust, but you'll not break your neck either, and that is something'." He raised his cup. "To Ser Tytos Clegane! The finest knight men have forgot!"

The girl blinked at him. "I… that name… It sounds familiar, but…"

"As I said, the finest knight men have forgot," replied Gerion sadly.

"Ooooh, I remember now!" said Dandy. "A wine merchant came up from Tumbleton a couple months ago. Said Ser Tytos and his dogs, they raided Beesbury supplies, and then spent the money they took freely in the local taverns to tweak Lord Warryn's nose. Bid the help to remember Ser Tytos for giving them the coin, and Lord Warryn for giving it to Ser Tytos."

Gerion chuckled. "That sounds like him, all right." He leaned back and chuckled. "Perhaps I'll have to start calling him the finest knight men have remembered again."

Dandy nodded, and glanced around the room, as if looking for something to talk on. She then apparently found it. "That picture is… so vividly done…"

"Ahh, yes, the great Gheirlandei of Myr's work," he said, glancing at it. "The Lothston family portrait. He captures them quite well." He pointed at the figure in the center of the canvas, a man, tall, handsome, clad all in black, with brilliant red hair, and dark blue eyes. "There's Lord Manfryd."

The girl gasped. "But that means – ! That little girl – ! 'Tis Danelle Lothston!"

Gerion nodded, and glanced at the image of the little girl at Manfryd's feet, with the same red hair and dark blue eyes as him. "Indeed. You have it."

"She looks so… sweet," muttered Dandy, staring at the painting.

"She did not long remain so," said Gerion. He gestured to the younger man with a beard standing beside Manfryd. "There is Ser Harrold Rivers, the Bastard of Harrenhal, his natural son. The woman next to him is his wife, Elys Chambers, daughter of Betha Butterwell, along with her two sisters, one of the most famed hostesses in the Riverlands." He noted that the ring on Elys' finger had a jewel shaped like an egg and sighed. Of course. An excess of subtlety is the one excess no one ever accused Manfryd o'the Black Hood of.

Dandy pointed. "Who's the septa?"

Gerion coughed. "The instructor of Danelle and before her, her… aunt. Also Harrold's mother. And yes, she was an actual septsworn septa." The girl looked at him, her eyes wide. "Trust me, my girl, whatever you are thinking, you do not know the half of it." He turned back to the portrait and sighed, looking at the hammer lying at the woman's feet. "Well, let's raise a glass to Septa Rosey. Who truly took the Seven's suggestion that we love our family to heart!"

Dandy was looking at the picture with growing unease. "Are those… did Garland paint this in a picture gallery?"

"The name is 'Gheirlandei', and yes, yes he did." Gerion watched as the girl mouthed the name out. "The pictures are of some of the late Lothstons. The man in the corner is Lord Lucas. The woman beside him is Lady Falena." Gerion looked at the image of a plain, balding man with greying brown hair, and then at the image of the stunning woman with red hair, deep blue eyes and a wicked smile beside it. "Twas she who added the bat to the coat of arms you know. Or rather suggested it. Prior to coming to Harrenhal, the Lothston arms were simply a field of gold and silver. She felt a reference to their new castle would set the Harrenhal Lothstons apart." Gerion looked at those beautiful, evil eyes and the lovely wicked smile and wondered if Lucas had decided simply being associated with such a woman was worth all the trouble she brought with her.

"The picture that little Danelle stands before, and indeed, if you look carefully, touches with her hand," he continued, "is of poor, poor Jeyne Lothston." Gerion stared at the image of the young woman, who seemed almost her mother refined, with a more spectral beauty. So sad, so mournful, and so young. Did you sense what was coming, dear, or were you mourning your sweet love sent so far from you when it was painted?

Dandy squinted. "Is that… a statue, next to her painting?"

"A bust, half in shadow," said Gerion. "You've sharp eyes. Aegon the Fourth."

The girl's eyebrow raised in puzzlement. "It don't look like him," she said. "No beard, and not half fat enow."

Gerion laughed. "It was made when he was young and handsome." He turned to regard the picture. "Manfryd had it brought in to show the king's… connection to the family. After all, without Aegon, Lucas and Falena would never have wed, nor gotten Harrenhal." Gerion stared at Manfryd's handsome, smirking face and sighed. You are doubtless laughing down in the Hells at us right now, Black Hood, he thought, both of us staring at this ghastly gauntlet you threw down to the entire Seven Kingdoms' and refusing to pick it up, even as you dare us to…

He turned away. The painting's eyes were unsettling – not just Manfryd's, but Danelle's and Harrold's and dead, dead Jeyne's, those dark blue eyes that seemed faintly luminescent in shadow. The Lothston eyes, they called 'em, Gerion thought. When Manfryd died, he had grandchildren and even a few great-grandchildren – the terms, Gerion reminded himself, were accurate – and it seemed like Harrenhal would have those eyes peering from its darkened corners for generations to come. Then came madness, sorcery and death and the family was gone, dead or scattered. Most treated them as an extinguished house, though there were always rumors of Lothstons hiding here or there, tucked into other darkened corners of the Seven Kingdoms and across the Narrow Sea. Silly rumors, really, he thought, as he looked at the painting. If there are any Lothstons left, why would they want to come back here?

"Where… where is Danelle's… mother?" whispered Dandy. "In the picture, I mean."

"Elae of Lorath was her name, and she wed Manfryd when he was exploring the mazes in her home city for his own strange purposes," said Gerion. "He rushed home with his foreign bride when he heard his sister was… dying of the pox she'd caught from old Aegon. Elae was with child." Gerion shrugged. "She gave birth and died even as her husband was at his dying sister's bedside. Afterwards, her body was sent back to her people. And so we have no images of her, none at all. So goes the tale the Lothstons told, anyway. Others have told less wholesome ones."

Dandy nodded at that. "I do not like that painting now," she muttered.

"Try looking at it for weeks upon weeks," said Gerion with a sigh. "Harrenhal is full of little reminders of the Lothstons, tucked into rooms like this. Their predecessors simply existed in Harrenhal, at best. The Lothstons lived here."

The girl crossed her arms. "Then why stay in this room?" she asked.

Gerion was quiet for a moment. "You're very perceptive," he said at last.

"Were you going to add 'for a whore' to that?" she asked, in the tone of a woman who'd heard something far too often.

"No," said Gerion with a sigh. "I've known too many whores." He looked at her. "Is your name really Dandelion?"

She nodded. "Had a bit of fair hair when I was born," she said. "Mother thought I looked like a dandelion. It only got more true."

"And where did this occur?" said Gerion, chuckling.

"Little croft on the God's Eye shore," Dandy said with a sigh. "Ain't far from here. I left young to see more the world. Only made it to Harrentown."

"You've my sympathies," he replied.

"You seen much the world, Just Gerion?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," he said. "Much of the Seven Kingdoms. King's Landing. Oldtown. Gulltown. Dorne. And I've been across the Narrow Sea. Seen six of the nine Free Cities." Gerion sighed.

"Which ones you miss?" she asked, her interest obvious.

"Lorath, Norvos, and Qohor," he said. "I keep meaning to make another trip, see the mazes in Lorath, then perhaps head to Qohor and then Norvos but…" He waved his hand.

"Is it true they own people over there?" she asked.

"In many of the cities, yes," he said. "Not in Braavos." He looked at her. "You'd like Braavos."

"I hear the whores there have boats," Dandy noted, wonder and longing in her voice.

"Some of the courtesans have their own barges, yes," replied Gerion. "But the courtesans… mmm, they aren't precisely whores…"

"So what you're saying is, I'd not have a boat," sighed Dandy. "Pity. I'd like a boat." She looked at him significantly. "I'm pretty sure we could have played another hand of tiles…"

"Perhaps, but if I tied you, we'd need to play a hand of tiles after that, and trust me, we have not the time," he said with a smile. There was a tapping at that second little door that was the reason he'd taken this chamber. "Ah, there, you see? I prophesize good as any begging brother." Gerion rose from his seat, unbolted the door, and then opened it. Jaecylyn slid in, as tall, dark and lovely as he remembered her. But a trifle pale, a trifle worn, a trifle shaken, Gerion thought as he saw her. As they usually are… afterwards. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

She took a deep breath. "I… I shall be, lord. Shortly."

"I am no lord, Jaecylyn," he said.

Dandy pointed. "No, he's Just Gerion."

Jaecylyn raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. "Just Gerion?"

"Just Gerion," said Dandy, nodding.

"Just Gerion," Gerion agreed.

Jaecylyn took another deep breath and sighed. "Just Gerion, then."

"Are you… are you bleeding, miss?" asked Gerion. "From… anywhere?"

She shook her head. "I… I do not think so."

Gerion nodded. "Do… do you wish me to check?" The pair of them looked at him in surprise. "I've salve and ointments in case of any… mishaps." She considered a moment, then nodded and turned. The dress swiftly pooled at her feet. Gerion looked her over, noting the large ugly red welts on her backside. He took a deep breath and sighed. "I do not see any… bleeding, but those must be extraordinarily painful." He coughed, as he went to get the salve. "Did he use a stick, or…"

"It was… a switch, I think," she said. "I… didn't exactly see… I was… I thought he'd like it if I said…"

Gerion shut his eyes. "I do not need any details." He pulled the salve from his bundle, and opened up the little jar. Dandy gave a whiff as the smell hit her.

"That's… not bad-smelling," she noted with surprise.

"The odor is balsam," he replied, as he scooped up a little ball of the substance. "That and myrrh. It will… ease the pain."

"Do you want me to… put it on?" asked Dandy.

Gerion shook his head. "There's a certain art to applying this." He glanced at Jaecylyn. "Unless you would rather I not…"

"Just get it over with, please," she said.

Gerion nodded, and dabbed it over the welts. As always happened he had a brief worry that he would feel some sort of shameful pleasure in this act, and as always happened he felt nothing but the hope he was easing another's pain. "It may sting a bit at first," he warned, "but that will soon end, and you will feel a… soothing of the pain." Jaecylyn drew in a quick breath that turned into a sigh of relief.

"Is that it then?" she asked. Gerion managed a nod. She knelt and began to get back in her dress.

"You've done this before," whispered Dandy. "Lots, I'm betting."

Gerion only shrugged at that. "We best be getting you back to Harrentown," he said. He looked over at Jaecylyn, who nodded. Dandy bit her lip, and then rose from her chair. "Now, I may totter from time to time, to… give people the impression that I'm drunk as Prince Daeron. Rest assured I am fine."

"No, that'll be when you get back," muttered Dandy softly, and was surprised when he turned to look at her.

"That is not your concern," he said, and then lead them from the room. Jaecylyn looked tired and drawn, and Dandy seemed worried. Gerion coughed. "I am… sorry for that outburst," he said. "It… I will be fine. I am always fine, after matters have… I will be fine." They nodded at that, brisk, insincere nods there were about moving on from this.

"If you need someone again," said Jaecylyn, "I should…"

Gerion shook his head. "Madam… no. With what happened tonight…" He shut his eyes. "He's always worse on a second night, when this happens. Someone fresh… he will not…" He took a deep breath. "He will… probably not want another… one. Not for a while."

"Of course not," said Dandy sourly. "He's getting married." She bit her lip, and Jaecylyn winced. They moved on in grim silence.

"Have either of you ever played cyvasse?" he asked, all at once.

"If we ask what is cyvasse, won't that be an answer?," said Dandy.

"Very true," he noted. "To answer said question, it is a game of strategy played throughout Essos. It involves a variety of pieces, among them the dragon, the elephant, the heavy warhorse…"

Dandy's mouth went wide. "Oooo, ooo, oooo, we've got a set at the Purse! A couple Tyroshi merchants brought it with them and used to play it. Then they got into a fight over a drinking bill and one of them stabbed the other, and so he got hanged!" She gave a nervous shrug. "We just didn't know what it's called. Or how it's played." She looked at him hopefully.

"I would of course be more than willing to show you," said Gerion. Dandy grinned. "It is a game of subtle strategy and fairly intricate rules."

The grin turned into a frown. "Oh, bother," she said. "That means it takes forever to learn."

"The full subtleties of the game can take a lifetime to master, yes," noted Gerion. "I've played it throughout the Free Cities."

"And at Casterly Rock?" asked Dandy.

"No, no," answered Gerion. "We… we do not play cyvasse at the Rock. We do not speak of cyvasse at the Rock. It is as if cyvasse does not exist there."

She stared at him gravely. "It's because of your brother, isn't it?"

"I have three brothers," he noted.

Jaecylyn snorted at that. "We all know who she means, Just Gerion."

He sighed. "I suppose we do. Well, , I suppose it is because of me. My eldest brother Tywin went across the Narrow Sea when he was young, but only for a very short trip, for Maelys the Monstrous was already stirring up trouble. He and Silvertongue and that rascal Saan hadn't formed the Band of Nine yet, but they were definitely putting out feelers and thus it wasn't deemed wise to stay. And so he went to Pentos, and then he came right back. But he brought with him a marvelous game, which he'd learned, a game he said that was the pinnacle of strategy and skill, and which he swore he was very good at. To prove this he beat my older brother Kevan, and then he beat my older brother Tygget. He would have tried to beat my father mostlike, but Lord Tytos declared grandly that he was too old and too drunk to learn any new games. He did not try to beat my sister at it, nor my father's squire, the first because she was a girl, the second because he deemed my father's squire completely beneath him. In either case, I suspect he would have learned a sharp lesson and the next part would not have happened."

He took a deep breath and marvelled how talking of Tywin this way made him seem less real, some distant figure, instead of a malignant presence they were leaving behind them. "Well, Tywin then decided to play me. I was… mmmm, six, I believe. He set the board up, taught me the rules, and we played. I beat him in thirty moves." Dandy snickered at this, and Jaecylyn smiled. "He demanded a second match. This time, I beat him in eighteen moves. I was on my way to beating him a third time in twelve, when he turned the board over, scattering the pieces everywhere, called me a dirty cheater, and then went away, in a sulk. My father, who was watching, burst into laughter." Dandy and Jaecylyn both laughed at that. "Needless to say, my brother did not talk of cyvasse anymore after that, and those around him followed his example. And as he was the heir, and later the Lord of Casterly Rock." Gerion waved his hand. "Well, you see how it went."

"And he's hated you ever since," said Jaecylyn.

"Oh, no," said Gerion. "He's hated me since I was born. Our mother… died shortly after I was born. Of a fever. It is… it happens. But he blames me. Same as he blames his youngest son for his wife's death." They were staring at him again, he realized. "Apologies for… letting him back into our talk. My brother does… loom so."

"You could go," whispered Dandy. "Go anywhere. Someplace far from him."

Jaecylyn looked him in the eye. "That's what I would do," she said.

"I… I really couldn't," Gerion muttered. "I am… not a rich man. I've no doubt I seem like one to you, but… what wealth I had, I spent, quickly, and now it is all debts. Debts that Casterly Rock pays. I can go, I can enjoy myself, but I must always… come back. Or one day… one day, I will find bills unpaid, and very angry men speaking to me of paying them somehow."

"And you can't think of a way out," said Dandy.

"I've thought of… one," said Gerion. "But it is a rather… desperate idea." He shook his head. "Not worth the mention. Not worth speaking of in truth." They were looking at him, their eyes filled with sympathy, and Gerion had to look away and laugh, or he would weep. "Do not worry for old Gerion. As I say, I'll be fine. I always am." The sound of a flute playing reached their ears as they walked on. "Ahh, music. Let us… leave these dark subjects, hmmm…?" They said nothing, which Gerion took as at least a conditional acceptance. It struck Gerion that he knew the tune, and as they finally came close to hear the singing, he realized his guess was correct.

"The bear smelled the scent on the summer air! The bear! The bear! All black and brown and covered with hair!" sang a trio of voices. It was one of the kitchens – though Harrenhal's kitchens were large as halls. Gerion peeked into it and saw a gathering of servants, Vances and Brackens. Barb Bracken danced in the middle of the room with a young servant girl. Both wore what looked like little more than shifts, and Barb, Gerion noted, wore her hair in a particularly unkempt manner, while smearing her face with something that made it seem dark and covered in fur.

"Oh, I'm a maiden, I'm pure and fair!" sang a high and skilled falsetto. "I'll never dance with a hairy bear!" Gerion was surprised to see that the singer was none other but Ser Ronald. "A bear, a bear! I'll never dance with a hairy bear!" The girl darted away from Barb who chased after her.

His brothers Hugo and Kirth stood up. "The bear, the bear!" they sang along with Ronald, "He lifted her high in the air!" Barb grabbed the girl and proceeded to do just that. "The bear! The bear!"

"I called for a knight, but you're a bear!" sang Ronald in his falsetto, as the servant girl mimicked struggling while doing her best to not burst into laughter. "A bear, a bear! All black and brown and covered in hair!"

"She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair," sang the Vance brothers, as Barb leaned over the younger girl, cupping one of the serving girl's breasts. "But he licked the honey from her hair!" Barb began to kiss the girl's forehead. "Her hair! Her hair! He licked the honey from her hair!" The girl began to giggle now despite her efforts not to. "Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air!"

"My bear, she cooed, my bear so fair!" sang Ronald in his falsetto once again, as Barb released the girl, who stepped back and took the Bracken maid's hand.

"And off they went from here to there," sang the Vance brothers, "the bear, the bear and the maiden fair!" The music sped up and Barb, the Vances and the serving girl all formed a circle as they danced. "The bear, the bear, all black and brown and covered with hair! The maiden, so sweet and fair, the maiden with honey in her hair! The bear, the bear and the maiden fair!"

There was a whoop from the crowd and then the people there began to clap and cheer. Barbara Bracken threw her head back and laughed, even as one arm draped familiarly over the servant girl's shoulders. She turned and saw Gerion there.

"La! If it's not Gerion Lannister hisself!" She grinned at him, looking more wild than usual. "What think you of our revels?"

"They seem merry," he answered.

"They are that and more," she boomed. "Never let it be said that a Bracken doesn't know how to raise spirits and the roof as well!" She shrugged. "Your brother's scarce celebrated his impending nuptials so myself, some servants, my Vance kin and some of my less objectionable Bracken cousins have decided to do so for him!"

One of the Brackens cupped his hand to his mouth. "We love you, Barb!"

"Barb's the Bracken!" shouted several more. "Barb's the Bracken!"

Barb grinned back at them, in feigned exasperation. "Oh, la. Me da's not dead yet, cuzes." The Brackens and most of the Vances chuckled along with this. Barb turned back to Gerion and looked Jaecylyn and Dandy over. "I see you had a similar idea. And I'm willing to bet you've had as merry a time as we, if not merrier!" Gerion managed a chuckle at that, and saw, thankfully, that Jaecylyn and Dandy did as well. Barb peered at him, and batted her eyes. "I'll not lie to you, Gerion Lannister. You're a comely man, and one who I entertained the idea of getting to know better and this…" She gestured to his companions. "Well, it makes the notion most tempting. But alas, I've promised my darling betrothed I would not keep male company during his absence, save for exceptional circumstances."

Gerion raised an eyebrow at that. "And what would those be, Mistress Bracken?"

"Faith, as I said, exceptional, Gerion," she said, grinning. Somehow, Gerion found himself thinking of that portrait of Falena Stokeworth, looking lovely and dangerous.

"Well, if Roose Bolton chooses to trust in his betrothed, who am I to gainsay him?" said Gerion at last. He looked over the crowd. "Quite a remarkable… performance."

"That little thing?" said Barb with a dismissive wave. "Why, I've done it before, at my cousin Ser Hugo's wedding, with his wife's young sister." She turned to Hugo Vance. "Does she speak of me, little Bethany Keath?"

Hugo snorted and Gerion, looking at his prematurely thinning hair and flabby face, once again found himself marvelling that he was Ronald's younger brother. "Not if she can help it," said Hugo.

"Well, then I know I left a mark," said Barb with a knowing chuckle. "It's when they mention you every now and then in passing that you know you were only a night's entertainment for them. When they speak of you constantly or will not speak of you unless forced, then you are a monument." She looked at Gerion once more. "Do you care to share a drink?"

"My companions and I have… business elsewhere, and… I have drunk enough," he said.

"Well, that's a shame," she said with a surprising amount of sympathy, and then turned the serving girl's face to hers. "I suppose, my sweetling, that just gives the pair of us more time with one another, so let us go back to my chamber…"

The girl tittered. "What for?"

Barb smiled and twined her fingers into the girl's hair. "So I may lick the honey from your hair, little maiden." The serving girl laughed at that, and followed along with Barb Bracken's pulling. Soon the pair had disappeared down the hall.

"She seems a revel," said Dandy.

"So does a Tyroshi dog fight, when you first enter it," replied Gerion. "At a certain point one realizes it quite depends on one's point of view." He sighed. "Come. It's a short trip to the gate and then the King's Arms."

"You mean the Pander's Purse?," said Jaecylyn.

"The King's Arms is its proper name," replied Gerion.

Dandy chuckled. "It may be so, Just Gerion, but it's still the Pander's Purse."

Gerion nodded. "Then I defer to the ladies' judgment. Now let's get you back… well, I suppose it's not home, but the place where you rest, perhaps." Dandy leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. "Whatever was that for?"

"Oh, nothing really," she said. "Sympathy, I suppose. When you first walked in the Purse, I thought you was well, like most who enter. But… you ain't. You're more like us."

"I wouldn't say I have the same… profession," said Gerion unsteadily.

"No, but you certainly sell yourself to get by," she said, voice filled with a terrible pity. "And the worst part is, Just Gerion, I don't think you're getting a very good price. At all."

 

[Estro]

What a tired soul Gerion is. He's wearing thin at the edges, and we all know the cause.

And god, tywin is so awful.

 

[bookwyrm]

I think at one point Lucas Lothston is referred to as Luthor? But speaking of the Lothstons it really is a statement about how ill-loved their house was even in Harrentown and by the Gods' Eye that even after everything people like the Whents and that ancestor of Illifer the Penniless did and whatever Elizabeth Bathory nonsense was drawn up to pull the legends of Mad Danielle into lordly high justice and thus bury them with her, there was still absolutely a bunch of properly Transylvanian smallfolk lynch mobs to uh 'finish the job' and make sure all those distaff lines of Lothston meet ill-fortune or else disappear from history.

Also, a really nice framework to set them and the Lannisters side by side and really help underline the like gothic horror house of usher energy, I wonder then what would the singers call Tywin after all is said and done- Tywin the Tyrant? Tye the King O' Beasts?

 

[Space Oddity]

But speaking of the Lothstons it really is a statement about how ill-loved their house was even in Harrentown and by the Gods' Eye that even after everything people like the Whents and that ancestor of Illifer the Penniless did and whatever Elizabeth Bathory nonsense was drawn up to pull the legends of Mad Danielle into lordly high justice and thus bury them with her, there was still absolutely a bunch of properly Transylvanian smallfolk lynch mobs to uh 'finish the job' and make sure all those distaff lines of Lothston meet ill-fortune or else disappear from history.

Click to shrink...

I was going to comment on this in the chapter (and will mention it in the future), but the Lothstons didn't branch out much. Danelle's kids and Harrold's kids mostly married each other, and if your dad was a Rivers and your mom was a Lothston, you were a Lothston.

It made for a close-knit family, even by Westerosi standards.

 

[bookwyrm]

I was going to comment on this in the chapter (and will mention it in the future), but the Lothstons didn't branch out much. Danelle's kids and Harrold's kids mostly married each other, and if your dad was a Rivers and your mom was a Lothston, you were a Lothston.

It made for a close-knit family, even by Westerosi standards.

Click to shrink...

aaaah um, wow okay the Lothstons are um, kind of insanely fucked up in a "trying to out-Valyria the Valyrians" way that almost makes fucking Craster nod in approval.

 

[Space Oddity]

aaaah um, wow okay the Lothstons are um, kind of insanely fucked up in a "trying to out-Valyria the Valyrians" way that almost makes fucking Craster nod in approval.

Click to shrink...

Yeah, trust me, it got worse once they got to Essos and were more or less free to let their freak flags fly. And as bad as the official family tree is, the actual family tree (as Gerion hinted) is much, much worse.

 

[Space Oddity]

THE DARK LADY

The musicians she'd hired were playing the style they now favored in Tyrosh, strange and fast and intricate. I should have hired some Summer Islanders to play, Chataya thought. It would make this place seem more exotic. And I could at least enjoy what I listened to. She looked at Baladar Xi standing watch over the door. Hiring her people had definitely worked as regards her little house's security. She moved out to the balcony and looked out on the street below. As usual, the hustle of the street was shocking after all the years in King's Landing. Oh, King's Landing was a busy city, but Tyrosh's streets so hummed with constant activity that they made it seem but a market town. She watched the pedestrians move by in their gaily colored clothes, chattering among themselves in loud voices.

I will have to work on my Tyroshi, she thought. She'd some fluency with the tongue, but hearing it being spoken so rapidly proved confusing. Still, it's no stranger than the Andals' tongue, and I've made do with that for a long, long… She blinked. A sizable portion of the crowd below had stopped before a certain wall, and were staring at it, talking among themselves. Looking, she saw some Tyroshi words scrawled there, though she could not make sense of them.

Chataya shook her head and moved away. It was, she decided, none of her affair. Likely it was some slogan or other involving the Little Chamber or the Archon. She had known vaguely before she came that Tyrosh had an Archon that ruled it, and a council of wealthy merchants of good family called the Little Chamber which governed with the Archon. But since she had arrived that skeleton had been fleshed out. She had assumed the Archon was selected by the Little Chamber, but it seemed he wasn't. Instead he was elected by the Freeholders and was allowed to name the head of the Little Chamber, among other powers. There was an officer chosen by the Little Chamber, the Censor, who seemed to hold some strange sort of authority both over it and Tyrosh as a whole, but he was distinct from the Archon. She'd heard a great deal of talk of the Censor since arriving in Tyrosh, though she'd understood little of it. The war with Lys seemed to be behind much of it, but it was hard to be sure.

The city is more on edge than I'd hoped, she thought. I'd imagined I would be leaving war behind me. Instead I've left one war for another. Two nights ago, she'd watched a mob chase after a group of merchants. She learned later the mob had caught them, stripped them of their clothes, and then dragged them to the docks where they were thrown into the water. As for what had caused this, she learned the men were Lorathi, and there was a rumor they'd come from trading with Lys. Whether it was true or not, she was never sure. But that made little difference to the merchants. Or the mob.

She'd hired more sellswords after that. As always she wondered if she'd been thinking clearly when she'd done that, and as always she'd decided she had been. I can afford it, and with the foreign trade I pull in… well, who knows who the mob will attack next. Her new house had attracted many Westerosi customers, some of whom recalled her from the days in King's Landing. Chataya noted Orton Merryweather, seated among his usual crowd of Tyroshi notables, playing another hand of the Archon's Triumph. It reminded of all the times she'd seen him at her old pillow house, always dragged along by others. His grandfather, more often than not. Others would cavort, sing and make assignations with the ladies – Orton Merryweather would sit in a corner, and play tiles or dice. It was almost as if nothing had changed.

But that isn't true, she noted to herself. Orton's beautiful young Myrish wife was dancing with a handsome Tyroshi with flamboyant blue hair. That was a new addition – indeed she herself had wondered if Orton was ever going to wed, back in the old days. It was something of a surprise to see him not only wed, but wed to a beauty. I wonder how he managed it, she thought. Orton turned to look at his wife dancing with the Tyroshi. He looked at them briefly, sighed and then went back to his game. I suspect he does as well.

She walked past the table of reveling soldiers, and then past the table of Ibbenese, Sarnori and Qohorik engaged in quiet conversation. Jayde smiled at Chataya as she placed and raised her glass of pear wine. The well-dressed Qohorik she was with saw that the glass was low as Jayde set it down, and so began to fill it again. Once he was finished, he turned back to his fellows, and began once again to talk in his quiet, measured tones, to which they all nodded, the Qohorik in their dark black finery, the Sarnori in their simple robes and leather cloaks, and the Ibbenese in rich clothes, with beards threaded with pearls. At one point, the Qohorik all motioned for the conversation to pause, then bowed their heads in unison and muttered something together. They kept their heads bowed in silence for a moment, then raised them, and the conversation resumed.

Their districts were not so far from here–indeed, the three areas lay in a row, and had on countless occasions formed a sort of mutual defense group when Tyrosh had been sacked, or when passions in the city ran high. She was surprised at first to see the Sarnori, who she'd understood to be a finished race… but seeing them here, once you got over the initial surprise, you saw that was true. They kept to themselves much of the time, and did not seem to laugh or smile, but walked about in a sort of despairing cloud. They made their living working leather and spider-silk and similar materials into saddles and other such things for the wealthier Tyroshi, but seemed to make no efforts to involve themselves deeply in the city, as if it were less a home and more a place they happened to live. And they have lived here for over three hundred years now.

She sat down at the hostess' table, and looked over the crowd. The house was largely seeing to itself, as it so often did. Really, so much of what I do is simply providing people with a place to meet. She was considering having a glass of pear wine when Baladar approached her. "Great lady," he said, "one is here to speak to you. A… bawd, I believe. He claims to have business…"

She frowned. She had occasionally had dealings with such men in King's Landing and Lannisport. They were seldom pleasant. Still, it is the risk of this profession. And one never knew when such individuals had powerful connections and dangerous allies. "Let him in," she said. "But keep an eye on him."

"Lady, when you see him, you will see that is no great task," said Baladar, before darting away.

Chataya shook her head and glanced back over to Merryweather's Triumph game, where the man was ruefully paying out his losses to one of the Tyroshi, who was chuckling merrily. His wife's blue-haired dancing partner had pressed her up against a wall and was kissing her fervently. She sighed to herself, and that was when the door opened.

He walked in, flanked by a crowd of young people – mostly girls, but with a few boys – all who wore elaborate silk robes marked with stars, half of which were a shining yellow, the other half were a sable black. His costume outdid theirs, however. His robe was great tangle of yellow, orange and red, all bright as could be, and traced with gold, shaped in waves and points that made her think of flames. He had a great and elaborate crimson hat, in which ostrich and peacock feathers had been placed. Some of the ostrich plumes seemed to have been dyed as well, unless there were birds in nature whose feathers were those bright shades of red, yellow and orange. In his hand he held a large cane, the head of which was a great sphere, half white, half black, with stars painted on both sides. He twirled it constantly as he strutted forwards. He raised one hand as he came inside, and his companions stepped aside to let him walk towards her by himself.

A Lysene, she thought, getting a good look at him. Likely from a high family, at least partially. He has the old Valyrian look. The man's silver-blonde hair hung down to his shoulders, while the close-cropped silvery-white beard he wore gave him a strangely wolfish air. As he reached the hostess' table, he gave a sweeping bow. "Do I have the honor of speaking to the lady of this fine establishment?" he asked, peering at her with his purple eyes.

"You do," she said, smiling politely. "May I ask who you are?"

"Who am I?" he said, straightening. "Why, I am I! That is, I am me, myself, and I am also an emissary, a representative, an ambassador plenipotentiary of the great House of the Morning and the Evening Star." He gestured to his companions. "And I am the uncle of these glittering darlings, the Brighstars and Nightstars of the House." The youths all began to twirl in unison, forming lines and circles as they did so. "Lovely, are they not? An ornament to any house that would have them."

Chataya raised an eyebrow. "Sir… are you trying to sell them to me?"

The man's pale eyebrows shot up. "Goodness, no," he said, his voice offended. "I was under the impression that this was a place of free labor, not slave." He stood imperiously to his full height. "If I was mistaken, simply inform me, and my kin and I shall leave. At once and with haste!"

"My apologies," she said, raising her hand. "I had thought…" She shook her head. "I am still getting my bearings in this place."

The man took a seat. "My sympathies. Tyrosh can be a twisty place. I've been a regular visitor over the last three decades and it still surprises me at times."

"So you do not dwell here?" she noted.

He shook his head. "I live in the House of the Morning and Evening Star, and the House lies in Myr, and thus, so do I most of the time."

Chataya nodded at that. "Would you care for a drink?"

He smiled brightly. "Almost always," he said. "Perhaps a glass of what by the smell of it is an exquisite pear wine?"

She began to pour him some. "So, was that writing on the wall another surprise?"

He seemed surprised at that. "What writing?" She gestured to the balcony window, and he gave a nod. "Ahhh, it must be on the Street of Eggs. We came by the Street of Winds, and so didn't see it." He seemed interested. "What did it say?"

"I cannot make it out," she said. "I fear I do not read Tyroshi well enough."

The man rose from his seat. "Perhaps I could be of assistance to the lady? It would be of little bother to me. Indeed, I often try to keep up with the word on the street in this place, so to speak…"

Chataya went to his side. "I… thank you for this. To be honest, I was expecting this meeting to…"

"Be unpleasant?" he said, walking with her. "Yes, well, I try to be the exception in this profession, even if I dress to fit with it." He glanced over at Merryweather's Triumph game, where Orton was shuffling the deck for the next hand and watching the others place their coins to join in. He chuckled briefly, and then turned back to the balcony window. "Now, let us see…" He drew out a Myrish lens from his sleeve and held it to his left eye, scanned the writing briefly, then clicked his tongue. "Oh, dear," he said, putting the lens back in his sleeve.

"What does it…?" she began. He gently grabbed her arm.

"Let us walk, very quickly, back to the table," he said, turning. "Tense times you know. Or perhaps you do not. The war of course, but… Mmmm, old Gral Gyserio was dismissed as First Magister last month. And that means the Archon is feeling quite secure. And why not? His cousin is now the Censor…" He shook his head. "Oh, it is a bad time to be a Good Vintager, a worse time to be one Valyn's Children, for the Restoration's law is writ in iron – nay, in Valyrian steel…"

"I do not follow any of what you are saying," said Chataya.

"Apologies," he said, sitting back down. "Thinking aloud mostly. A bad habit of mine, I know. One which my kin often allow me to indulge in. Oh, I am a pampered old thing these days!" He looked at her pointedly. "Now, listen, I would advise you against showing any particular interest in that writing. It is a slogan that the Archonate finds… alarming, and with you, a foreigner who has just arrived, with few friends…"

"What is the slogan?" she asked.

The man looked at her for a moment, and then leaned forward. " 'The Silvertongue would not have it thus'," he whispered.

She blinked at that. "The… surely they do not mean the Ninepenny King…"

"They do," said the old man.

"He was a tyrant," she said.

"The Tyrant," he replied. "The meaning is not quite what you imagine."

"His own wife poisoned him," she noted.

"Indeed, Alequo Adarys' lovely bride, the Lady Ruqluo," he said, picking up his glass of pear wine once again, "a woman of the finest, oldest pedigree that Tyrosh can produce. So fine a bride for a man who was a mere sellsword in his younger days, before he made himself the richest man in the city by his cunning and his will…" He looked at her pointedly. "For a year he held the wildest parties that Tyrosh had ever seen, until at last she came to one. Some say he had met her once, in their youths, and held that image in his heart, dreaming of the day when the impossible might happen, when the hand and heart of a great lady of Tyrosh might be given to a man born in its gutters…" He stared into his glass, as if it held some great mystery.

"So they wed?" Chataya asked.

"In time," replied the old man with a shrug. "She'd acquired a rather bothersome husband in the interim, but the fool did them both the favor of challenging Adarys to a duel to the death." He sipped his pear wine. "He was a noble famed for riding the chase, and the Silvertongue was a man who'd fought in the Disputed Lands for much of his life before making his fortune. They say the fool begged for his life before Adarys killed him, and this after he'd boasted he was going to chop off the Silvertongue's tongue and his member and give them both as a present to his wife before he killed him. He died, they wed, and Tyrosh, after being briefly scandalized, gave him a seat in the Little Chamber."

Chataya stared at him. "So… it was all for her in the end, that he became… what he was?"

The old man sighed. "Is anything in this world all for anything? Does anyone's motives come down to one cause, one source, one thing one may point to and then say 'This! This is the heart of all they did!'? Men and women are tangles, and the worse of it is, if you try to pull them apart to understand them, one is left holding a mess of strands that one can't discern the meaning of."

"It sounds like you think of this a great deal," Chataya noted.

"I do. I am writing a history," said the old man, "and my failures make such thoughts inevitable."

"What is it the history of?" asked Chataya.

The man grinned. "The world," he said. "It is a great and impossible task but, what can I say? It keeps me from idleness." He shrugged. "But to return to the Silvertongue… you may make of his story what you will. Others make of it a potent symbol. The one time when a man not of the great families ruled this city."

The old man looked sadly at her. "They talk of how during the Tyranny the doors of the Little Chamber were always open, and that since the Restoration, they are always locked. They talk of how Adarys broadened the franchise, and how the Archonate didn't just restore it to its old dimensions, it narrowed it further. They say, 'Remember how the Silvertongue was going to run for the Archonate before they barred him? How they were going to strip him of his seat, and accuse him of all manner of crimes simply for daring to make the try, a man of no family who'd newly joined the Little Chamber?' They look at the Tyranny, and they look at the Archonate as it was, and the Archonate as it is now, and they make a choice. And every faction in the Little Chamber listens to the whisper of that choice, and they all shudder."

"It sounds like you think there is something to what they say," said Chataya softly.

"Does it?" He gave an ironic smile. "I think they forget how the last years of the Tyranny went. Only two men attended the Silvertongue's funeral, you know. His wife's cousin, and… an old fool, writing a history, who'd attended one of his parties, back in the day. The next day, his Little Chamber opened the gates to the Restorers." He shook his head. "And that was that."

He set down his glass, and gestured around the room to the youths who'd accompanied them. They'd settled in quite naturally, some dancing, some talking, some singing. "My offer, boiled down to its essence. My nieces and nephews wish to use your house as their place of business. If you give them shelter, they will pay you rent. And in return they will assist you in understanding Tyrosh and other services as well." He leaned forward. "Rest assured, these are not dull pillow-warmers, my kin. Our House has high standards, and my lovely nieces and nephews are schooled in them."

"They really are your nieces and nephews?," she said, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded then paused. "Well, grand-nieces and nephews," he noted, "but the relationship's more or less the same. And about half of them are my half-sister's half-sister's blood but… listen, I call my sister's sister 'sister' and her children and her children's children, I am their uncle. Blood is much, but it is not all."

Chataya smiled at that. "I do not think I've ever met a Lysene of your nature."

He smiled back. "Nor have you, great lady. I am not a Lysene."

She stared at him, startled. "But I would have sworn…"

"You are not the first to make the mistake," he said. "In truth I was born… mmm, in the Stepstones. Or at least, on an island that lies… not too far from them. Or perhaps it does. I've no head for nautical distances."

"Have I heard of it?" she asked.

He chuckled and raised his glass. "Mayhaps," he said, and then took a long swallow. When he set the glass down he looked at her. "Now as for you, you were born…" He paused dramatically. "In the Summer Isles!" She chuckled at that. "Jhala, I would say. Sweet Lotus Vale to be precise."

She did not even try to hide her astonishment. "How did you…?"

He shrugged. "I'm well-traveled, and I've an ear for tongues." He picked up his glass again. "Sweet Lotus Vale. They had one of those pretty little wars that your people are so fond of many years ago. And as a result, many, many people of good family had to go into exile."

Chataya felt her breath catch in her throat. "I… was young when that happened. Scarcely older than a girl. I barely remember it."

He looked at her, his violet eyes filled with sympathy. "That is so often the way of it, is it not?"

The last hand of Archon's Triumph had been played and Orton Merryweather had apparently managed to win it so that his purse wasn't completely emptied. The Tyroshi he'd been playing were leaving, chuckling to themselves. A few gave him patronizing slaps on the shoulders, which he accepted with an uneasy, sheepish grin. As they left, he looked again at his wife, whose partner was stroking her breasts familiarly, then shrugged and headed to the hostess' table. "A drink, if you'd please, Madam Chataya," he said, putting a coin on the table as he sat down.

The old man looked at him with interest. "Ahh, the Triumph player," he said, offering Orton his hand. "I have so been waiting for a time to chat, Lord…?"

"Orton Merryweather," said Merryweather. "Though how did you guess I was a lord…?"

"Why, the scions of six Tyroshi families of renown would not play Archon's Triumph with a commoner," answered the old man with a smile. "Nay, not even with a 'ser'."

A smile came over Orton Merryweather's plain face. "Well, you guessed very well then," he said. "Yes, I'm a lord, sent here in exile by… the present unpleasantness."

The old man nodded. "Of course, of course. How does that matter go at the present? I find your war of the Stags and Dragons so fascinating, I must admit."

"It goes," said Orton with a shrug. "In truth, I hope for an ending, so I may petition the Iron Throne to return…"

"Mmmm, yes, yes," agreed the old man, raising the glass. "For peace, so either the Stag or the Dragon may sit on that ugly old iron chair you have over there. Someone has to, apparently."

Orton took a swallow of his drink then set it down. "Well, I am sorry I could tell you little on the subject…"

"Well, there is one thing you could do," said the man. "I have been watching you play that game since I came in." He leaned forward, grinning. "And it seems to me a man with your skills could deal himself a truly magnificent hand if he wished."

"What…?" said Orton in baffled surprise. "Sir, I have… Are you suggesting… That is clearest idiocy…"

The old man raised a hand. "Listen, there is no need to insult us both with this pretense. I've no wish to… upset whatever business you've at hand. I just wish to enjoy your skills. In an almost… spiritual sense. I do not think I have ever seen your equal."

Orton stared at him for a moment, then nodded, and pulled out his Triumph deck. He shuffled them deftly, then dealt the cards. The old man picked up his hand, and gave an appreciative nod, then looked at Lord Merryweather. "Well, what did you give yourself?" Orton tipped his hand. The old man laughed and shook his head. "Goodness me. You'd take every trick with that. Leave me clinging to my Jester till the last hand, in hopes of getting a point, and then snatching it from me with the Youth." Orton gave an appreciative nod. "Why," asked the old man, "if you can do this, do you play to lose?"

"Men do not play with a man who always wins," replied Orton. "Indeed, they generally get suspicious. But a man who never seems to get lucky… or if he does, never for very long, well, that's an amiable man to play with, isn't it? And they play. And they play. And as they play, they talk. Oh, how they talk. Most of it drivel, but a good deal… very interesting. And valuable." He shrugged as he gathered his cards again. "You may believe me or not, but I have made ten times this evening off those fools than I lost to them."

The old man chuckled at that. "Marvelous. Simply marvelous." He removed his hat with a flourish. "I tip my hat to you, Lord Merryweather."

"We must all make our living somehow, good sir," replied Orton. He turned to see the blue-haired Tyroshi gallantly kissing his wife's hand. "Speaking of which, yes, I believe my dear Taena will be joining us soon." Taena kept her eyes on the Tyroshi noble, watching him with utter tenderness until he was out of sight. Then she turned, making her way to her husband, swaying gracefully all the way.

"Ahh, dear Orton," she said, in dulcet tones, "I must apologize for so leaving you by yourself…"

Orton shook his head. "No use keeping up the pretense here, Taena." He gestured to the old man. "This clever fellow saw right through me, and I'm willing to wager, you as well."

The woman slouched immediately. "Oh, bloody hell," she said, her voice suddenly coarse.

"Relax, he's not planning on exposing us," said Orton. "He seems to be an admirer." The old man gave a cheery nod at that. Merryweather glanced at Chataya, eyes subtly narrowed. "And I do not believe Lady Chataya will say anything."

"Your business is your own," she said. "So long as you do not cause me any trouble, I will cause none for you."

"Well, that is a bloody damn relief," said Taena, her voice showing no signs of returning to its prior elegance. "Come on, pull a seat out for me, Orton. I've danced with that damn fool Brymel until my damn feet are about ready to fall off." Orton stood and pulled out a chair for Taena, who quickly scooted into it, and began to slouch on the table. "Now buy me a drink, dear. I deserve it. That awful ocean of a man is worth at least one drink."

Orton kissed her on the forehead. "You shall have two."

Taena smiled at him as he put the coins on the table. "My dear lord."

"An ocean of a man…?" asked the old man, intrigued.

"An expression of my wife's," said Orton. "It refers to a man whose hands are alternatively the claws of crabs and the tentacles of a kraken…"

"And whose breath is a dead fish," snarled Taena. "Gods, what are these damn dyed Tyroshi eating? It can't be wholesome if it makes their mouths so vile." She swallowed her drink, and swilled it around her mouth. As she did that, she set the empty glass down and indicated Chataya should refill it.

"I've never met a Free City woman who held the sea in such low regard," noted the old man.

"Try selling fish and oysters on Myr's dock as a girl," said Taena, "and see how much you like the ghastly thing."

The old man laughed. "Oh, gods, however did the pair of you meet?"

Orton shrugged. "It was in Pentos."

"I was looking for a wealthy foreign nobleman to wed," said Taena.

"And I was looking for a wealthy foreign noblewoman to wed," continued Orton. "We each managed to convince the other that we were what the other was looking for." He smiled. "It was an interesting wedding night." Taena snorted at that and sipped from her drink. "But once we took stock of our situation we saw that a partnership between two such… gifted individuals could be quite profitable. And it has been. We are such a complementary pair, my wife, blessed with her abundance of beauty, and myself, blessed with my ugly, honest, stupid face."

Taena stroked her husband's face fondly, running her thumb over his bulbous nose. "The only honest, stupid part of you, Orton. But it is so convincing."

Orton smiled at her. "That reminds me… I saw how well you are getting on with Lord Brymel, but what of Lady Brymel?"

"Oh, I've already told the dear thing about the scandal of my first lover," said Taena, grinning.

"Mmmm, is it the pirate this time?" asked Orton.

"The red priest," his wife replied. "She's a Pale Child devotee, eager to hear about the scandalous things that go on in R'hllor's temples." Taena's voice regained some of its assumed refinement over the last part.

"What a shame," said Orton. "I do so love the pirate."

"Be off with you," came a loud voice from the Qohorik table.

"Oh, come, come, thurely you can let me thit here… A brother of Qohor…"

Chataya looked over to the table, where a sellsword with a long beard had approached it and apparently was trying to press them to accept his company. The Sarnori and the Ibbenese were already leaving the table and hurrying to the door. The Qohoriks were standing up in stony dignity, regarding the man with a certain cold disgust. "You are not our brother," said Jayde's client, the tallest of the Qohoriks, whose clothing seemed somehow blacker than the others in some strange manner.

The sellsword grabbed at the man's shoulder. "Well, no, no, not ath thuch, but I am a thon of Qohor, born and bred in itth thtreetth…"

"One could say much the same of the dung in my bowels," said the tall Qohorik, as his fellows followed the Sarnori and Ibbenese out. "Still, I would not parade it about in public. And there is nothing shameful about my dung. Now remove your hand from my person, or I will do so myself."

The sellsword glared at the man. "You thilly fop! Who are you to make thuch demandth of me?"

"I am Belthus Byet," replied the Qohorik. He spread his cloak and gestured to the sword at his side. "Now once again, remove your hand from my person or it will be removed." Belthus leaned forward. "And you know what I mean by this."

The sellsword removed his hand and jumped back as if scalded. "Lord… Lord Byet. I did not know you…"

"But I know you, Vargo Hoat," said Belthus. "And I do not like you. I do not like your ugly face, your ridiculous beard, and your silly lisp. But most of all, I do not like your deeds, which I will not soil this company with the news of." He snorted. "Do you imagine that we forget you, Hoat? Do you imagine that you can approach us on the street and not be despised for what you are? Crawl under your rock, worm, and then stay there, far from the company of the decent and the righteous." Hoat cringed before the man, who then turned to regard the others. "My apologies for this unruly scene." His hand darted to his coinpurse. "My apologies." He tossed a handful of coppers to the room, then turned to Jayde. "And towards our next meeting, my lady." He handed her a gold coin, and then made his way briskly out.

Vargo Hoat stood in the middle of the room, all eyes on him, shaking. He took a few deep breaths, then pointed at Jayde. "You… What are you thtaring at, thlut?!" Before Jayde could answer he began to stride towards her. "I thould thlap that thtupid look off your thtupid whore fathe!" Baladar glanced at Chataya, hand on his blade. Chataya nodded. Baladar stepped forward when a deep voice came from the door.

"Ahh, there you are, captain. I've been looking for you." Chataya could not believe she heard it, but then he came through the door, ducking and twisting gracefully to get his huge form through it. "We muster tomorrow, and they will not take us to Myr without our captain present…" The large man paused as he took in the situation. "What has happened here, captain?" he said, his ugly face looking troubled.

"Thith… thith wretched whore hath inthulted me!" said Vargo Hoat.

"How?" asked the large man.

Vargo looked away. "It doeth not matter how…"

The large man nodded. "Then it doesn't matter at all, does it?" he said, as if talking to a child.

Vargo seemed near tears. "My honor… my honor hath been thoiled…"

The large man sighed and stepped forward, placing an oversized hand on Hoat's shoulder. "Listen to me, Vargo." He leaned towards the Qohorik sellsword. "The whore is not worth it. The Brave Companions need their captain with them for the muster. Not causing an incident in a brothel which might result in our contract being voided. We need contracts. Contracts bring money. We do not need trouble. Trouble costs money." He looked at Hoat pointedly. Vargo nodded.

"Yeth, yeth, you are right," he said, sniffling. He grabbed the man's arm and rested his head on it, crying. "Oh, Ther Thtone, you are thuch a good and true friend…"

The large man nodded dimly. "Yes, yes, I am. Now come on, captain. We need you out of here…" He escorted Vargo to the door and helped the man exit, then turned to Chataya. "My apologies for this. The captain often gets… bothersome when he's at his cups. Best to put it all behind us, yes?"

Chataya nodded, her throat dry. "I… thank you for handling this…?" She gulped. "What… what is your name, Andal?"

Ser Gregor Clegane grinned at that. "Why, you heard part of it, if… somewhat badly put. I am Ser Aegon Stone." His grin only grew wider, as if he was daring her to call him a liar.

The old man peered at him quizzically. "Mmm, that is one of your Andal bastard names unless I miss your mark. From the Vale of Arryn."

Gregor merely shrugged. "That might be so. I wouldn't know. I was born here, in Essos." Another smile, another dare to the company. He looked at the old man. "Do… do I know you? You seem familiar…"

The old man shrugged. "I'm cursed with a face that is both strangely common in some circles and rather memorable. So likely no, you simply know someone who looks like me."

Gregor nodded and turned to leave. "Will… will you be returning to this establishment?" Chataya found herself asking.

The huge knight glanced back at her. "Alas, probably not in the near future. As I told the captain, we head for Myr and like to be there awhile." He grinned at her again. "Again, a pity. A pleasant evening to you all." And then another strangely graceful ducking and twisting and that living nightmare of a man was gone.

There was awkward silence for a moment. "So that is Gregor Clegane," said the old man at last. "I'll say this for him – he lives up to his reputation. There is not much in this world that is true of." He shook his head. "Gods be good, 'Ser Aegon Stone'. The vile thing thinks he's being witty."

"I passed him on the street two days ago," noted Orton. "I pretended not to recognize him, and he pretended not to recognize me. Or at least I like to think he was pretending. It may very well be he had no idea who I was."

"I'd count that to the good, love," said Taena, putting a hand on her husband's shoulder. "I'd not like to get that creature's notice." She shuddered.

The old man turned to Chataya. "I would not worry too much. He's heading to Myr where the plunder and the violence will be easy. No reason to cause problems here."

"He is not a man who needs reasons," said Chataya quietly.

"True," agreed the old man. "But he is a man who enjoys having his head attached to his neck. The Archon doesn't like trouble either." A sudden scream came from the direction of the balcony.

Chataya gasped. "What is that?" She began to head towards the balcony.

"Great lady," said the old man, "it would be better if you simply… did not look." Chataya nodded, but continued to the balcony.

Three of the city's guard were holding a man down while the other sawed off his right hand. Two more men were painting over the slogan, while yet another, wearing the garb of a city herald regarded the crowd. "So it is!" he said frantically. "This is how traitors, rabble-rousers and those who disturb Tyrosh's peace are dealt with, by order of the Archon and by office of the Censor of the Little Chamber!"

The prisoner screamed in agony. Looking over the crowd, Chataya saw that Ser Gregor and Vargo Hoat were there, watching with amusement. Gregor saw her and gave a cheerful nod. Chataya felt sick to her stomach. The old man had come to her side and was kindly taking her by the arm.

"Come now, great lady," he said. "Come now."

"There will be order!" shouted the herald. "There will be discipline! Those who deal in lies shall be dealt with in turn! This is the way of Tyrosh! This is what the prosperity of this city is built on! The way our fathers and their fathers made this city great!"

"How… how did they know who wrote that slogan?" Chataya asked.

The old man chuckled. "You think they actually bother to try to catch such people?" He sighed sadly and shook his head. "Ahh, my poor, poor great lady. Welcome to Tyrosh, in all its splendor and glory."

 

[bookwyrm]

Methinks the coming toils of wartime taxes and sellswords and corsairs prowling around allegedly in the name of the Little Chamber is not exactly the grand unifying victory and profitable venture these high and noble magisters think it is.

Also- I really like how like almost satanic you've made Gregor when he's in a position where things are too awkwardly public to just casually break a few limbs and he does not have the favor of being the arm of the highborn. Presumably also Maester Qyburn is able to ween him a bit off of milk-of-the-poppy and/or upgrade him to the really good shit and thus he's able to kep his wits about him a little more.

 

[Space Oddity]

Methinks the coming toils of wartime taxes and sellswords and corsairs prowling around allegedly in the name of the Little Chamber is not exactly the grand unifying victory and profitable venture these high and noble magisters think it is.

Also- I really like how like almost satanic you've made Gregor when he's in a position where things are too awkwardly public to just casually break a few limbs and he does not have the favor of being the arm of the highborn. Presumably also Maester Qyburn is able to ween him a bit off of milk-of-the-poppy and/or upgrade him to the really good shit and thus he's able to kep his wits about him a little more.

Click to shrink...

As I've noted elsewhere, he's younger, so he's not quite as crippling addicted as he will be in the future, and this is a situation where Gregor's general instincts would be to avoid trouble. If Vargo was causing trouble in a dirty hole in the wall, he'd have likely help him smashed it up, but a fashionable upper class haunt, yeah, that's a no no.

To the first part as I was planning to have the best dressed bawd in the Free Cities note and will likely have him note in the future, war with Lys is a very popular policy in Tyrosh, and also a very unpopular policy and because the spheres that it holds these positions in do not interact much, people who hold the former opinion are continuously surprised to discover the latter exist.

Time and time again.

 

[bookwyrm]

To the first part as I was planning to have the best dressed bawd in the Free Cities note and will likely have him note in the future, war with Lys is a very popular policy in Tyrosh, and also a very unpopular policy and because the spheres that it holds these positions in do not interact much, people who hold the former opinion are continuously surprised to discover the latter exist.

Time and time again.

Click to shrink...

surely building our society on such a bifurcated hierarchy of freemen standing precariously over the enslaved masses and merchant princes off in their villas would have no devastating repercussions, right?!

 

[Space Oddity]

surely building our society on such a bifurcated hierarchy of freemen standing precariously over the enslaved masses and merchant princes off in their villas would have no devastating repercussions, right?!

Click to shrink...

Look, Valyria needed those slaves dying by the thousands to keep the literal infernal engine of the empire running, and now that it's gone, you can't expect Volantis, the Three Sisters and Slaver's Bay to rework their societies!

 

[Wiggy]

Well, this is a rather fascinating fic. It really lives up to the original and I am dreadfully impatient to see where it goes. I have no idea which side of the conflict to root for because both casts of characters are so utterly interesting to read about lol.

 

[Space Oddity]

THE IRON KRAKEN

It was a bright morning and the Mudds were bathing naked in the river. Victarion was doing his best to avoid looking at them, especially Morella, who revealed she had a rather pert pair of breasts underneath her baggy tunics. It almost made him feel foolish for imagining her a boy. As if anyone could see anything under that filth, he thought with a scowl.

Mad Mychel was rising from the water, his flesh pale and glistening. Viewed like this, the impression he could give of fleshiness was shown for a lie – Mychel Mudd was all muscle but those muscles were odd things that twisted in ways most men's did not. He had no hair on his body that Victarion could see, nor did Morella for that matter, though Victarion did not look very much at her, no matter how she flaunted her body at him. I guess it is true that all Greenlander women are whores, even the ones who are murderous beasts.

Thinking about her made his eyes glimpse Morella's way, and he saw that free from the filth that had encrusted it, her hair was a rich golden-brown. Her father's as well – indeed, for all that their bodies lacked it, the hair on their heads seemed full and even. Clean, they did not seem so wretched as they had when dirty. The pair were ambling to some clothes they'd laid out prior to their bath, without any care to the world. Still, it is not like anyone could see them. He looked around the little island, with all the willow trees about. Aside from me. He once again considered diving into the water, but then recalled that was how all this had started. The waters of these rivers were treacherous. Only this morning he had seen the body of a drowned man. He'd thought it one of the strange river rats at first.

It would be better for me if I'd just let them take me to Riverrun, Victarion thought. I'm just as much a prisoner here as I would be there, and less kindly treated. And then he cursed himself. They will take you to Balon. They will let you fight for him. However awful this may be, it is better than simply rusting as the Ironborn's great chance comes…

Mad Mychel was buttoning the rather fine shirt he'd lain out – Victarion did not how he'd gotten it, but he had his suspicions – and glancing about. "Mmmm, mmm," he murmured. "Was that not pleasant, my egg, my duck?"

"Very pleasant, father," said Morella, tugging on the equally fine shirt that had been lain out for her.

"Soon we shall be ready for the market…" began Mychel.

"Pants, father," said Morella, drawing Mychel's attention to his unclad lower half, including his member, a thing which to Victarion's surprised lived up the constant boasts the man had made and his daughter had echoed by rote.

Mychel gave a merry laugh. "Why, quite right, my sweetling, my dove!" He picked up his pants, and sat down on the ground to start getting them on. "Thank Brother Willow for me, will you, my duck?"

Morella nodded and darted over to one of the willows, then placed a hand upon it. "Thank you, Brother Willow, for your shelter and protection," she said, in the same flat and toneless voice she used most of the time.

"I… I thought you did not hold with the Old Gods," Victarion said suddenly. The Mudds turned towards him, smiling, as if he'd just said something hilarious.

"This isn't one of theirs, ironman," said Mad Mychel significantly, as he started to put on one of the boots he'd stolen from Victarion. "It is one of ours." And that was all he would say on the subject.

They walked back to the boat, tied nearby and Morella untied the rope with the same effortless ease as she had tied it, once again seeming to simply pass her hand over it. Victarion did not know how it was she could tie the knots so quickly and then untie them just as quick, for the things were elaborate and firm when he examined them. Indeed, when he had idly tried to loose one a few nights ago, the damned thing had seemed to only tie itself tighter. Mychel sat in his usual seat and Morella quickly clambered to the front of the boat. Victarion watched as she picked up her pole and pushed off from the little island.

He walked over to Morella. "Why do you allow him to do this?" he asked.

Morella turned to look at him, chuckling. "Oh, the ironman prince notices the princess of the rivers at last, does he?" she said. "Funny what a bath and change of clothes will do. I've no doubt you'll lose your mind when you see me in my fine gown. It has pearls! And a fine brocatelle in red, green, blue and black!" She smiled at him, and then shook her head. "Of course you've no idea what that means. Of course not."

"You know what I mean," continued Victarion. "He needs you to run this little boat. You do all the work. Without question."

She laughed at him. "I do all the work?" She shook her head, chuckling. "We've had an easy go of it, have we not, ironman? Not hit any shallows, nor had a path made impassible by the waters rising or falling against us?"

"Well, no, no," agreed Victarion. "You've navigated well."

She chuckled again. "Not seen me lose my pole or catch any crabs, have you?"

"I… no, you… catch crabs?" said Victarion, glancing around. "They… they can be good eating."

Morella looked at him with a somewhat pained expression. "Gods, you're stupid." She shook her head. "I've a wager with father that you'll not even realize at first when it happens, you'll simply stand there with a stupid look on your face, your eyes all wide and your mouth making one of those 'ohs' that stupid people like you make." Victarion blinked. He could not follow what Morella was saying, but it did not sound good. She shook her head again, and offered him the pole. "Here. Take a turn of it."

Victarion picked it up and began to use it as he had seen Morella do. He briefly considered using it to batter them, but Morella was too close. He had seen how quickly she could draw her knife and use it. I'd be dead before it even left the water.

Morella watched him work, nodding. "Now, you've not seen me stick the pole in the water, and it get lodged in something…" Victarion suddenly found he could not quite pull the pole out. "...So I wind up smashing it into my chest, have you?" The pole smashed into him, and Victarion found himself falling to the ship's deck, his chest and back aching. Morella grabbed the pole as it fell from his hands and then smiled at him. "Haven't seen that at all." She stared at him, grinning and nodding. "Aye, there's the look." She spread her mouth into an exaggerated circle. "Ohhhh…."

Victarion took a swing at her as he rose, which she dodged easily, chuckling to herself. The second swing, she grabbed his arm and then pulled him so he hit the deck once again. He felt one of her feet come to rest on the small of his back. "Just stay down, ironman, and crawl away. If you keep at this, I might really have to hurt you." She gave him one of those grins, the ones where he briefly had the idea he was seeing many sharp teeth, and Victarion gave a curt nod and crawled away.

Mad Mychel was sitting, humming to himself when Victarion crawled into view. The fisherman chuckled then glanced over towards his daughter. "Really, my pet, must you play so rough?"

"He doubted your magnificence, father," replied Morella. "I was merely showing him how greatly we prosper by your guidance and your wisdom."

Mychel nodded at that. "Ahhh. I thank you, my duck."

"Could you perhaps sing for me, father?" she asked.

"What song, my poppet, my beetle?" said Mychel.

"You know which one, father," said Morella.

Mychel chuckled at that. "I do. I do. Very well, my duck, my dear one. Very well." He took a deep breath and began to sing. "I saw my love by the water's edge, between the sea and sky. I saw her then in her loveliness, and I knew my love must die." The man's singing voice was rich and deep. He recalled the man had been called a bard, and then he realized that no, that was one of the other earlier pretender Mudds. The Piper woman mentioned them, once. When Father was talking about all the pretend Lodoses. And then she and he had begun another of their interminable discussions. That was how Victarion knew the woman had bewitched him. Father had never listened to Mother that way. "Oh, so fair, oh so fine, so fair in my eye, so fair, so lovely, and so dear and yet I knew that she must die."

Victarion turned to Morella who was poling the boat down the river. Her expression was strangely contemplative, as her father continued to sing plaintively. "I saw my love in our special place on the stones so high. I saw her make a vow to me, and I knew my love must die. Oh, so loving, oh so kind, so darling in my eye. So loving, so meet, and so sweet, and yet I knew that she must die." It must mean something to her, something great and significant.

They turned down a branch in the river. Victarion saw what looked like stone tower in the distance "I saw my love in wicked place," sang Mychel, his voice growing dark, "I caught her in a lie. I drew my dagger to draw her blood, for I knew my love must die." The singing reached a tone that was closer to a growl than singing to Victarion's ears. Oh so false, so cruel, so base, so wicked in my eye! So false, so vile, and so faithless when I made her die."

There was silence for a long moment as Mychel finished his song. "That is my mother he sings on," said Morella. Victarion turned to see that she was smiling. "My father is a pillar of justice," she said. "His eye is keen, and his right hand is sure."

Mychel was coming out of his reverie and saw the tower. "Ahhh. All that remains of Strongstones. This was the great castle of the Strongs, once. But the Andals took it when Tristifer the Fifth died and set it to the torch. The Strongs fled to Strongwood then, on the Green Fork. Not so sturdy, but easier to support. But that fell in turn. As did Strongwater on the Blue Fork, and Stronghand on the Red." He looked at Victarion significantly. "That is how mighty the Strongs were, in their day. They had a castle on each fork of the Trident, and their greatest here, at its strongest source. All gone now. Gone or stolen. Sometimes both."

"The Strongs?" said Victarion. The name seemed familiar to him. "I know of them. They held Harrenhal once."

"The very same," answered Mychel with a nod. "A gift from the Targaryens. Poisonous, as the gifts of dragonlords always are. They were much diminished, when the Iron Throne gave them that. Afterwards, they briefly swelled, and then they rotted and died." He shook his head, sadly. "A good family, a loyal family at their height, loyal to the Fishers and then loyal to my house." He smiled. "We Mudds have Strong blood in us, you know. As do the Shawneys." Victarion stared at him. "Do you care to hear of that?"

"No, but you are going to tell me," said Victarion with a sigh.

"Ahh, a little bit of wisdom is slipping in," said the fisherman. "Old King Gwydyon Fisher stayed a night in Strongstones, and he was a lusty man, and deep in his cups, and so he ravished the Lord Strong's loveliest daughter, and got her with child. That was Shawney Rivers. His mother was told to keep her shame to herself by her father, but she was as proud as she was lovely, and she went before the king and demanded justice for her child. Gwydyon was, alas, as foolish as he was lusty, and tried to deny it. The gods could forgive much in a king, but a dishonorable man who would not do right they could not."

Mychel smiled at that, and Morella gave a chuckle. "They afflicted him with five different madnesses – that if he tried to lie, he would speak gibberish, that if he left his castle on the Misty Isle, he would think he was a beast and act as such, that if he drank a drop of liquor he would wretch and be in agony, that if he tried to lay with a woman he would itch all over, and that wherever he heard the sound of river or sea he would be filled with horror." Mychel did a quick count with his fingers and then nodded to himself. "And so he was forced to confess the truth, recognized Shawney Rivers and gave him a holdfast far from the Misty Isle, but this did not end his torment. The remainder of his reign was a torture for him, and the people came to call him Gwydyon the Justly-Afflicted. But his eldest son, Dylen, he fell in love with the girl his father had forced, both for her beauty and for her strong character. They wed, and the people did call him Dylen the Well-Beloved, for he was a wise and a generous king. His son by the woman was Tristifer the First, called Tristifer Bright-Shield, and he had his father's wisdom and his mother's strength of will. Tristifer's son…"

"Was Prince Pellys!" said Morella merrily.

"That is right, my duck," agreed Mychel. "And from Pellys would come both the last line of the Fishers and the great line of kings to which we belong." The man's face grew sad. "They were always loyal, the Strongs. Tristifer the Fifth married a Strong, and hoped to have a child with her, to continue the line. Tristifer the Handsome they called him while he lived. Tristifer the Last after he died."

Victarion found himself interested despite himself. "So he had no children by her?"

Mychel grinned. "Mayhaps he did. Mayhaps he had a son born after he died. Mayhaps that son was kept in hiding by his kin, and made an effort to regain the Rivers and the Hills. Mayhaps it failed and he fled to other, different kin. And mayhaps that son had a son with a kinswoman, and so on and so forth and that is how our house has survived."

Victarion raised an eyebrow. "Mayhaps?"

"Mayhaps it happened differently," replied Mychel with a smile. "We were a prolific line, until we were not." He stood suddenly, and as always Victarion was startled by the man's height. "Ahh, here we are." Victarion turned and saw that people were gathered on the river shore near the stone tower. Some were near boats like the Mudds' – others had apparently come over land, and had set up tents.

As their boat approached the shore, a frantic-looking man on the shore gestured wildly. "They are here!" he shouted. "They are here! The king and the princess are coming!" Most of the crowd seemed only mildly interested in this, but a few were responding with the same intensity as the man.

Morella poled them over to the shore, and seemed to begin her usual business in securing the boat, but Mychel raised a hand. "I will handle this, my duck. Why don't you go down and open the Market?"

Morella stared at her father, her mouth wide. "Really and for truly, father?"

Mychel patted her on the head. "Of course, my poppet. Go and dazzle them." Morella giggled like a little girl and then skipped away.

Victarion watched as she bounded to the shore. "Hail and well met!" she declared.

The frantic man gave a low bow. "The Princess! The Princess! Hurrah for the Princess!"

"Hurrah for you, Flotsam Franklyn!" said Morella. She looked over the crowd, and gestured to a few men with makeshift instruments. "I open it this year! Come, come, start the tune, play the song! I shall extemporize the verses!" The crowd looked at her, puzzled. Morella put her hands on her hips and frowned. "That means I shall make them up as I go along." She waved again at the musicians. "Play! Play!"

A strange and spritely air began, sounding even odder due to the instruments they were playing. Is that a jug?, thought Victarion. How do you play a jug? Morella cleared her throat and began to sing. "Oh, there's laws they have writ in scrolls and books, using paper, parchment and ink. They tell the fools what to do and how they are to think. But there are laws older still, writ in water, blood and stone. They are the laws of the free folk, those laws and those laws alone!"

The crowd seemed to be growing more excited as she sang. Morella smiled, and continued. "There are places for to sell for the bound, places for to buy! For the free folk there's the Floating Mart, which meets under the sky!" She began to dance around excitedly. "Oh, they say we are not here, and they say we are not right! They call us tramps and vagabonds, and they take from us our light! But when we meet here, my darling friends, then we are the kings of the earth! Let the fools say what they way, for we know our true worth!" The crowd was cheering now. "For we know and know it well, our day will come in time. We shall be the hand that strikes, the tongue that makes the rhyme! And on that day, oh waters bless, we'll burn the paper laws down! We'll stab the fools' guts and slit their throats and smash the pretenders' crown!" The crowd howled at that. "But the day's not yet, and so we shall come and meet here. We'll do our trades, have our talks and we'll be of good cheer. But always, always the blessed day shall be before our eyes. The day when we stride forth with truth to murder all their lies! The day when we claim that which is really ours! When the River's King strides forth, and strikes down paper's powers!"

She gestured to the boat, where Mychel was striding down to meet the crowd. "The King! The King! The King of the Rivers and the Hills! The King of Blood! The King of Mud! The King of Ancient Wills! The King, my father, the King, your man, the King who does not forget! So come my friends, do your business here, and get your throats nice and wet!"

Mychel grinned and waved to the people. Flotsam Franklyn rushed forward and fell at the man's feet. "King Mychel! King Mychel!" he shouted. "My life for you! My life for you!"

Mychel fondly stroked the man's shoulders. "And I will use it, Franklyn. I will use it. Go, with your fellows, and tell them that I am coming." He glanced over the group. "For I have seen the land and it is ripe. Riper than I have ever seen it. Kings and princes die, to make way for a crown from the dirt, and a king from the mud." Franklyn nodded at the man, eyes filled with tears, then bounded away, joining the strange group of lunatics he apparently traveled with, who began to talk excitedly among themselves.

Mychel glanced around the crowd. "Well, who else is here that I know? I see Mother Nutten and at least five of her sons, I see Jace and Elwood Bluerivers, I see Adam Bell, I see Clim of the Clough, I see Willam of Cloudesly, I see the Miller's Brother and I see the Mire's Son. And I see down from the mountains Painted Dogs, Moon's Brothers, Black Ears, Stone Crows, Milk Snakes and Burned Men." He nodded to himself, then spread his arms wide. "A great and noble company! Friends, let us be more honest and fair to each other than the world has been to us!" There was a general cheer from the company and then the group dispersed to start talking among themselves. Mychel went to Morella and placed an arm over her shoulder. Morella leaned into him and he muttered what must have been words of praise, for she smiled.

A particularly ragged group of people had gathered before the Mudds' boat. "I must say," said the leader, a gaunt yet strangely handsome man whose left ear looked like it had been burnt off of his head, "it is good to see you still travel these waters, Mychel."

Mychel turned to look at him, grinning broadly. "Timett, son of Tomett," he said, with delight. "It is wonderful to see you as well. You know how dear you Burned Men are to me! How goes it with that new wife of yours?"

"Why do you not ask his new wife yourself?" said a woman among the crowd. She was dressed in what looked like it must have been fine clothing once, though it was torn and tattered, and a little boy clung to her skirts.

Mychel laughed. "Ahhh, I did not know you were among us." He stepped forward, and took her by the hand. "Greetings to you. I hope that I was of some service in getting out of that… mmm, predicament you found yourself in, regardless of the… methods."

She gave a slight nod. "He said that you told him where I would be. That… that a large enough party could overwhelm those with me and take me off…"

Mychel nodded. "That is true. I did. I was faced with two simple problems. A young friend of mine wished to gain a wife. And a young woman I was aware of wished to avoid a marriage that seemed odious to her. So I combined the pair and made each the solution of each. It is nice to know it worked."

The woman stared at him. "But how did you know of me…?"

"You spoke to the Gods of your problems," said Mychel. "The Gods speak to me, and I… I listen."

She seemed curious about this response. "That is how it was then?"

"No," answered Mychel. "But it is close enough." He leaned forward, grinning that too wide grin he had when especially merry. "Besides, I could not have you wed to Bracken. Most certainly not that particular Bracken."

"Well, I thank you and my son thanks you," she said, gesturing to the little boy at her side. "Thank the nice man, Timett."

"He is frightening, mother," murmured the child. His mother sighed and then kneeled before him.

"Listen to me, boy," she said. "You are the son of your clan's fiercest red hand and the next keeper of the flame. When you are of age, and stand before the fire, it will be I who will judge you, Timmett. Will you show fear then? As your father did not? As your mother did not?" The woman lifted the hair on the right side of her face and Victarion saw that like her husband an ear had been burned off. Little Timett shook his head, while his father looked on smiling. "This is man is fearsome, yes, but he is a friend to us, and deserves thanks. Be a proud man of the line of Daemett, and thank him, as your mother instructs you."

The boy turned to Mychel and nodded. "I thank you, great lord."

Mychel chuckled at that, and laid a hand on the child's head. "A fine boy. A brave boy. A noble boy. A boy who will be a support to his allies, and a terror to his foes. A boy who will do his parents and his line proud." Little Timett seemed pleased at that. Mychel went to his knees. "Remember me and mine when you come into your own, young Burned Man." The boy seemed surprised but nodded. Mychel chuckled and stood to his feet once again.

His father regarded the fisherman. "So what trade have you for us, River King?"

Mychel gestured to his daughter who was carrying a bundle off the boat. "Oh, many fine things." Morella placed the bundle on the ground and unwrapped it. A mass of swords, knives and spears were revealed. Victarion stared, eyes wide. They must have been carrying this when first we met.

Timett's wife knelt to examine the arms, nodding to herself. "This is fine work. Castle-forged, much of it." She looked at the Mudds. "How did you get this?"

"I do not know if you have heard, in the Mountains of the Moon," said Morella, "but the lordlings are having another little war. Some have been careless and dropped things."

Mychel chuckled. "What say you gift it back to them, hmmm?" The Burned Men laughed at that, especially Timett and his wife. Indeed, she laughed the hardest. Mychel smiled at them all. "So, I will let my daughter work out the particulars. She's a fine mind for business."

"Thank you, father," drawled Morella.

Mychel laughed and walked to Victarion. "Come, ironman. I've some trades to do, and things to prepare, and I feel like you need to stretch those long legs of yours." Victarion nodded dimly and found himself walking alongside the fisherman. "So, what do you think of our Floating Market?"

Victarion gulped. "It… it is a… thing."

Mychel gave another laugh. "That it is! That it is!" He glanced around. "This is one of my favorite locations, you know. It's rather special. You see, by some reckonings, we're in the Riverlands. By others, we're in the Vale. And it's not always who'd you'd think. At times, this has been a very inconvenient patch of ground to own. And so neither is any hurry to claim it. Which lets us use it for things like this." He shook his head. "Oh, there are many such spots which we use as we can. It is the Floating Market, after all." He patted Victarion on the shoulder. "Well, I am where I should be. Keep yourself busy, ironman, as I do my business." The man strode away, leaving Victarion alone in that strange throng.

Victarion looked around hopefully. Perhaps… perhaps there will be someone willing to free me from this lunatic's grip… He saw a wiry, disheveled man turning meat on a spit on a large bonfire, a strange-looking dog beside him. The man's expression seemed tired to Victarion's eyes, and while that seemed little enough to base his hopes on, it was not as if he had a great deal of options. At least he doesn't seem to be another of Mychel's admirers. He walked up to the man and nodded.

The man nodded back. "Greetings, stranger. I am Blut, son of Brut, an elder of the Painted Dogs."

"I am Victarion Greyjoy, son of Quellon and brother to King Balon," replied Victarion

Blut seemed unimpressed. "Which king is that? I've not heard of him. Mychel Mudd I know, and it seems the Lords have crowned a Stag King, and there is a Dragon King in Highgarden, but the names I hear are Stannis and Viserys, with no Balon."

"Balon is King of the Iron Isles," said Victarion. "Like his ancestors before him."

"Ahh," said Blut with a nod. "One of those. Well, best of luck to him, before he's stabbed, or hanged, or set on fire." Victarion stared at him dumbfounded, as the man petted his dog. "So… care for a mountain dog? A good companion." He nodded at the meat he was turning on the stick. "A good meal as well."

Victarion shook his head. "I… no. No, thank you."

Blut shrugged. "Your choice, ironman." He went back to turning his meat. "Last I heard, your people were sworn to the Iron Throne."

"My brother has reclaimed our freedom," said Victarion.

"And yet you are here, traveling with Mychel Mudd," noted Blut.

"I was going to swear my sword to the Stag King when he did it," explained Victarion.

"You were in the lands of those he prepared to declare war on when he did it?" said Blut, eyes slightly wide. Victarion nodded. "My sympathies."

"He is a great man," muttered Victarion.

Blut nodded. "Doubtless. Greatness seems to involve a large amount of stepping on others. So it seems to we Painted Dogs, who, thank goodness, have never been great."

Vague memories stirred in Victarion, talks his father had had with the woman. "You… you are First Men. Dispossessed when the Andals won the Vale."

Blut snorted at that. "So men often say. We Painted Dogs were howling for our supper long before the Andals came to these shores. There has always been only so much room in the Vales. For those who cannot fit there, there is life in the Mountains. And that is a hard life." The man's face was grim. "They could make it easier for us, but they do not. And then they whimper so, when we dare to claw some little bit for ourselves."

"We are alike," said Victarion.

The man glared at him. "We are nothing alike, ironman. You demand more than your due, and glory in the taking of it. We ask only what we are owed as men. You are bullies and thieves and slavers. And like every slaver, you are at the bottom of you a slave. We are free men, and we hated for we demand to be treated as such."

"You… you dare say that to me?" sputtered Victarion.

"I've said it, have I not?" replied Blut. "And are you not here as Mychel's prisoner?"

"He… we have a bargain," said Victarion quickly.

"Then you have my sympathies," said Blut. "The River King is a very keen bargainer. Tricksy. A very tricksy man. He has been at the Floating Market since the days of my father's father. And he used to swear that Mychel was about in the days of his father's father." He shrugged. "But then old Syl always had a way of making his tales taller, so whether it's true or no, I know not."

Victarion gulped at that. "He… he cannot be so old."

Blut nodded. "That seems a reasonable thing to think, and yet… it is Mychel Mudd. He disappears, sometimes for years, and then he is back again, and he seems no older. He tells those that asks that he has been on trips. He came back with a wife after one. A strange woman who spoke no words of the Common Tongue. At some point they had a daughter. And then sometime after that, the wife disappeared." A large man approached them. Blut nodded at them. "Ahh, Umar. I was hoping to see you. Victarion, son of Quellon, this is Umar, son of Uln. Victarion is brother to a king."

"Indeed," said Umar, clearly interested.

"Yes," said Blut, "the King of the Iron Isles."

Umar snorted and then burst out laughing. He paused for a moment, looked at Victarion, then started again. "So… when did his brother name himself king…?" he said at last, looking at Blut.

Blut pointed at Victarion. "While he was headed to pledge his sword to the Iron Throne."

Umar winced. "Gods be good," he said, chuckling.

"My thoughts precisely," said Blut.

Umar sniffed the meat. "Mmmm, that dog smells good. Is that honey I scent?"

"Honey, wild onions, thistle and licorice," replied Blut.

Umar shook his head in admiration. "You are a wizard at the fire."

"All men need their skill," said Blut, smiling. "Do you wish some, or do you only wish to talk of how good it smells?"

"I've a gold coin that the Stag King minted," said Umar, drawing it from his belt. "That should buy me that dog, and some ale with change to spare."

Blut took it. "It will be worth the novelty if nothing else," said Blut. He looked the coin over. "Ahh, very nice. A proper Stag King. He's done himself in horns." He handed the meat to Umar who bit into it with relish. "I will go pour you some ale."

Victarion watched the man walk back to his tent. He glanced at Umar. "Perhaps… I have a bargain with Mychel Mudd…"

Umar paused from tearing into his dogmeat. "Whatever you are saying, stop. I do not meddle with the River King. It is dangerous to do so."

"He is taking me to my brother," whispered Victarion.

Umar looked at him with surprising sympathy. "Listen to me. Me and mine know the treachery of kin." He touched a crudely stitched badge on his breast. "Do you not see my tribe's symbol?"

Victarion peered at it. "A… crow of some sort?"

"It is a falcon," said Umar, scowling. "We are Moon Brothers, not Stone Crows." The man saw Victarion's puzzlement. "The falcon… it hunts as the moon rises, and so in the mountains we say it is…" He took a deep breath. "That is not important. As I said, the Moon Brothers know the treachery of kin. Generations upon generations later it still hurts. But you must call it for what it is, not pretend it is something else."

Victarion stared at him in the face. "My brother is a great man, who has not betrayed me, and I do not care about whatever you think your ugly bird badge means."

Blut returned with two tankards of ale. "Ahh, here we are," he said. "I took the liberty of drawing myself up a draught on your coin, Umar. Should I do so for young Victarion as well."

Umar shook his head, eyes narrowed. "No. He was just leaving." Victarion looked at his eyes, then nodded and walked away. He was wondering where to go next, when he felt Mychel Mudd's hand on his shoulder.

"Ahh, there you are, ironman," he said cheerfully. "I have just acquired many goats from Dolf, son of Holger, which I am going to trade for things that are not goats. Care to come with me?"

Victarion looked over the crowd again, and it truly sunk in that he was among strangers. The only person he recognized was Timett's wife, who was talking cheerfully to another woman who seemed to be wearing a necklace of human ears. He nodded dully at the fisherman. "Yes. Yes. That sounds fine." Mychel chuckled and nodded at him, and they headed off together to wherever it was the fisherman meant to go next.

 

[bookwyrm]

I absolutely love this idea- the east bank of the Green Fork and the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon have always been a weird no man's land between the many great fruitless wars floundering at the strength of Moat Cailin and the Gates of the Moon and at the sheer number of feuding wannabe river kings. And why wouldn't the Riverman smallfolk, what with their Sherwood Forest vibe with the Brotherhood Without Banners and the Lady of the Leaves and etc..., have a whole Cajun goblin market thing with the clansmen of the Hill Tribes? And of course the men of the mountains would learn well from the smugglers and boatmen of the Trident what the Old Way's idea of 'freedom' is and how less sporting the practice of taking salt-wives is than the (still kinda gross) customary wife-stealing of the free folk.

 

[Space Oddity]

I absolutely love this idea- the east bank of the Green Fork and the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon have always been a weird no man's land between the many great fruitless wars floundering at the strength of Moat Cailin and the Gates of the Moon and at the sheer number of feuding wannabe river kings. And why wouldn't the Riverman smallfolk, what with their Sherwood Forest vibe with the Brotherhood Without Banners and the Lady of the Leaves and etc..., have a whole Cajun goblin market thing with the clansmen of the Hill Tribes? And of course the men of the mountains would learn well from the smugglers and boatmen of the Trident what the Old Way's idea of 'freedom' is and how less sporting the practice of taking salt-wives is than the (still kinda gross) customary wife-stealing of the free folk.

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Remember, when the Ironborn cause trouble for the Riverlands, it spills over to the Mountains, so yeah, the mountain clans know about the Ironborn and aren't particularly fans.

 

[Pempelune]

"It is a falcon," said Umar, scowling. "We are Moon Brothers, not Stone Crows." The man saw Victarion's puzzlement. "The falcon… it hunts as the moon rises, and so in the mountains we say it is…" He took a deep breath. "That is not important. As I said, the Moon Brothers know the treachery of kin. Generations upon generations later it still hurts. But you must call it for what it is, not pretend it is something else."

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What are these, Arryn Mountain Clan?

 

[bookwyrm]

What are these, Arryn Mountain Clan?

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The original stories of the Winged Knight and the Griffin King existed long before the singers conflated them with Artys Arryn and Robar Royce

 

[Estro]

Oh, Mudd is as magnificent and creepy as ever. I wonder how he feels about the crannogmen, the stark loyalists.

Also, god, Victarion, you stubborn, blind, fool. I hope you come to your senses soon.

 

[Space Oddity]

What are these, Arryn Mountain Clan?

Click to shrink...

The original stories of the Winged Knight and the Griffin King existed long before the singers conflated them with Artys Arryn and Robar Royce

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Not helped by the extent that Ser Artys seems to have modeled himself after whatever the hell the original version of the legend was, and plotted out his strategy at the Giant's Lance (where he was born within a league of, the stories insist) to have certain resonances with the stories of the great battle of... hmmm, let's call him 'Artys the Winged' and whatever Elder Race thing the Griffin King was. A strategy that involved knowing the terrain better than your opponent, using the majority of your forces to pin and batter your foes while a strike force positions itself to take them in the rear, and having a decoy playing at you so they don't even realize what's happening.

Artys Arryn. He was of purest Andal blood. We know this because the tales say so. Over and over and over and over.

Oh, Mudd is as magnificent and creepy as ever. I wonder how he feels about the crannogmen, the stark loyalists.

Also, god, Victarion, you stubborn, blind, fool. I hope you come to your senses soon.

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Mychel has nothing in particular against the Starks and the crannogmen are a different branch on the "part-Elder Race" family tree.

As for Victarion--he has a lifetime's training in avoiding getting the hint. Why should he let that carefully forged shield of ignorance fall now?

 

[Shane_357]

Honestly I like the bit that not all 'stolen' women are truly stolen. Honestly it makes no sense to me that women in the North are stolen at all, because you can't make it over a giant wall of ice with a struggling person strapped to your back. You just can't. I think more women in the North and Vale use the wildlings as a cover story when they flee the shitty domestic situations the patriarchal society of Westeros lumps them with. Also the women who are 'stolen' but were in actuality beaten to death by an abusive husband and buried in a shallow grave while he yells about wildlings. Too many people see the Westerosi's views on the wildlings and take it at face-value, not seeing what Martin is actually pulling; hell, half the shit we get shown of the nobles/commoners of Westeros seems pretty pointedly saying 'they are literally no better than what they accuse the wildlings of'.

(I could go on for days about the northern wildlings and how we're supposed to be viewing them, the Night Watch and so forth.)