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Chapter Text

It is the year 283 after Aegon’s Conquest.

Rumour has it, prince Rhaegar Targaryen fell at the Trident whispering the name of a woman that was not his wife. Rumour has it, Tywin Lannister had the prince’s children murdered to prove his loyalty to the stag. Rumour has it, the babe’s head was smashed into the wall, left in such a state that it was a bloody mess of brains and bone and chunks of silver hair, unrecognisable. The stag that is Robert Baratheon claimed the Iron Throne stepping on the bodies of murdered children for rumour has it, it took Ser Amory Loch fifty strikes of the dagger to kill a mere three-year-old girl. Rumour has it, Gregor Clegane raped Princess Elia while covered in the blood and brains of her infant son, and then he smashed her head in. Gregor Clegane, who’s just been knighted after the tourney at Harrenhal two years ago, by Elia’s husband prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Now, Clegane will forever be known as the murderer of Rhaegar’s wife and son. He’s now called the Mountain. He’ll be protecting no innocents, no matter how prince Rhaegar charged him thus.

So much has happened in two short years. So much promise was lost, promise after Ser Oswell Whent turned his older brother, Lord Walter Whent. Rumour has it, that’s how it started, and prince Rhaegar footed the bill for the lavish tourney arranged by Lord Walter, brokered by his white sword Ser Oswell… Rumour had it, he was to claim the crown and set aside his mad father. Rumour had it, too, that it was only in his fathers’ head, all of it. But it got the madman out of the Red Keep after four years, and it got Westeros the opportunity to see with our own eyes just how bad things became with that madman. How many have wondered why Rhaegar took this long? Even if the rumour was true that it was indeed the prince’s wish to gather the lords of the realm at Harrenhal… And if it was his purpose, why did he do what he did once they all got there?

Oh, the Gods surely played a cruel trick on prince Rhaegar, did they not? Tall and strong and dashing, he was more beautiful than half the highborn maids of the realm, with his haunting purple eyes and long silver hair and that particular sad melancholy that never left him. The Gods made him the fruit of his father’s loins, raped into his mother, who bore him while Summerhall burned, and he never shook the tragedy of his own begetting, did he? Not until the tourney at Harrenhal, for Rhaegar Targaryen never before stepped out of line. True enough, there were rumours, more stories about his escapades to Summerhall and particularly interesting were the stories about him and the lord of griffins, but he never stepped out of line. Those were just stories, who knows which of the stories were true? Then he crowned Lyanna Stark his queen of love and beauty. If he’s meant to assure the lords of the realm of his newfound resolution – as some stories claimed – then he went about it most unusually. Did he really have so little understanding of politics? And if he did, why are the bards singing about what a good king he would have been?

Rhaegar Targaryen will be no king, good or mad… not anymore. He’ll be king of nothing now. Rumour has it, he’s lost his crown because he kidnapped Lyanna Stark. Strange rumour that is, plunged the realm into war… Though if one gave it a proper thought, this story didn’t add up the way the stag hoped it would. It wasn’t the stag who demanded Rhaegar’s head, no, it was the wild wolf, Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell and the North. Rhaegar disappeared in the Riverlands long before Stark’s arrival in Kings Landing to demand his head on a pike. That was nothing unusual, everyone knew the prince preferred to disappear, said to prefer travelling the realm, mainly to Summerhall but who knows where else… he left his wife and his newborn son on Dragonstone, and disappeared as was his wont. Did he kidnap the girl? Rumour has it, he’s had not a single drop of bad blood in him, the prince was good they say. The prince sang on the streets of Kings Landing dressed as a pauper and gave his earnings to the orphanages of the city, they say. But he did place the crown of blue winter roses on the girl’s lap, that he surely did.

Only two years ago, that was. Only last year, that the prince disappeared, and the wolf maid too, both in the Riverlands, and so somehow Brandon Stark came to believe that she was kidnapped by the prince. Some say, he’s had proof, a letter sent to him, but by whom? That will perhaps never be known. There aren’t many to tell the tale now. The prince is dead, his ribs and lungs crushed by a single undefended blow of the stag’s axe. In the ruby fort, for the rubies on his chest plate fell into the ford, washing it red, or perhaps that was his blood. Rumour has it, rubies are washing up on the shore, soldiers were scouring the ford for days to find just one after the battle… Laughable that is. Prince Rhaegar will tell no tales now, neither will he sing them. Who knows if he kidnapped the wolf maid? Perhaps his white swords would know of it, but they won’t be telling tales either, those who could have known… Where’s Ser Arthur Dayne, the sword of the morning, the one said to have been always by the prince’s side? Where’s Ser Oswell Whent, said to have brokered the tourney at Harrenhal for the prince? Where’s the White Bull, sent by the madman to bring back the prince to Kings Landing? The prince duly returned, he never stepped out of line, but then the White Bull disappeared? Where are they now? And if they won’t tell, who’s left to tell?

Perhaps the princess Elia knew the truth of it, but whatever the truth is she’s paid the price for it. Elia and her children, their blood is on the hands of Lord Tywin and the new stag king. There’s none left of the prince’s companions now. Ser Richard Lonmouth, his former squire, said to have perished at the Trident. Ser Myles Mooton, another former squire and companion, perished even before it, at the Stoney Sept.

And then there’s the lord of griffins. Perhaps he knew the truth of it, after all he fought his own lord and liege. He searched the town of Stoney Sept house by house they say, trying to find Robert Baratheon hiding in there somewhere. Rumour has it, he was hiding in the town brothel. Fitting, that is, if the stories of him are true, and if they are, it is no wonder that the wolf maid went with the prince… for they say he had not a single drop of bad blood in him, prince Rhaegar, he could not have kidnapped the girl. She was betrothed to the Baratheon and yet, the stag made no overtures after her disappearance. No, the stag only kicked after Arryn called its banners to war against the madman. Then he loudly proclaimed the insult, it is true, aroused the Stormlands and beaten those who resisted his folly. He’s beaten the lord of griffins at the Stoney Sept, and the griffin must have known the truth, for he went and fought the stag who was his liege. The griffin fought for prince Rhaegar and his mad king father, and the griffin lost.

He's now somewhere in Essos they say, he took the prince’s secrets with him to the foreign cities of Essos. Rumour has it, he’s joined the Golden Company, the sellswords that are in truth exiles of failed Blackfyre rebellions against Targaryens. He may not be the only one who left these lands after what they now call Robert’s Rebellion, as if the stag started it, but he’s the one who could tell the truth of it. He could tell many truths, that one… The truth about prince Rhaegar, and the one about the mad king raping his children into his queen, and why the white swords stood by if that was true that her screams could be heard on the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast at night…

The griffin could tell even where that beautiful maid with the laughing purple eyes have disappeared last year, the lady Ashara Dayne… for he would know, would he not? He danced with the lady at the feast by Lord Walter, the feast that marked the beginning of that fateful tourney. He and Ser Arthur her brother, and Oberyn Martell the red viper, they would know that tale. She danced and laughed with them three, and then she danced with a wolf, and then soon after the tourney she disappeared even before the wolf maid disappeared with or without the prince. But the lady had no drunkard whoring betrothed like the stag, she was free and ten times the beauty of the wolf maid or the princess Elia indeed… Rumour has it someone dishonoured her at the tourney. This world is not made for beautiful maids, but Ser Arthur is nowhere to be found, and Prince Oberyn would never tell, so it’s left to the exile, the lost lord Jon Connington to tell her tale. One of the many secrets Connington must be now keeper of, selling his sword in the free cities of Essos.

So much promise lost. Gone are the Targaryens, beautiful prince Rhaegar and his newborn son and heir named after the Conqueror, and his little three-year-old daughter Rhaenys in the image of her Dornish mother. Gone is his father the madman too, that is the good in all this malady upon this land. Young Jaime Lannister saw the mad king to the grave. It was no knightly deed, stabbing his king in the back, and he’s just a boy of seventeen, now guarding a different king. Rumour has it, Lord Tywin finally got his wish, he will wed his daughter to a king in the end. He wanted the match with Prince Rhaegar, so did his daughter, so obviously preying on the prince at Harrenhal even long after he’s wed the Dornish Princess Elia at his king father’s behest, for the madman wanted no royal match for his servant. Rumour has it, that was what turned the lion of Lannister against him in the end. Rumur has it that was his dashing young son named into the Kingsguard, that left him with a dwarf boy as heir. Rumour has it the king raped the dwarf into his late wife Joanna Lannister.

In any case, Ser Jaime can guard the door for his sister while her new stag husband claims her then, for he’s Kingsguard still, he’s no heir to Casterly Rock. And the stag cannot wed the wolf maid, she can’t be found. Perhaps she no longer lives even. Rumour has it, the one wolf left after it all, the one shy wolf who danced with the Lady Ashara at Harrenhal, he’s out searching for his sister, maybe kidnapped by prince Rhaegar. Maybe killed. But it is odd, is it not? She’s nowhere to be found and gone are the prince’s closest white swords just as well, Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell, gone and so is the White Bull their commander. Gone is the lady with the laughing purple eyes, and the lord of the griffins. Nobody’s left in Westeros to tell the tale, no, the griffin is exiled, the prince is dead, and whoever else are left are nowhere to be found. All that promise, young lords and princes, now gone with them.

There’s a new king, a stag, though he claims to be the new heir now that he’s covered in the blood of the prince’s children. His grandmother was a Targaryen, you see. Shaky his claim is, for there’s a little Targaryen prince said to be hiding in Dragonstone, and who knows, perhaps the Gods play a new trick and bless that forsaken Targaryen Queen with another living child in the very end, for she’s heavy with child. Then there’ll be two Targaryens in line ahead of the stag. No doubt he won’t rest easy until he has their blood on his hands as well, the stag has no love for dragons. He claimed the Iron Throne wading through the blood of little children.

One has to wonder what the Prince of Dorne makes of these things. His sister murdered in the Red Keep with her children, his white sword uncle fallen, what does he make of it that he stands by in his sand castle? What does the red viper make of it? And if word reached the free cities, what does the griffin make of it all, said to be surrounded by Blackfyre supporters now, he, who was said to be the most leal servant of the prince and more, if the tales are true. Rumours, nothing but rumours. Someone has to come and make sense of it all.

Chapter Text

ASHARA

“He has prince Rhaegar’s eyes,” she whispered, looking at the babe in her arms. The world felt spinning under her feet, holding the boy in her arms. Her heart ached, for another babe that never breathed the air, for the people she loved and lost.

“I need your help,” Ned whispered shyly, moving as if he intended to step closer to her, but she stepped back immediately even at the notion. She almost stumbled into Howland Reed, staring at the babe in her arms from behind her shoulder.

“I can see that,” she declared coldly, “You dishonoured me, now you need me to have the tale of it told all over the land. To explain the boy as if he was my own. Did I get that right?”

Ned Stark could only stare at the floor in response.

“It is hard to explain those eyes,” Howland Reed said then. “My lady, perhaps best would be to leave the child in Dorne.”

“He’s my blood,” Ned growled, “I made a promise to my sister.”

The child woke and shifted in her arms, turning toward her breast. She glanced at the Septa, old and weary, seemingly sleepless for days, trying to care for a babe without a mother or a wetnurse. She turned from the men, and untied the front of her dress.

“What are you doing,” she heard Ned behind her.

“Feeding him,” her answer was factual, as she watched the child latch on. The boy was hungry, most likely starving on the journey from the Dornish Marches all the way to Starfall. He also was silent, strangely so. Perhaps he took after his father. Ashara felt glad that her milk didn’t dry out yet, something she’s despised for the past few weeks, even months since her loss.

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” She spoke then, her back to both men, “you say that this babe is prince Rhaegar’s. His eyes correspond to that, I give you that much. But what’s a bastard that he needs such care, tales made up to cover who he is.”

“Robert won’t rest until all dragons are gone,” Ned said lowly.

“All the more reason not to take the boy to your house,” Ashara scoffed, “Your fondness of Robert is a mistake even greater than the sin committed against me, Lord Stark.”

“There is no point arguing past decisions,” Howland Reed spoke softly. “The babe needs a home, he needs security.”

“I shall raise him as my own,” Ned Stark declared then, and Ashara’s eyes settled on the man. She burst in a laughter.

“Forgive me,” she said as her laugh calmed, “You dishonoured me, for the sake of honour to take Catelyn Tully as your wife. You would have discarded MY child had she lived and you were instrumental in this babe becoming fatherless. Yet now you claim that you would dishonour yourself for his sake, for the sake of Rhaegar’s son. I do not believe you would.”

“I cannot deny your charge,” she heard Ned whisper, “I cannot change it either.”

“How do northmen treat bastards,” she asked then, “Because from what I know, Lord Stark, your lot has a twisted sense of honour.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ned said defiantly, “My father had no bastards.”

“Bastards are accepted in Dorne,” she said, “The boy should grow up in Dorne where he’s born. That is, if my brother agrees to this arrangement. It will forever tarnish my name, my lord, as if you have not done enough.”

Neither of the men said anything to that, their eyes on the floor, glancing up at Ashara at times, her back toward them as she murmured a lullaby to the feeding babe.

“In fact, I say this much,” she spoke then, “For once it has to be said. I hold not against you the fate of my brother. No doubt he followed orders by his prince and dear friend that prince Rhaegar was to him. No doubt you found there was no other way though I am certain there could have been. Yet I hold not against you Arthur’s death. What you did to me, that is what I cannot forgive. My lord brother made overtures to your lord father; I expected you to do what honour demanded and take me as your wife. Before all this madness started, for if Starfall make overtures to your father, you should have known that you left me in peril. All we received were ambiguous enquiries as to why we offer such a match to a second son far in the North. You held your tongue, did you not? You are not the honourable man you portray yourself to be, Lord Stark. You say you took your brother’s betrothed for it was what honour demanded, I say that is nothing but a lie. You did that to tie allies together in a rebellion, Lord Stark, and the result of that act is in my arms, fatherless. Now you need more of my honour to tarnish for you cannot come up with another way to explain a child with prince Rhaegar’s purple eyes. It has to be a Dayne or it has to be a Targaryen. Sad you come to Starfall to bring us news of your putting my brother to the sword and then you drag me into this mess.”

“I cannot deny any of that,” Ned Stark responded shyly.

The boy fell asleep on her breast then, and Ashara covered herself, before returning him to the Septa. She felt her arms unwilling to let go of the child, wondering about it for a moment. She longed for another child, one born breathless not so long ago that she still had milk for her; she knew well enough.

“So, what is it you want, exactly,” she said as she tied her dress, “I put together pieces of it, no doubt, but you are yet to speak of what you wanted.”

“I have not thought it through,” Ned said, then swallowed hard. “I… I am to return to Riverrun, escort my wife and son back to Winterfell. I thought to take the child with me, I swore to my sister.”

“You have a son,” she raised an eyebrow.

“Newborn,” Ned nodded.

“What makes you think that Catelyn Tully would accept the boy, then,” Ashara asked then, “The Riverlands is not Dorne, Ned. The boy is of the age of your trueborn heir, he would be nothing but a threat in her eyes. No, it is clear that the boy should remain in Dorne, if I agree to this scam.”

“Would you raise him as your own,” Ned asked Ashara, “And even then, how would I make sure that I keep my promise…”

Ashara shot an angry look at the man in front of her. “You want me to give my name,” she scoffed, “just say it aloud, for once. Be honest, Ned. You want my name, and you want this boy to give up his name…”

“The boy is a bastard,” Ned interrupted her.

“No, he is not,” she said, deep in thought. “You know so little. What is the boy’s name? I tell you, his name is Jon, named after Lord Jon Connington.”

“How did you…”

“Jon Connington writes to me,” she said lowly, “Used to write… he wrote to me of the prince’s letter to him with promise to name the child after him if a boy, and Connington has met your sister in Dorne after our prince wed her, he wrote of it to me before. The boy has a true name and you would take it from him.”

“Seems to me that the lady knows far more than we do,” Howland Reed raised an eyebrow.

“I remember Lord Connington,” Ned said then sternly, “I remember the stories about him, as well.”

“You are so quick to judge another,” Ashara scoffed, “You have no right, not after what you did. Jon Connington was a dear friend to me in Kings Landing. Was he here, he would not mistake protecting Rhaegar’s boy with depriving him of his name, he would gladly take on himself to raise the boy true to his father’s name.” She believed every word without a thought of doubt, didn’t even need to think on her statement.

“He’s not here,” Howland Reed remarked, his voice soft toned like that of a mediator. “The old king exiled Lord Connington, if my memory serves me…”

“True,” Ashara sighed, “Last he wrote was that he shall join the Golden Company…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes settling on Lord Stark. No, it was prudent not to say any more to this man, so instrumental in how it all turned out, including the fate of Connington himself, she thought. With Robert now king, there was little chance for remedy for the lord of griffins, and Robert Baratheon had this man she once thought to love firmly in his grip. The Gods know why Ned Stark was such a blind fool. Perhaps they even know why she, Ashara Dayne didn’t see that in time.

“There’s no one left,” Ashara said then bitterly, “Elia is gone, so are the children, their blood on the hands of your king Robert and Prince Doran would never take in this child after what happened to his sister. Ser Lewin is gone and so are Ser Jon Darry, Ser Oswell… and Arthur. Myles Mooton and Richard, I heard Richard Loughton fell at the Trident, as well. And Jon Connington will live in exile for the rest of his days, no doubt. There’s no one left to stand for prince Rhaegar anymore, no one to protect his son. Forgive me, but you are no fit protector for his son. You didn’t even know the man.”

She stepped to the door. “How long you plan on staying,” she asked, turning toward Howland Reed, “It is not safe for you here, nor for the child. My brother may be no soldier but he’s not pliable either, and you cannot expect his protection.”

“We shall leave first light on the morrow,” Howland remarked, glancing at Ned who nodded. Ashara merely gave a nod, and left them. There was not much time until first light tomorrow to make up her mind.

*****

She sank onto the stone, feeling as if all her strength left her. She wondered why no tears came tonight. Every night since she was able to walk on her feet and leave her chamber, she came up here, and cried. It was as if the winds sang her name, calling on her, the waves below crushing against the cliffs assuring her. Tonight though they seemed to ignore her presence, for the first time. She wondered why.

It was not as if she didn’t expect the news. Arthur’s death was a certainty in her mind for long now, since Arthur did not return to Starfall after the prince fell at the Trident. Her brother would never have sworn to serve the stag, of that she had no doubt. Arthur loved his prince for the dear friends they were, went out of his way to protect and to support prince Rhaegar, wishing the prince to take the throne – sooner rather than later. Despite this he served his king according to his vows, no matter how serving such a king weighed heavily on his shoulders, Arthur found his charge rewarding because of the prince and the friendship they shared, she knew.

Rhaegar Targaryen was everything that the bards’ songs described him to be, tall, lean yet muscular, his face comelier than most maids Ashara had known, with shapely eyebrows arching above dark purple eyes, high cheekbones and undeniably inviting lips for a man. He was tall, though could not be described as a ‘big’ man like those who spent their time on practice fields, yet he was able with sword and lance it was said. He was more for his harp than for any weapon, he had the hands of a musician, not a soldier, with long nimble fingers. He had a certain melancholy about him, even when he smiled, even when his laughter roared, his mirth never quite reached his sad purple eyes therefore darkness always lingered in them. He played his harp and sung sad songs he composed at Summerhall, where he often disappeared to, taking none with him except Arthur or Lord Connington at times. His laughs were rare, his demeanour restrained, though he quickly grew cordial with anyone if he so wished. He was an enigma, whom she mainly saw through the eyes of others, their opinions often veiled by their admiration of the prince. He had a sharp mind as much as Ashara could discern, for she didn’t spend much time in prince Rhaegar’s company in truth.

Certainly not near as much as Jenna Manwoody, one of Princess Elia’s ladies oft swooning over the prince and seeking him out with whatever excuse she could find, only to find that the prince had no interest in her musings or attentions, swiftly dismissing her from his presence. She also swooned over Ser Myles Mooton, or over Arthur, or over Lord Jon Connington and even over the White Bull, Ser Gerold Hightower. Whichever man graced them with his presence last, really, and that left Lady Manwoody always in a mood of sadness of her fate and her unrequited fancies, for she was looking for a good match for a husband, she made that plainly clear to anyone who listened. Ashara used to amuse herself at the girl’s foolishness. She was more fond of Lady Larra Blackmont, the third lady companion of Elia’s, a few years older and many more wiser than Lady Manwoody ever could pretend to be. Lady Blackmont was always mirthful as if the days were full of nothing but happiness, and delightfully showed no interest in any of the men whose company the prince favoured, her attentions held mainly by feasts and dances and the latest fashionable fabrics for dressmaking. Ashara knew better than both of them.

During her time in Kings Landing, she viewed herself as the one tasked to balance these two, for what she could never tell. She has been recommended to the position by her brother Ser Arthur Dayne, clearly one of prince Rhaegar’s closest friends and proudly so. Ashara knew of her brother’s fondness of the prince even before her arrival, she wasn’t surprised at her own appointment either. She knew that Arthur sought the prince’s favour for Starfall, a place so out of attention that the prince never even has visited it, despite his two visits to Sunspear with Arthur in tow. That it was the prince who arranged her position with his princess wife Elia of Dorne, Ashara had no doubt.

Princess Elia wasn’t a woman easily swayed by someone’s moods, be it the ladies Manwoody or Blackmont, yet Ashara soon learned that neither lady had her trust. Elia was smarter than that and she was witty, as easy to blend her demeanour to those around her as her husband, no doubt the result of being raised prepared for a position of power, where such a skill would prove invaluable to win over others to one’s cause or opinion. She was a thin and frail woman, and while she wasn’t to be called plain, she was no great beauty either. Her cheekbones were too prominent, her heart shaped face centered around a nose just a bit too prominent, almost disjointing the harmony of her features. Her wide black eyes did what they could to salvage the result, almond shaped and shining in mirth at all times, whether fake or not. Elia could burst out in anger and still look as if she was happily chattering about fashion. She never raised her voice, yet one word could give away to the listener when it was best not to interrupt or argue her outburst. That the mild mannered and courteous Elia was capable of outbursts, Ashara learned shortly after her arrival, and her reunion with her brother Arthur.

Arthur asked her if she’d entertain the idea of seeing the royal gardens with a friend of his and prince Rhaegar’s. A man, and Ashara at first wasn’t fond of the idea at all, thinking it Arthur’s childish match making attempt and nothing more. She’s met the man in question, Lord Jon Connington in the gardens one afternoon because Arthur arranged thus, and they enjoyed a long walk together. She’s already heard of Connington to be reserved as if he’s also donned the white cloak. The man was described to her as proud, even prickly with others, not letting anyone near him. As Arthur told her, the man needed her company and was safe to have around her, with her own reservations in mind. That was very courteous of Arthur to put it this way, albeit he’s said so to defend himself against her match making accusation at the time, she thought. She understood just as well that Connington’s cold demeanour was likely to keep everyone at distance safely away from the secrets that the man held close to his heart. But she found the man an intriguing company. There was a particular sadness about him, not dissimilar yet different of the prince’s own melancholy. His pale blue eyes were wide and wistful, and while he was a man of few words, his replies to her meaningless chatter were at times too deep for comfort. He was a dangerous man, she thought at the time, tall and broad shouldered and strong as well, it was plain to see. His fiery dark red hair foretold of a wild and quick temper, and the man was formidable with the sword, the only one of the prince’s companions who could overcome the prince on the practice yard, although not Arthur himself. He had freckles on his nose and cheeks and a small beard that often grew on the faces of young men eager to be seen older and taken more seriously as was their due. The sun was quick to turn his pale skin to shades of pink, which with the countless freckles’ appearance on sunny days added a complexity to the man’s looks. Paired with his soft facial features, his gently formed lips and his overpowering presence and few words spoken, the young man’s complexity made her understand why the prince would choose this man above others if he had desires for a man in his bed.

She knew now, for some reason Connington confided in her, allowed her to see beyond the façade a little that afternoon. There were more afternoons and more walks in the gardens to follow, because she quickly grew to like the man who didn’t seem near as eager as others to pretend something else or more than he was, and she understood well enough what her company in the open provided to the man, and through him to the prince and to Elia. She understood as time went on that this was why Arthur suggested her to his prince. She was the reason of doubt in those rumours spread around the Red Keep about the prince and this man, Arthur told her as much. For her that was no more important than being someone who another person could confide in, someone who was avoided by others to find companion in her. She needed that, for she rather kept her distance from others. The ladies were too eager to find reason to question her honour, the men just as eager to provide that reason. She knew her worth. She also knew the expectations set against her for her being a maid of Dorne. She was not willing to give in to those expectations, and Connington, so close to prince Rhaegar in everyone’s eyes, has provided her the shield to keep them at bay as much as she provided the man with her own shield to keep the rumours under control. At one time, Arthur even wondered aloud if she’ll in the end ask Connington to finally wed her and assume this role of protector for the rest of her days, for Ashara to live the quiet life she longed for since she was a child, discoursing it lengthily with Arthur when they were children. If only Arthur knew what was to come, she sighed.

Those rumours, they were always there, about a relation that could not be defined based on knowledge, the highborn at court enjoyed the mindless chatter about this one ‘shade’ on the prince’s honour. Elia defined the relation enough times, put it in words kind and loving as much as words of spite and jealousy, but Elia could never grasp what it was and what drove it beyond that it was closer than other male relations of the prince, except perhaps his friendship with Arthur himself. At once Elia would go on lengthily about how it was in their nature, they were men who had such bodily urges and there was nothing more to it, and that was well enough for it was in Oberyn’s nature as well as Artos’ Ashara’s other brother’s. In truth, many men in Dorne indulged in the practice of lovemaking with other men as if it was a fine delicacy to savour and she had no doubt that just as many women did the same with women, though Ashara herself steered clear of such indulgences with anyone. At other times Elia would rant on quite uncharacteristically, the princess would send for her and confide in her - usually whenever Rhaegar spent the hour of the wolf with the lord of griffins and she managed to find out about it. She’d cry and rage in soft tones about how the prince did not, could not love the lord of griffins as they referred to Connington – at times even going as far as to declare, her husband could not love anyone, it was not within him to love, to truly love another. She’s told Elia, it doesn’t matter, because in her eyes, there was nothing wrong as much as there was nothing to worry about. Elia was the prince’s wife; she was to be his queen. But Elia wasn’t to let it be, and she couldn’t see eye to eye with Connington either. They got along fine enough, no doubt for the prince’s sake. Neither of them wanting to stoop as low as open confrontation, they maintained an uneasy peace and tried to stay away from each other’s presence as much as they could.

There was reason to think of the lord of griffins now, Ashara reminded herself. It was not that the man proved to be the lone survivor of all those who used to live safely in her bubble that was the past, that he was the one with the secrets now somewhere in Essos hopefully still breathing. It was the babe.

Not her own babe, no, her little girl was gone and in the ground, her little girl never breathed the air of this world. The babe brought yesterday by the man who had forsaken her, and everything the babe represented. The babe whom prince Rhaegar named after the man who was in truth his paramour as much as prince Rhaegar could retain a paramour and not draw upon himself definite judgement, Ashara knew. She knew, it was far more convoluted than that. Not that they ever spoke about it, but that was only because she’s never asked, she knew that well. She learned that she could have, but she rather left Connington to his secrets at the time, not willing to know more. She regretted that now.

A decision was to be made. It was just as well that she thought now of Lord Connington – no, not Lord anymore – and prince Rhaegar. The prince was dead, and the thought of Elia and the children’s demise was still too hard to bear. She didn’t need the tears to start flowing at the thought of the little princess Rhaenys, so she pressed aside the thought. Elia was not here to return to. Gone were Ser Myles and Ser Richard, as well, only the dark and complex lord of griffins survived, if he lived still.

The winds blew cold, cutting into her skin through the clothing. The maesters said so, spring had finally come. She didn’t believe it, not because of the cold winds, but because she didn’t believe in spring anymore. The last time when the maesters said thus, she was a wholly different person, naïve and full of dreams, full of love; love she’s given and love she had yet to give, eager to find that one person worthy of her love and give none of it to anyone else for any reason. The last time they said that spring had come, she believed it just as she believed that she’s found the one person to give her love to. She gave it, freely, like a Dornish girl would, she attached no strings to her love. That was a grave mistake.

She clenched the sea blue dress in her hands. A decision was to be made. She’s spent the past two weeks pondering over this decision, for she felt the world became too dark, too heavy, too empty without her girl in it, too dangerous with a stag king on the throne and the country divided following a war, too dangerous to be Dayne after Arthur’s involvement with prince Rhaegar – Ashara wanted no part in this world. It’s as if with the lie of spring instead brought forth all the evil this world could muster, as if the false spring has drawn out the worst in men. She used to wonder if the gods would allow her to see the babe once more, and if there was such mercy as to see her, would they allow her to nurse her girl, be a mother to her own girl? She wanted nothing more in this world. It was not possible in this world.

She took a deep breath, held it in, feeling as if the tremors of childbirth ran through her belly once more. Hours upon hours of agony to set free the small body that had no life in it, no willingness to take its first breath, to experience this world – perhaps that is where the gods’ mercy showed. Perhaps the gods did not want a forsaken girl, fruit of a forsaken love, to see what it was like to be a bastard of this world. She hated the thought. She knew, she would have loved her with all her heart, she would have raised her as if she was trueborn heir to the whole world, she would have taught and protected her from this world. Dorne would have accepted her girl, despite how the one who fathered her would have never cared for the girl.

It was ironic that the man who has forsaken them both for his false honour would provide the reason why she in turn considered passing on this chance to reunite with her own babe. She hasn’t even named her, there was no use. The babe was not trueborn, her existence was not something to be celebrated, her brother told her. There was no father to hold lavish feasts, perhaps a tourney in the honour of her birth. The babe knew perhaps and chose not to start a life without.

Let’s not ponder on tourneys, she wanted to never take part in any further tourneys, the one at Harrenhal was more than enough. Nothing better than a tourney to make blood run hot, her lord brother told her, when she came home with her belly beginning to swell. There was no judgement in those words, only the raven flying north to Winterfell – a subtle enquiry to learn if the man responsible will make an honest woman of her. He didn’t. That was not the reply, Lord Rickard Stark entertained the idea of a marriage pact with Starfall being clearly intrigued by it, after all Dayne was a name to be proud of. A marriage to the sister of the Sword of the Morning would have been a fine match for any second son. In the end though, it was not to be. Her brother never revealed the issue of the child growing in her belly, not wanting to draw shame upon her name should these overtures prove to be unsuccessful, and Lord Rickard soon had other problems. Until he unhad them hung above a cauldron of wildfire being boiled in his armour, at the order of the king.

Ashara used to wonder about what prince Rhaegar could have been thinking. That the prince didn’t kidnap the Stark girl like the rumours claimed, she was certain of. The prince didn’t have it in him, he wasn’t like the many courtiers in Kings Landing who at times almost demanded a lady’s attentions and affections, especially affections of the physical kind. The prince showed no interest in women. He was most kind and courteous to his wife Elia, attentive and pleasing, but he showed no definite sign of having loved her. He didn’t even linger on other women, or men. He showed no attentions or affections to even Jon Connington in public, if he indeed shared his bed with the man, he made no signs of it outside his chamber. Neither did Connington, for that matter, but Ashara knew that the man was overly fond of the prince. Because Connington saw it fit to confide in her, never reigning in his praise of his silver prince, as he referred to prince Rhaegar. Ashara knew, only she was privy to that, besides Arthur and the prince himself, she didn’t need to ask to know. She never told anyone, not even Elia, and she knew without ever proclaiming it that Connington knew that as well.

She stepped to the edge of the rampart. She could make out the shapes of the stones below, the guard was just making the round before he’ll disappear. A decision was to be made. The winds blew out to sea, reminding her why she’s been standing here. She took a deep breath, thinking of the decision. Oh, how she fooled herself coming up here tonight... She came in her riding attire, did she not? She had her saddlebag packed, had her horse saddled, said goodbye to her chamber, her sanctuary, she had her last time standing in front of the empty crib. She could not tell what moved her but the decision has already been made, the moment she saw the babe, she made up her mind in truth. She glanced at the dress in her hand – the one she wore to the feast during that accursed tourney. She threw it into the wind, watched as the wind took it out toward the open sea before it fell and disappeared below the waves. It’ll come ashore soon enough. For a heartbeat she yearned to tell Artus, to say goodbye, but she brushed away the thought. She made up her mind.

*****

Howland Reed watched as she untied the knot that held the fabric around her, and in it held the small bundle of the boy. She gently laid the boy down on the her sleeping mat, unwrapped it, removed the soiled linen padding from around the babe’s small frame. She threw it into the bag of other soiled linens. She had only two left, her bag was full of dirty smelly linens. Now she poured water on one of the clean ones and carefully wiped the boy’s little backside clean, then used the other to wrap it, until the next time the babe soils it. Then she wrapped up the babe once more. She glanced at Howland Reed, but then thought, what of it. She glanced at Lord Stark at a distance from them, tending to the horses. Then she untied her dress to feed the babe.

“You still have that,” Reed remarked softly, also glancing toward the direction of the horses. “That is unusual, it must have been months now.”

“It is so,” she replied, wondering why her voice sounded so cold. “Perhaps the Gods knew that this boy will need someone to feed him. Can’t tell what you two thought, carrying around a newborn with no one to feed him.”

“Was no choice, his mother is dead,” Reed whispered. “Perhaps the Old Gods knew, as you say. He didn’t know.” Reed glanced once more toward Stark as he spoke.

“Save it, Lord Reed,” Ashara remarked, “For the pleasantness of our conversation, please don’t try to fool me. He could have known, if he thought, but men think little when there’s honour to be had. Just as little as when they act on their lust, it seems. Easy to take action when someone else’s honour is at stake, they find it much harder to be honourable when it comes to paying the price of such actions, don’t you think?”

“I think he regrets it,” Reed whispered. “I think losing his sister opened his eyes to some things.”

“Too little too late, as they say,” Ashara remarked. “He cannot undo the past. He cannot bring back prince Rhaegar from the dead just as much as he cannot give me back my maidenhood.”

“Perhaps he means to pay the price by caring for the boy,” Reed said then, his pale blue eyes settling on her own purple gaze.

“He means to hide the boy, Lord Reed,” she declared, “Make no mistake, he means to make the boy disappear. That, is not caring for the boy. He means to tell the boy that he’s a bastard and nothing more, and what’s a bastard’s worth in the North? Nothing, I am sure of it.”

“He would be safe there,” Reed pointed out.

“Truth now,” Ashara argued, “It’s the least safe place for a Targaryen, after Kings Landing itself. Lord Stark, he is the most steadfast supporter of the stag, blind and foolish as that is. Look where it got this land.”

Howland Reed nodded. “Yet you came with us,” he said then.

“For a while,” she said lowly. “I will not go to Riverrun with you. I refuse to stand in front of Catelyn Tully, I refuse to set foot in her father’s hold.”

“For a while,” Reed repeated, “So I take it, you look for a place you would find safer.”

“That I do,” she nodded.

“I thought on this, you know,” Reed said then, “I sleep little. While you sleep, I read. I read the diary we found at the tower, and I think.”

“And where does thinking take you, Lord Reed?”

“Nowhere, in truth,” Reed sighed. “It is a mess. They say Robert will be a good king for us. The diary… Rhaegar Targaryen wrote Robert a drunkard that cares for whoring and little else.”

“He cared for the maids, too,” Ashara remarked coldly, “Until he persuaded them to open their legs to him, then he cared no more I heard.”

Reed nodded once more. “Perhaps it all could be solved,” he said with a slight smile, “That is where my thinking took me, to foolish ideas. But perhaps Ned is overthinking this. Perhaps there is no need for you to soil your name further, or anyone to know at all. If nobody knows, then nobody cares about the boy’s name and the boy can grow up safely.”

“Perhaps,” Ashara nodded. This was on her mind as well, but she knew enough to know, Reed and her thoughts could not differ more in terms of where a safe place for this babe could be found. “Where do you have in mind, Lord Reed?”

“Greywater Watch,” Reed’s smile grew wider. “Nobody comes to the Watch unless we allow it, nobody can find the Watch in the marshes. There you and the babe could be safe and none need to know. I could perhaps convince him of it, as long as you will to be mother to this boy. I really cannot do what he claimed to do, return home with a boy and no mother. I really cannot claim him my own either, but that is not something you would partake in anyway, from what you say.”

“You don’t claim the mistakes of other men,” Ashara remarked. No, Reed didn’t share her ideas as to where the boy could grow up safely.

“Is the boy a mistake?”

“Who could tell,” she sighed, “His father wanted a third child, he wanted a girl in truth. Rhaenys, Aegon… The dragon is to have three heads, he wanted his own Visenya I take it. Elia could not give him a third one, not unless she dies bearing it, and to his credit the prince accepted that. Or perhaps he did not, and it is the reason why he eloped with the Stark girl and plunged us all into war.”

“Perhaps he expected no such outcome,” Reed remarked.

“I am certain that he did not,” Ashara gave Reed a forgiving smile, “He expected to take her as his second wife as he did, and be done with the matter, and he expected to sort the issue of his father for all I know. Don’t ask me how, I know nothing about it. But you see, it was too late, the king had the Starks murdered, this one marched down to war and the stag marched to war and prince Rhaegar failed to win the war they brought, and many died for it. Many I called friend or loved, Lord Reed, now there is just me left.” And Jon Connington, somewhere in Essos, if he’s still breathing.

“The prince must have been rather naïve,” Reed remarked.

“Or blind,” Ashara corrected. “He was blind to many things, I find. Will you persuade Lord Stark to allow us straight for Greywater Watch then?”

“I shall do so,” Reed nodded, “And there’s a creek that way, I shall get these linens washed while I wash, so you have no worry. You and the boy need to rest, my Lady.” He stood, taking the bag of soiled linens in his hand.

“The Lord of Greywater Watch,” Ashara remarked somewhat surprised, “Washing the soiled linens of a babe born to Rhaegar Targaryen. Tell me, Lord Reed, if we are to Greywater Watch, will I be your prisoner? Keep hold of the boy and through him me as well, so your dear friend has the sense of fulfilling at least the vow he made to his dead sister?”

“Why would you ask such a thing,” Reed looked quite stunned at the suggestion.

“Because I have heard tales of your marshes,” Ashara explained nonchalantly, “I know that once I am there, I have no way of finding my way out alive should I need to escape. So you see, I need to know, if I mean to decide whether to journey there with you. I need to know if you mean to keep little Jon Targaryen alive for his own sake, or for that of your friend.”

Howland Reed inhaled deeply at hearing that, his eyes on Stark by the horses for a moment. “The boy needs a mother,” he whispered, “And a safe place, with that name. Us crannogmen are solitary folk with little contact to the world and the world wanting even less contact with us; and we certainly hold no prisoners at the Watch, my Lady. I can offer the safety of the Watch, should you wish it. If you so desire, my offer can come with a promise to escort you out myself should you wish to end your stay with us.”

“With the boy,” Ashara pushed and Reed sighed.

“With the boy,” he whispered, “If that is in the boy’s interest, I should add. Children are not their fathers, my Lady. Neither are they to pay for their fathers’ mistakes. The Lion of Lannister should have remembered that before he had the siblings of this one so cruelly put to sword.”

“Or smashed into the wall,” Ashara whispered.

“Or that,” Howland nodded. He seemed to want to say more, but after a moment he turned and left toward the creek in a little distance of their makeshift camp.

Ashara looked after the man. Howland Reed was intriguing to her, to say the least. A small, bony man, smaller than most boys at fifteen, carrying a sword as well as a three-pronged spear on his back since they left Starfall. Reed had pale blonde hair cut short as only few wore it, Arthur having been one of that few, Jon Connington another. In truth, Howland Reed looked like a boy yet to come of age. He seemed wiser to her than many men who already came of age.

The idea of Greywater Watch was not a bad one in truth, she thought. We could be safe there; we could find out if Lord Jon still lives… And if he still cares for matters of Targaryen. Would be no surprise in truth if he gave up after all that has befallen him… We could find out, with Lord Reed’s help, we could make overtures. At the least the boy need not to lose his name, not just yet. If Ned agrees. If Ned does not agree, I shall make him. I shall shame him as much as I have to.

Chapter Text

HOWLAND

The first week went by and Howland had little time for the lady or her babe, in truth, after so many months away from home and his father passing during this time, as well. He had his hands full, the lord of Greywater Watch. It still didn’t sit easy with him, though he no longer dreamed of knighthood and the kingsguard, he left behind those dreams. The moment after he stabbed Ser Arthur Dayne in the back to save the life of Ned Stark, whom he still called friend, and the reality of what he’s done cleared in his mind, he realised he could never be a kingsguard like he dreamed as a boy. He could never be a knight. Now he was a lord instead.

That was just so, for he didn’t lie to Ashara Dayne about the diary, he’s duly read it. He offered it to her after they arrived, but she didn’t want to read “prince Rhaegar’s musings and secrets and melancholy” as she called it, saying that “there was enough sadness in this world without the prince’s gloomy views and prophecies of doom.”

Howland found that she liked Ashara Dayne. He found her quite grounded, not just in her views of Rhaegar Targaryen or the rebellion. She was sharp enough to see clearly men’s reasons why they did the things they did, as sharp as her tongue to voice those reasons. He told her, here she will have no need for pretence or hiding her name, he only asked that they don’t declare aloud the boy’s name. There was no need to make up any lies, he explained to her, for his people will care little about the boy’s parentage as long as it came with a mother. In Howland’s eyes, the boy now had a mother.

He watched through their weeks of journey how she cared for the boy, dutifully and with such tenderness and care that he only saw from mothers caring for their children. Not that he’s seen mothers caring for new-born babes much. They settled into a routine, making camp with Ned disappearing with the horses or to hunt for food, and Howland spoke with Ashara Dayne. They spoke mainly about the Watch in truth, and about nothing that could have brought forth the identity of the child or the circumstances of his birth after their discussing it that first time. He didn’t mind taking a share of her burden, caring for the babe in every hour of the day, waking in the night to feed him. Even if that share came in the form of washing the boy’s soiled linens, or being puked on by the boy after he was fed. He even found the latter amusing, though it made his leather cloak stink no matter how he wiped it off and rubbed it.

Ned in the end didn’t protest much. Sure enough, he argued, he wished to keep the boy close, he lost too many wolves in this war he said. Lady Ashara was having none of that – she was not afraid to remind Lord Ned that his marching south with his banners and his marriage to Tully is what won the war against the boy’s father. True enough, Robert won at Stoney Sept, but he did so because of the relief by Stark and Tully arriving there in time. Lady Ashara was loud in declaring that Lord Ned could not look upon the boy as his own, the boy was a dragon and therefore enemy of the wolf, Lord Ned made that certain. She wore down Lord Ned, who in the end only asked that Reed sends him updates about the boy. When Howland told Ashara, she was adamant that he should not, and he brushed the matter aside as one of little importance at this time. They parted at the Crossroad Inn, after finally sleeping in beds for one night, and Howland took the road north with Ashara Dayne and her babe named Jon. By then Howland knew enough to know that he shall be looking for a man named Jon Connington in Essos soon enough, he’s duly sent Micah Clay to enquire at Seagard from the sailors, how they were to find a man in Essos, a man of the Golden Company, as soon as Micah’s welcome party greeted them on the road.

He was right in the end, his people minded little about the boy’s circumstances. They did mind the boy, very much so, doted on him and no doubt spoiled him though the boy was way too small to ever remember it once he’s grown. They doted on the lady as well, who with all her southern highborn name and her purple Targaryen eyes was an exotic curiosity as much as a guest of honour and a woman in need of their protection. Howland viewed it with newly opened eyes, how his own folk welcomed the beautiful Ashara Dayne with her babe. No matter how he knew the welcome will be warm and loving, having witnessed it made him proud for the first time to be a crannogman. He felt, after all the war has taught him and Rhaegar Targaryen’s diary teaching him some more, that he wanted to be nothing else but a solitary crannogman. He wanted nothing of the world if it was as he now saw it. He still yearned to travel and see the world, he found, but now that father passed, that was likely never to be and he surprisingly easily settled with that fact.

A knock on the door drew him from his musings. Quagg’s head popped in.

“Come in,” Howland put down the papers he was studying, the ledgers of the Watch recorded during his absence, “Save me from all these papers.”

“You may reconsider once I did,” Quagg said as he came into the small solar and dropped himself into the chair in front of Howland’s desk.

“Ease your mind, then,” Howland declared, yet his voice remained soft, as he sat back comfortably in his armchair, his eyes settled on his companion. Quagg, named by his mother Balerion but having dropped that name for the ludicrous that it felt to him when they were still boys, was in truth Howland’s closest friend, confidante and right hand. If a Lord named a Hand, Quagg would be his, for his friend ran the Watch on the day to day like clockwork, even in the last few years while his father ailed and he chased his foolish dreams of becoming more than he was meant to be. Quagg and Micah Clay, those were Howland’s friends from his boyhood, the ones he trusted and relied upon the most, the ones he loved and was certain to have gone to war for without hesitation, had there been such a need, albeit he was lucky enough never even have to think about such grave things when it came to the three of them. Nobody would care to wage war on a crannogman.

“Micah is back from the port,” Quagg began, “said all he could find is where to send raven. No word on the Golden Company, mind you even if there was one, it would be old word.”

“I think so, too,” Howland nodded, “Where are we sending raven to, then,”

“Braavos,” Quagg shrugged, “Address to Miles Toyne at the Sealord’s Palace. How is a raven to find that, I cannot tell. Does not sound safe, either.”

“Safe enough to enquire whether Lord Jon Connington still lives,” Howland thought aloud, “If he serves now with the Golden Company. That is all we need, for now.”

“If you so wish,” Quagg said, “But explain to me, is this Lord Jon Connington the father of the child, then. Why are we looking for a southern lord? Why are we housing a lady Dayne? And a babe, without a husband I take it.”

Howland sighed, “I did get us into more mess, did I not,” he said softly. “The lady and the babe needed a place to stay. She would have tried to sail to Braavos right away had I not offered the safety of the Watch, I wager.”

“Did she tell you thus,” Quagg leaned forward, clearly interested to hear the whole story.

“She had no need to,” Howland sighed. “The boy shares Connington’s name whom she spoke of fondly to Lord Ned, said he wrote to her that he would join the Golden Company… I put together the rest.”

Quagg nodded. “Well, the lady seems to have made a tough choice of a man,” he remarked, “no doubt that was before the Lord of Griffin’s Roost lost at the Stoney Sept. Now you see his fortune changed and she clings to him. Wonder if he is a man of honour or he has forgotten all about her since. What is he like, have you met him?”

“If having seen him count as such,” Howland smiled, “I have seen the two of them dance and laugh together. It was during the feast at Harrenhal before the tourney began.” Before Lord Brandon asked the Lady to dance with Lord Ned, and she indeed made a tough choice of a man, a different man.

“And?”

“Nothing to say,” Howland smirked, “Or you would have me describe him to you? I spoke not a single word to the man.”

“Then describe to me,” Quagg nodded, “Help me understand why such a beauty, a Lady Dayne, has need of your help to stay safe and find her man in Essos.”

“Well,” Howland grinned, “He is tall, quite a big man in the eyes of a crannogman, and clearly one for armour and sword and lance. He entered the tilts, got unhorsed by Ser Barristan the Bold. He has a booming voice for I heard him laugh with the Lady and Ser Arthur Dayne her brother at the feast. And he has red of hair.”

“Red of hair,” Quagg mused.

“Aye, red of hair,” Howland nodded, “Has the complexion for it, freckles and all. But he looked quite a stern man in truth. Seen him in prince Rhaegar’s company with Ser Myles Mooton as well. Aside for when he sat with Ser Arthur and the lady and when he danced with her, he seemed quite stern like one who has few reasons to make mirth. His eyes seemed cold and he seemed set apart from most of them.”

“Handsome?”

“How would I know,” Howland laughed, “I suppose, he was not bad looking. Why?”

“This lady is quite the beauty,” Quagg mused, “So much so that I keep thinking, it would be best not to find her man. She seems to settle well enough, who says she could not stay? Her boy would make a fine crannogman. If not an overly large one, mind you, if the father was such a large man. But she could stay, who would say no? You also need a wife.”

Howland chuckled at that. “I think not that she would consider,” he countered, “She is Dayne after all. What is a lizard to a star, even if a fallen star.”

“Fallen she is, most certainly,” Quagg nodded, “With a child and no husband to claim it, I can tell. But those eyes of hers! There is no man in the Watch not wondering at those purple eyes of hers. I feel sorry for our women, now that we all have seen a southern lady. Are they all so soft and tender and beautiful? If they are, you should never tell the lads lest they all go south to win a lady for themselves. Seeing that southern lords seem to forget that the wedding comes before the bedding.”

“You take this way far ahead,” Howland remarked, “She is not looking for a husband here.”

“No, she is looking for a father for her boy, I wager,” Quagg scoffed, “One who forgot that the wedding should come before the bedding and then went off to sell his sword in Essos. There was no wedding for her at all, I wager.”

“Exiled,” Howland corrected, “He fought King Robert at the Stoney Sept, Lord Ned as well, though I have not seen him in the battle. I have not seen much in that battle at all. But the old king exiled Lord Connington for that defeat, stripped him of his lands and titles. There was not much left for him to do if he wished not to become a pauper, I wager. Perhaps that is why he wrote to Lady Ashara that he shall join the ranks of the Golden Company.”

“Perhaps,” Quagg resigned to what he’s heard swiftly enough, “And perhaps he was of honourable notions and the rebellion got in his way, who could tell until we ask him? But perhaps he wished to make gold, for gold is much needed for a man with a woman and a babe in tow. We shall ask him soon enough if it is so.”

Howland felt amused by Quagg’s musings. “We? How did you come to that conclusion my friend?”

“Exile you say,” Quagg shrugged it off, “He shall not defy that order, not if he cares for the babe and has his wits about him. So, I take it he shall send word instead for her to go to him, and when that comes, she shall go not by herself. I know you enough to know when you are set for adventure. That is why you meddle in such affairs, I take it.”

“Perhaps,” Howland nodded. “In any case, we shall send word to Lord Jon Connington.” 

***** 

“So this is what frogs’ legs taste like,” Ashara chattered, tucking the small roasted thigh into the bowl of thick sauce in front of her, “If I told anyone, nobody would believe me.”

“Nah, my lady,” Quagg laughed, “Crannogman are frog eaters, it is known all over the land. They fear us, they think eating frogs make us willing to eat our enemies I suppose.”

“They look down on us,” Howland corrected, “I would not associate that with fear.”

“I prefer my version of it,” Quagg shrugged.

“If I learned anything,” Howland remarked, “It is to be clear with who we are, what we are. Then nobody will use it against us again.”

“Is this about the tourney,” Quagg raised an eyebrow. Ashara looked up, at Howland Reed.

“It was you then,” she declared, sitting back in her chair. “When the Knight of the Laughing Tree treated with those knights he defeated, he demanded the ransom of teaching their squires manners. It was you they maltreated.”

“So it was,” Howland nodded at her with a smile, wondering at her sharp mind. “I was not that knight, my Lady, ask not for I could not tell who it was and how he has known. I long thought it to be a green man of the Gods, I prayed long to the Old Gods to help me avenge the slight on my honour, not bring such shame to my name or my people.”

Ashara nodded in thought. “Seems to me that tourney was best not to have ever happened,” she said lowly.

“Perhaps,” Howland nodded. “Perhaps this is all just part of something greater. Everything that happens now is just a small piece, a single step in a far greater journey.”

“Perhaps,” Ashara murmured, seemingly content with his explanation, but Howland could see, the small fickle of mirth has gone from her shiny purple eyes. Like gemstones, those eyes were, and he could believe them haunting any man who ventured to look in them long enough. Perhaps they haunted Lord Ned Stark now. Perhaps they haunted Lord Jon Connington, as well, though for what reason, he could not tell.

“Was that the tourney Lord Howland saw our Lady dance with the griffin lord?” Quagg asked, and Howland’s eyes settled on him. He shook his head, but Quagg, the free spirit he was ever to speak his mind, seemed to take no heed.

“You refer to Lord Jon Connington,” Ashara remarked.

“That man has no honour,” Quagg answered, “Forgive me my lady, no honourable man would leave you to make your way like this, looking for him the way we do. Not with a child on the way, that is no honourable deed. He deserves to never see this boy of yours after how he dealt with the matter.”

Howland watched Ashara nod, slowly, thoughtfully.

“Perhaps it is as you told me, Quagg,” Howland spoke, “The war got in the way. Neither you nor I know what happened, it is not for us to pry into the Lady’s reasons to seek out that Lord now.”

He wondered at how he carefully chose his own words, once more. Careful, not to lie outright, but not to reveal the truth either. Gently sowing doubts in Quagg’s thick head about his theory regarding the boy’s parentage, for a time when he shall have need to reveal the truth. He had no doubt that such a time was to come, sometime, sooner or later, but it was to come.

“Perhaps it is your liege who has no honour,” Ashara argued then, her eyes fierce with anger. “Perhaps it is Lord Eddard Stark who shall receive your scolding, Quagg.”

“Why would that be,” Quagg looked at them one by one, “Thought we are speaking of the babe.”

“Tell me, Quagg,” Ashara asked then, “Does a good deed erase the bad? Once you act dishonourably, does your next honourable deed undo that act and bring you back your honour?”

“I doubt that is how it works, my lady,” Quagg declared thoughtfully, “Honour is not a thing to be weighed by the amount of deeds that win it against the amount that cause its loss.”

“But it can be regained,” Howland spoke, “Slowly, with learning of one’s mistakes and learning from them, one can change their ways and choose to do good. At least that is my hope.”

At that, Ashara gave Howland a rather spiteful look.

“Some deeds shall never be forgiven, Lord Howland,” she declared.

Howland wondered about it. He saw, Quagg was eager to speak and shook his head once more, watching the Lady return her attention to her supper, clearly not near as eager to enjoy the delicacy served to her tonight as she was before. Such effort now gone to waste. It was Quagg’s idea, make the lady welcome, make her see what it was like living at the Watch. Howland knew, Quagg meant match making with such ideas, but in his mind, it was merely to make the Lady more comfortable with the wait. Since he’s sent the missive to Braavos, she asked him every day if there was news. He didn’t want her spirit to break for she was clearly eager to find the Lord they were enquiring about, and while Howland understood little of her reasons he could tell that she had reasons strong enough to carry her forward with the task. Carry her all this way to Greywater Watch, for clearly that was why she made the journey at all.

“I tell you this, Quagg,” Ashara looked up, straight at the man. “Lord Jon has never acted dishonourably toward me or anyone else. I know him for one of the most honourable men I knew, one I would only compare to my brother Arthur. I spent enough time in his company, I spent enough time listening to my brother about him to know that he was a man of wise counsel to the prince and a true friend who served most steadfast. The king named him, and who would have dared defy the king, tell me? Who would have risked being burned alive? He accepted his task and carried it out honourably, for I know why he lost that battle. Robert Baratheon hid in the town, in the brothel most fittingly, it is said. Lord Jon could have just put the whole town to the torch, could have slain them all and root out a dead stag that way, however he chose to do it. He meant to spare the townfolk so he searched door to door, for he meant to do it honourably. That took time Quagg, time he didn’t have, and he lost the battle for Stark and Tully arrived and together they outnumbered his force. I know he fought the stag in single combat there, I know he was injured. The king repaid him by taking everything he had and force him to live alone in a foreign land.”

“You blame him for my searching for him this way, but I tell you, the fault lies with me,” Ashara whispered. “He wrote to me and I was not as forthcoming with response as I should have been. He wrote to me still for he gave me his word and he kept it for all I know. Now I found that I need to find him, and that is all you need to know.”

Eloquent, that was, for a scolding, Howland thought. Judging by Quagg’s face, he took the scolding for what it was, still.

“I apologise if I offended, my Lady” Quagg said then, his eyes firmly on the lady, “For I have my own mind about this matter but I see that you defend the man. It is just as well that you do for we ought to defend those who we care about.”

With that, Quagg stood, excusing himself he left the two of them at the table.

“Way to ruin a nice supper,” Ashara sighed.

“He’s convinced that Lord Connington fathered the boy upon you,” Howland whispered, glancing back at the door of the solar, but it was now closed, Quagg has left the room. Howland knew, later Quagg will come to him and discourse the evening and the argument. For now, he had to discourse it with the Lady, for there seemed to be a problem to be solved, and one that required Ashara’s thoughts on it, for Holwand knew from their earliest conversations that she didn’t take to this lightly at all.

“That he is,” Ashara allowed a slight smile at that, “All of your people are convinced of it, in truth. How I never said a word to support that, and I know you well enough by now Lord Howland to assume that you have not either, and yet, they all still came to that conclusion.”

“They have,” Howland chuckled, “No wonder, really, for we arrived with you and the boy you feed on your breast like a mother, and we began looking for an exile Lord in Essos. The simplest explanation would be that he is the father. Now we need to decide what to do about it.”

Ashara’s eyes settled on the bowl in front of her, as she seemed thinking on his words. “Nothing,” she whispered.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing more than what we do,” she nodded, looking up and straight into his eyes. “If neither of us supported it, then I find it is best to leave it, only until Lord Jon decides what to do about it. For the sake of the child, for I know that is why I wanted to find him.”

“You want him to raise the child,” Howland whispered in realisation.

“I want him to raise prince Rhaegar’s son,” Ashara sat back in her chair, “Who better to do this task, who better than the most leal servant, the most loving of his prince, Lord Jon Connington?”

“I recall your argument against taking from the boy his name,” Howland remarked.

“Lord Jon would never take from him anything,” Ashara argued. “You are yet to meet the man, and you know little of what all ties him to the cause of Targaryen. He could raise the boy on tales of his father, Lord Howland, I know he would. I know there are none better, none who knew the prince better than him.”

“If we find him,” Howland nodded. “What if the man is not to be found?”

“That, I don’t know,” Ashara sighed. “I suppose I shall cross that bridge when I get to it, Lord Howland. But I trust that if we find him then Lord Jon will not fail my expectations.”

Howland nodded, watching her stand from the table, hearing her leave the room. He sat there for a short while longer, wondering about it, wondering how she came to the realisation herself that the boy was to be hidden, to be presented as her own. Perhaps that is why she was so adamant to feed and care for the boy herself, for nothing did more to convince the people than her dedication to that child. Howland stood, for there was really nothing more he could figure to add to this, and he went to find Quagg and smoothen this argument as best he could, once more without committing to the lie. He started to feel the weight of it on his shoulders, but then again, he needed not worry about his honour anymore. He lost that at the Tower of Joy, he reminded himself. All he did now, was what little he could do in the hopes of a chance to regain at least some of what he’s lost.

*****

Weeks passed with little news. Howland doted on the babe, wondering why he did so, whether he saw Rhaegar Targaryen in the boy. Not that he saw much of Rhaegar Targaryen, not even at the tourney at Harrenhal and he has never seen the prince besides. But Howland was occupied with other things at the tourney, he was occupied with the squires that shamed him, and his thoughts of how to redeem his honour. Then he was occupied with the Knight of the Laughing Tree just like everyone else had been, including the King. The King even declared the knight his enemy, Howland could not see why or how a single knight could be such a fierce enemy that required all the other knights and the white swords to be sent on hunt to deliver the one, to unmask him. But the king was not well, anyone could tell from a single glance. He was not groomed, his hair and beard tangled and dirty, his nails grown out like claws. He was tall and thin with his clothing hung on him like curtains around a window frame. He seemed erratic as well, he laughed one moment loudly and raged in the next. Howland was glad not having to see more of the king, but now, that king was gone, Ser Jaime Lannister saw to that. Ser Jaime was not even come of age when Howland saw him kneel and speak the words of the kingsguard at Harrenhal, and now, he was to be called kingslayer. Howland wondered a few times what made the boy seemingly so eager to don the white cloak to in the end betray those words and commit the worst sin a white sword could commit.

He was certain that the Lady Ashara knew more. He thought of asking her, his curiosity oft convincing him of that idea a good way as any to make conversation. But no doubt it would bring back memories of loved ones, of her brother, and so Howland didn’t ask. Perhaps there was no opportunity either to ask, with her being so smitten with the babe.

They all doted on the babe. It has been a while since there was a babe in the Watch, and this one had no lack of care that was certain. The lady had no need to worry, in truth she had to almost stand in line to get near the babe. She was adamant on certain things though that made Howland wonder, as much as such things made everyone else rest more assured that the babe was hers without ever saying so. She was adamant that she fed the babe herself, she bathed him and had his crib in her chamber by the bedside, no one was to be near the babe at night but her. She would wake in the night, Howland knew, and she would clean and feed the babe herself despite how that was the task of a wetnurse. In the mornings Micah Clay’s wife would take care of the babe, sit in the chamber as the Lady wished, while she had some rest. Micah’s wife offered more, she was growing heavy with child after all and had the milk, but the Lady was having none of that, and it made Howland wonder about her state of mind. It made Micah and Quagg certain that the babe was hers. They had their theories, his two companions, and voiced them oft enough for Howland to become amused at how they tangled it further and further. Poor Lord Jon Connington, Howland thought, for if the man was ever to be found, he shall be in for a rude surprise by Quagg who was by now adamant to put the southern lord in his place, leaving a fine lady is such peril.

Howland was glad for the distraction that Ashara Dayne provided in the Watch, in truth. It saved him from more serious discussions, about the war, about the way forward. He was in need of a wife, he had to find one. He wondered whether he was to make overtures to the Northern houses about it, or how he was to go about it at all. He didn’t really feel the need, though the babe softened him to the idea, it was true. No, it was the Watch that needed him to take a wife, sire an heir and a spare to be certain, and Howland felt the weight of the decision despite how he tried to brush it aside. In the end he sent raven to Manderly whom had two daughters and to Cerwyn to enquire after the one daughter of his, but as he didn’t really have his heart in the matter, there he stopped. Lord Cerwyn sent no reply, no doubt unwilling to even entertain the idea. Lord Manderly sent response claiming his elder already betrothed, the younger but twelve of age and too young to promise away, though he would discourse the idea further with the lord of the Neck at White Harbor if Howland so wished. He didn’t really wish it, so he sat now on his own reply. He wondered if Manderly’s daughter was to be beautiful like Ashara Dayne, and then he wondered if it was Quagg putting such silly notions into his head.

Now he sat by the riverbank, enjoying the warm breeze of the spring wind, the sounds of birds and frogs calling, a book in his lap though he dropped it a while ago, giving in to his thoughts. He heard the steps behind him.

“You will not believe,” Quagg stepped to him.

“I can believe many things, my friend,” Howland replied as he turned to see Quagg’s stunned face, “Indulge me.”

“Raven from Braavos,” Quagg declared. “I dared not to break seal on it.”

Howland jumped immediately. So it was then, he thought, as he rushed back into the keep with Quagg in tow, sending the boy who stood guard on the pier to find the Lady Ashara and bring her to the solar. In there stood Micah Clay, in his hand a scroll, and the maester beside him, both waiting with anticipation on their faces.

It didn’t take long for Ashara Dayne to rush into the room.

“Have you had news, my Lord,” she asked, and Howland nodded for Micah to hand over the scroll. She hastily broke the seal and read it, her face betraying the relief she found in the small parchment. That in turn gave Howland relief, if not with a tingle of sadness, or perhaps jealousy.

“He’s alive,” she whispered, her purple eyes looking up to meet Howland’s gaze, and for the first time he saw in them some of the happiness he recalled in those purple eyes from Harrenhal. “He writes to meet in Braavos in a moon’s turn. Here, see it yourself.”

Howland took the scroll handed to him and unrolled it. “Lord Howland Reed, deliver your charge in a moon’s turn, Inn by the Sealord’s Palace in Braavos, look for the name Blackheart.”

“He’s alive,” she repeated happily.

“There is no signature,” Howland remarked, “When we sent word, we had to address it to a Myles Toyne. Whomever that is, may have replied. I would say, it confirms as much as our Lord Connington involved with the Golden Company in some form. Whether he is alive is yet to be seen.”

“That is a gloomy view to take,” Ashara remarked, “I shall make my way to Braavos with little Jon, be there in a moon’s turn.”

“Now, let’s not be hasty with our assumptions,” Howland said softly, nodding towards Micah Clay and the maester who left the room. He motioned for Quagg to stay for he long decided, Quagg is to be part of this. It was true, the lady needed escort, and he will not be escorting her alone anywhere. Micah Clay was out of the question with his wife’s due date approaching and so the task fell on Quagg, just as Quagg implied it would.

“I will not argue it, Lord Howland,” Ashara said defiantly, watching the door close behind her back as Micah Clay left the solar.

“No need to argue anything,” Howland remarked. “I merely wish to say, we do not know if our Lord Connington still lives. Whomever this Myles Toyne is, may be a messenger. I gave it some thought, surely a company of sellswords is always on the march, and if so, then surely they need a place where their letters arrive, and a messenger to handle those letters. All we know is that our missive arrived as intended, and someone wished to provide us with information.”

“Surely, they could send information by raven,” Ashara argued, “Was he dead, they would send raven. Was he unknown to them, they would write as much.”

“That is true,” Howland nodded, “However we know not who this Blackheart is.”

“If I may speak,” Quagg remarked, “Was I an exile lord who once held prominence in the court of Targaryen, I would be weary these days to declare my whereabouts. While it is true as the Lady say, I do not think Lord Connington to step forward openly at Lord Howland’s behest either. Someone has to go and see, in Braavos.”

“What did you write,” Ashara asked Lord Reed.

“Not much,” Howland Reed remarked, “It is as Quagg said, I thought to be weary of revealing my intentions. What I wrote though, if Lord Connington had fond memories of you my Lady, he would understand my message.”

“I wish to go to Braavos myself,” Ashara declared once more, “I wish to take little Jon with me as well.”

“Would that be safe for the boy,” Howland asked, “I think not, I think it great danger.”

“And how am I supposed to tell Lord Jon,” Ashara asked, slight desperation in her voice. “I need to make him see clearly. Even more so, am I to leave little Jon behind?”

“He would be safely kept in Greywater Watch, my Lady,” Howland remarked.

“I will take him with me,” Ashara declared defiantly. “I see no point in having to send for him after, and having him make the journey without me.”

“No worth to argue, Lord Howland,” Quagg remarked, “By my own wife I know that no argument will separate a small child from the mother. We shall just take them with us, like the lady says.”

“It is not safe,” Howland sighed.

“It is safe enough,” Ashara pushed, “If you come with me, or send men with me, it is safe enough. As safe as it could ever be.”

“I shall go with you then,” Howland resigned himself to the conclusion, albeit not minding it in the least. He would like to see the Titan of Braavos after all. He didn’t correct Quagg’s assessment about Ashara Dayne being the mother of the child, again. He will owe an explanation to Quagg at the end of this, for certain. “Quagg and I shall go with you, enough not to raise suspicion about your person or that of the babe and enough to not have you at the mercy of any opportunist, or anyone who would question your honour.”

“What honour,” Ashara whispered, “I have no honour left. My family thinks me dead; I have no doubt.”

“Worry not, my lady,” Quagg said kindly, “We shall find your honour in Braavos, if this man is there, we shall find him. Then there will be a father to the boy.”

Howland wondered at that. Whether Jon Connington understood their message, ambiguous as it was in the few words he’s put it, and even if Jon Connington received the message at all. Perhaps they were to sail into great danger. Howland could not tell.

He sat in his solar for long after they left him, wondering about it. Who was Blackheart, and why did he carry such a dreadful name? Perhaps a sellsword, perhaps something worse. Perhaps their message has been intercepted and they were now planning to deliver themselves to Robert Baratheon.

King Robert kept the strange eunuch Howland heard of, by his side. Howland even saw the man, at Harrenhal by the old king’s side. Young man that was, bald and wearing the silken robes of a tradesman, and Howland remembered the whispers that the man traded in secrets of others. He wondered at the time if the man traded the secret of the Knight of the Laughing Tree to his king. Now Howland wondered if a fallen star and her starlight was a worthy secret to trade to a new king. Those were the words he used, knowing as much from the Lady that Lord Connington knew of her previous peril. If he did, then Connington would understand. Whether anyone else would, Howland had doubt, but one should not underestimate a man who traded in secrets. He found, it was best to travel without names, the lady to be related to them and nobody else, and once they arrived, it was best to present themselves according to Quagg’s understanding. What Lord Connington makes of such things, was yet to be seen. If Connington indeed awaited them at the end of this journey. Regardless, he knew by now the Lady enough to know that there was nothing to it but to set out, otherwise she would talk holes into his stomach until he relented, and all they would achieve is risking a late arrival to this meeting. No, they were to set out, travel to Maidenpool and there book passage on a ship to Braavos, hopefully in harbour. Soon, Howland thought, they will all see the Titan of Braavos guarding the city of hundred isles.

Chapter Text

GRIFF

He could feel the sun warming the room before he opened his eyes. Face buried into a pillow, the thick silk of the pillow cover cooling his skin. It did nothing against how his stomach turning was his first coherent thought. Even raising his head seemed to cause hardship, the room spinning around with him within it. His mind registered the sun, the warmth on the skin of his bare back. At least he slept, he told himself, at least he slept without any of his ghosts haunting him, now rubbing his eyes open with a hand. There was that to be glad for, and as he turned, some more as well. The boy was still there. He should wake the boy and send him on his way. The room came with use of a bath, he’d rather enjoy that by himself.

He took in the sight of the boy, curled up beside him at a distance. He could be about sixteen, no more than eighteen. At least of age, he was sober enough to pick one that was of age. Blonde too, of course, the boy’s hair was almost silver. He always picked blonde or silver. He also knew if he was honest with himself, he picked the boy considering his age not because he found it gross to take one not yet of age – he did find it gross, but it wasn’t like he was of age when he first ventured into this, either. He was honest enough with himself to know that he’s been taken advantage of, that first time, as well. In any case he picked this one hoping that there was at least some experience in the boy. There wasn’t much. Not much memory came back from last night but that he had no heart to send off the boy, who’d no doubt get in trouble for it, so he stuck to his choice, even tried to be gentle with the boy. As much as he could be gentle with anyone for that was not something he’s ever learned – there simply has been no time when gentleness was involved in his rutting. And why would there be, who was he to be gentle to, the whores? He didn’t want to think of the one he was gentle to. It was long ago, it was another life, when he was still another man. This boy whimpered last night under him so much so that he cursed himself for his good heart not sending away the boy. But in the end, he managed to make something of it, so much so that the boy even liked it, rewarded him with the pleasing of his mouth and in that, the boy certainly had a lot of experience. He even managed to get a repeat out of the boy, and the second time the boy didn’t whimper near as much and so the night ended quite well spent, if not for the two flagons of wine it took for him to fall into sleep in the end. He felt it now tumbling in his head.

He should wake the boy, and perhaps even get those shapely lips to do their work once more before he sends the boy away. He should also get on his feet, shutter that damned window before the room heats up and because the bright sun was quite unbearable to his hungover head. He got up, stumbled as the room took moments to stop its spinning, then slammed the shutter shut. That woke the boy, unintentionally, he knew for the boy stirred on the bed, but he made his way to the privy instead. The boy can wait, the need to relieve himself could not. Just then, he heard the door open. He tried to remember where in the room did he leave his sword, or his dagger.

“Now you are something else,” he heard the honeyed voice of Miles Toyne. “Pretty one, you are, look at me boy. Oh, thought your eyes purple, too. What a shame. Almost perfect. How you found my friend, Griff better been pleasing to such a pretty thing as you. Perhaps I shall call on you later boy, how would you like that?”

Griff pulled a linen towel to wrap around himself, chuckling at the thought. This boy would not like that at all if the stories were true, but he knew enough to know that Toyne didn’t mean it in truth. Not now, not here, when they were so close to the closest thing that came to home for the free brotherhood of exiles that was the Golden Company. Toyne had that bigmouthed paramour of his somewhere in Volon Therys, and Toyne didn’t step out of line so close to home. Essosi women accepted far less from their men than Westerosi, Griff had seen that much. He’s also met the woman, an ill-fated attempt by Toyne to make him feel something no doubt, make him feel at home as much as there was a home for men like Griff. As a man with nobody in his life, Griff didn’t even enter Volon Therys. Toyne brought his woman to Volantis the last time they camped here, and Griff met the woman. She was nothing special in truth, she looked as common as they came, with a figure that Griff knew any man would die for. She gave Toyne no bastards either, and she tolerated no distractions when her man was nearby. Once out of sight, out of mind, Toyne lived as if she never even existed. The boy was lucky to run into Toyne in Volantis.

The captain-general of the Golden Company stood by the door, watching the boy collecting his clothes with a grin of sheer amusement on his face. By the Gods, Toyne was a truly ugly man, Griff thought. Jug ears and a crooked jaw, a long cut across his thin lips though it’s been long healed only leaving a thick scar, and worst of it all, the biggest nose the world has ever seen. That grin though was carefree and mirthful, capable of dragging anyone out of the worst temper if Toyne so wished. He exercised that power over Griff many a time, and Griff grew to be grateful for it.

“Hungover?” He heard Toyne, then.

“Worse,” Griff dumped himself on a chair, nodding toward the boy that he could leave. So much for a pleasant morning, then, he thought while watching as Toyne stepped aside to give way to the boy. “You would not want this one,” Griff said, “There’s a lot for him to learn yet. How in the seven hells did you find me?”

“I know what you like,” Toyne stepped to the table beside him, “Pampered lord that you still are, you keep taking room in the inns with silken sheets and think it hard to find you. Not to mention your other likes, and there’s only this one place in all of Volantis to meet your requirements.”

“You have me figured out, then,” Griff shrugged. “Why come? The week is not up.”

“You’ve messages,” Toyne declared, dropping two scrolls on the table. Seals broken.

“Read messages,” Griff’s eyes narrowed, “Delivered by yourself in person, once more.”

“I prefer to deliver bad news in person to the men who matter,” Toyne sat in the chair opposite him, nodding toward the small scrolls. True enough. Toyne delivered in person the news of the Trident to him, sat with him as he wept, almost all of that day and the night following it. Then Toyne delivered the news that Robert Baratheon had been named king and the sack of kings landing, as well, and listened to Griff’s raging about the murder of the children. As if that was not bad enough, Toyne delivered Ronald’s message just as dutifully, in person by himself. Griff let slide with a sigh the comment suggesting that he was a person who mattered.

What bad news could come to him, this time, what news that he did not have yet? He expected no messages at all, there was nothing for him left in Westeros, nobody left to send him missives. It was bad enough that his cousin Ronald wrote last time to cut him off completely. That the prick that was now king Robert Baratheon took the Connington lands and Ronald wanted nothing more of cousin Jon Connington whom he blamed for it all. Griff knew from Robert’s dealing with the matter that he could expect no respite, no chance of ever returning home, or reclaiming his name and inheritance.

“What is it then,” he asked. “Go on, you read them have you not.”

“Don’t be so surprised,” Toyne shrugged, “told you, this is no Westeros. I read them, because the spymaster reads them, as he does with all of them and so he warned me of them. See for yourself, then you can explain to me for it needs some explaining.”

Griff sighed again, as he reached for the scrolls. He unrolled the first one, read it in silence. Swallowed hard. “To Jon Connington, I inform you of my sister Ashara’s passing. She threw herself off the Palestone Sword into the sea, need not to write her again. Artus Dayne. I doubt that needs explaining.” He looked up, in Toyne’s eyes, but his thoughts were on Lady Ashara Dayne.

“Was the lady you wrote to, I wager,” Toyne remarked.

“You read the messages,” Griff shrugged, not giving in to the prying.

“Not the ones you send,” Toyne corrected him, “But the spymaster told me thus. Ashara Dayne, an illustrious woman no doubt. There is lot to learn of you yet, I wager.”

Griff sighed, once more letting the comment slide. He thought of Ashara Dayne, her wide purple eyes and her chatter that could ease the foulest of moods. Their walks in the royal gardens of the Red Keep, sitting on benches for hours chattering and watching the people pass by – watching them stare at them, laughing at inside jokes of what those passers-by made of their sight. Ashara Dayne, laughing as she’d carefreely run across the corridor or even the throne room as soon as she’d see him, just to shush some nonsense whisper of a new rumour at court into his ears. To make him laugh and to make them stare. Ashara Dayne who told him that in truth he’s had a nice laugh and should laugh more often she shall make sure of it, who danced and laughed with him at that feast at Harrenhal despite how he was a self-proclaimed wooden legged useless dancer. Then danced with a Stark who fooled her in the end, despite all her reservations and her intent to not let any man fool her. He fooled her, deflowered her and left her honour in tatters. Seems the Lady Ashara could not handle it in the end. Griff wondered what came of her babe, she never replied to his last missive. He unrolled the other scroll in his hand, his eyebrows drawn high at reading it.

“Interesting,” he managed to say, once he’s read the scroll twice.

“You see now why I say it needs explaining,” Toyne remarked. “I cannot even remember who Lord Reed is. My studies seem to have fled me.”

“Lord of the Neck,” Griff explained, “Northman, banner to Stark. But that’s all I can give you, for I never met the man as I recall.”

“And why does he ask after you then,” Toyne asked in a tone betraying curiosity as much as a demand for answer.

“Who knows,” Griff read the scroll again. “To Lord Jon Connington – seems Lord Reed is eager to forget that I am no Lord anymore – Need word with my Lord Connington, concerning a fallen star that brought new light to the world. Lord Howland Reed.”

“He would make a shit spy with that wording,” Toyne remarked. “Though I cannot fathom why he wants to discourse the stars with you, Griff.”

“Not stars,” Griff thought aloud, “The Lady Ashara. Fallen Star means Dayne, Myles. Brought new light, that must refer to her babe. He means to discourse the Lady Ashara Dayne.”

“Well,” Toyne concluded, “We shall see what’s to discuss about a woman who threw herself into the sea, once we get to Braavos.”

“You replied,” Griff asked suspiciously.

“They received response,” Toyne’s answer was nonchalant, as if it was the most obvious thing. “He writes like a spy, he’s a banner of Stark. He got called to Braavos in reply.”

Griff nodded. There was no point in arguing any of it. The Company employed a spymaster for a reason, after all. They were to take suspiciously a message written in such ambiguous manner, after all. He found that he didn’t care, after all. He cared about the Lady Ashara and the manner of her death, though. He knew, he’ll see the bottom of a wine flagon tonight, and with it, he’ll add one more ghost to his companions. One more who he did nothing good by, he thought bitterly.

“There are other matters,” Toyne said then, “May be of your interest. I mean for you to accompany me to the city, once we reach Braavos.”

“I would accompany you anyway,” Griff chuckled, “I won’t pass an opportunity to get drunk on good wine, and you know that.”

“This is not that,” Toyne remarked, “And I implore you to cut back on the drinking. I’m in need of a new sergeant, Griff. You’ve been raised to lead since you learned how to walk, I have use of you. I told you as much, I tested you, you do well. I mean to put you in charge of a contingent but you better fucking cut back on the drinking. I can’t propose a drunkard to be promoted to captain.”

Griff nodded. It was true, he’s heard this before, more than once in fact. It was just as true that he couldn’t care less about being a captain, or being anything in truth. He cared about the ghosts, though. They came, when he was under enough, and as much as it hurt to see them, he could at least pretend that they were still alive, that he didn’t fail them. That he didn’t fail Rhaegar at the Stoney Sept.

Toyne tried to talk sense into him, more than once. Toyne went as far as telling, he really was the shit commander that he believed himself to be. Told him, Tywin Lannister would have burned the whole of the Stoney Sept, and burned Robert Baratheon with every living soul within it. Griff didn’t do that, he wanted not the name of butcher, he wanted the glory of delivering Robert’s head in a basket to the mad king. To Rhaegar, so Rhaegar could shift focus onto what really mattered – removing his own father from the throne. Griff failed and so now Robert’s arse warmed Rhaegar’s throne, his hands forever covered in the blood of Rhaegar’s children. And of Rhaegar himself. Griff swallowed hard.

“What else is in Braavos for me,” he asked Toyne, “Wine, whores, Howland Reed… I suppose you give Lord Reed the benefit of doubt and want to hear him out, or have you also arranged for him to meet his end?”

“Oh, you can meet with the Lord Reed,” Toyne remarked, “It is your business, about the lady… I am sorry for the bad news. I have something else the spymaster is working on.”

“I doubt that involves me,” Griff sat back in his chair, his eyes on Toyne, “I am done with plotting.”

“Perhaps you are,” Toyne remarked, “I give you a name instead. Ser Willem Darry.”

“What of him,” Griff’s eyes grew wide. “Used to be Master at Arms at the Red Keep.”

“I know,” Toyne smirked, “We have a spymaster after all. Ser Willem Darry was your master at arms, trained you alongside your silver prince, I know all about it.” I doubt that you do.

“I also know that Ser Willem Darry accompanied the old Queen to Dragonstone.” You mean that they fled from the inevitable sacking of Kings Landing that was coming for them.

“And that is where it gets really interesting,” Toyne grinned, “That Queen crowned her little boy of seven King of the Seven Kingdoms on Dragonstone, it is said. One kingdom for each year he lived one could say, and yet he no longer had any of those kingdoms… She was heavy with child, just as well. Now we have Ser Willem Darry in Braavos, with a silver haired boy about seven of age, and a small entourage, renting a house there. Just after Dragonstone has been sacked.”

“It’s been sacked?”

“Taken,” Toyne answered, “However you wish to call it. But Ser Willem Darry is said to have arrived in Braavos about two moons ago, Griff. He keeps low, but not low enough, the man clearly had no need ever in his life to hide. I mean to seek him out, and you shall help me get him to speak.”

“What is the point,” Griff asked frustrated, “Ser Willem is a royalist, no doubt he fled with the boy on the Queen’s orders. Foolish as that is, if you know his whereabouts so does Kings Landing.”

“What makes you think so?”

“You aren’t alone employing a spymaster,” Griff explained, “The one in the Red Keep is also better than yours, I have no doubt.”

Toyne pondered on it for a moment, before he stood. “Have your bath,” he told Griff as he moved to the door, “And no wine. I fucking need you sober, in the camp by sundown. We march at first light.”

“The week is not up,” Griff protested.

“Ser Willem Darry, Griff,” Toyne countered.

“What is he to you,” Griff asked then.

“That, I don’t know yet,” Toyne remarked. “But I let you in on it, why not. There are no Blackfyres, Griff, as you well know. I am to lead our lot and so it falls on me to figure a way to get the men back home without a Blackfyre to crown. Who knows, maybe Viserys Targaryen is the way.”

Griff wanted to laugh, “Viserys is a boy of seven, you said so and he is indeed seven,” he growled, “Not to mention his… Well, you should see the boy for yourself, I am sure that you’ve heard about the Targaryens and the coin landing on either side. The boy is no Rhaegar.”

“Nobody will come even close to Rhaegar in your eyes,” Toyne remarked nonchalantly. “I don’t need another Rhaegar; I need a way. You can help me with that, after all you want back home do you not?”

“There’s no way back home for me now,” Griff sighed. “Not with Robert king.”

“And thus we arrive at you understanding my point, perhaps,” Toyne rolled his eyes, “We are in need of a new king, Griff, because the time is ripe, the stag sits on the throne that is not his by right and from what we gathered, he has doubters as many as supporters. Ser Willem Darry has just the one boy we need if word is true, so we shall go and meet him. Preferably before he stops breathing. We march at first light, be in camp by sundown, and sober.”

Griff nodded but there was no use, Toyne already closed the door, closed it upon his last word, leaving him in the empty room by himself. With an empty wine flagon, when he really felt the need for that flagon to be full. He also felt, he really didn’t want to be involved with Viserys Targaryen. Was it Rhaegar’s boy that Ser Willem saved, he’d jump right now and run all the way to Braavos if he had to, for Rhaegar’s brood. But Rhaegar’s brood was gone, the boy Aegon was dead. Viserys was no Rhaegar. Toyne clearly enjoyed his ‘charge’ of taking the men back home, he relished in his theories and discussing them with Griff enough times for Griff to know, the man grew bored to sit idle, now he wanted in on the action. A little too late, now that Rhaegar was gone. As for Howland Reed… he sighed.

Why have you done such a thing? Why kill yourself over a man, there were many who would eagerly have made you forget and more, make an honest woman of you, my Lady…

He stood, collecting his clothing, on his mind the brightly shining purple eyes, the gentle voice of Ashara Dayne. He was to give up the room and make his way to the baths. He collected his things, not bothering with dressing, tossing all his belongings into the saddle bag he threw it across his back and left the room, walking toward the baths in nothing but that linen towel.

You were so gentle, so beautiful even I could see, your purple eyes always laughing. It is a shame, Ashara, such a shame what has befallen you. How I wish now that I asked you, even that would have been better than this. I should have offered my help and not just my letters; I should have asked you and not just stand by… I should have done a great many things differently.

*****

The march to Braavos was uneventful. One march with the Golden Company, and you learn how the rest of your service will be spent – a lot of marching to and from places, and very little fighting in between, until you’ve been on the march long enough to be commanded into camp just north of Volantis, south the walls of Volon Therys, for a month or two perhaps, and then it all repeats. In truth, Griff wondered why the whole ten thousand was to up and march to Braavos now, when word among the men was that Toyne was in negotiation to take them against Qohor. He asked Toyne as much. In Toyne’s mind the Company was merely on the march as usual, as he explained. Nobody will make anything of the sight of company men in the city of Braavos once they make camp outside the walls. At that Griff concluded, perhaps nobody will then make anything of Blackheart seeking out an old knight of the Seven Kingdoms in the city, either.

The men called Myles Toyne Blackheart. The name came from his sigil, for he had one – House Toyne was a now extinct noble house of Westeros, its last being the captain-general of the Golden Company. Griff found that ironic. Had he not his cousin Ronald, the same would apply to House Connington. He wondered if that would make him feel any different. He found, he spoke the truth when he told Toyne the second day of the march, that he really could not care less about Viserys Targaryen. Not even Ser Willem Darry, he told Toyne, but he knew that part wasn’t true. He cared about Ser Willem, deeply, but people didn’t get far with his caring, it was best for them to go without.

He cared about Rhaegar, so very much that it used to ache even when Rhaegar was nearest. Yet, he didn’t beat Robert at the Stoney Sept, and had he done so, Rhaegar would have never faced Robert on the Trident. No, likely by that time he would’ve been proclaimed, King Rhaegar the first of his name… He cared, he remembered the last time he saw Rhaegar, in Fleabottom, before he set sail toward Essos. It was heart-breaking to see the worry in the eyes of his silver prince, for it was rare that he showed such intense emotion toward anyone – certainly he, Griff has never seen such. He’s seen many faces of Rhaegar, not one with worry for someone else. Best he stopped thinking of Rhaegar altogether.

He also cared about the children. The Princess Elia was far less to his liking, but regardless, while packing in the tower of the Hand after his swift demise, he toyed with the idea of asking Elia to go with him, take the children far away from the mad king. Perhaps go to Dragonstone, perhaps even further. He never asked. He assigned that to the excuse of never being able to imagine that Robert could best Rhaegar. Robert was a prick, an arrogant drunkard who cared about whoring and little else. Griff openly chafed at serving such a lord, and being one of the close companions of crown prince Rhaegar Targaryen, he had reason not to have to put up with it much. Now Robert was king, because he won at the Stoney Sept. Gods, Robert almost crushed his ribs into his lungs at the Stoney Sept. The stag had a way of fighting, no doubt fuelled by his arrogance he sought out the leader of his enemy to fight in single combat. Griff still remembered how the fighting ceased around them, and the never ceasing sound of those fucking bells. It was smart for a man like Robert to fight with a hammer, he had to give that much. All he needed was one well-placed blow, and Robert despite all his drinking was swift enough to sooner or later land that blow against someone trying to fight him off with a sword. Robert almost killed him on the town square of Stoney Sept. He must have perfected his aim, for Griff knew, he’s got told the tale of how Robert smashed his hammer into Rhaegar’s chest plate sending flying the rubies off it, crushing ribs and piercing lungs. Rhaegar stood no chance after that, Griff knew. He wanted to kill Robert with his own hands, he even dreamed of it, still. When he didn’t drink, that was what he dreamed of most nights, fuelling his never soothed thirst for revenge.

He spared few thoughts to all the rest of the people that he’s let down, people he used to care about. Sure, there was Ronald, his cousin, but they’ve never been close. Ronald almost admired Robert Baratheon. He won’t admire king Robert near as much, Griff thought, for taking the Connington Lands, stripping ancient House Connington of its lordship. That was uncalled for, and Griff knew, it was aimed at him, not at Ronald. He may have been dealt with by the mad king before Robert even got to Rhaegar; but Robert was still sending him a message clear as sunlight – he was a dead man. Griff found himself perfectly fine with that notion.

Except he wasn’t dead, he was still breathing. He was serving in a company of ten thousand men, his new companions. He felt like an alien among them, he didn’t fit in, albeit he knew that he also made no effort. True enough, he stepped up when it was needed. He took command as Toyne gave it, he led whatever foolish missions Toyne came up with the past months, no doubt testing him. That Toyne took an interest in him was of no doubt, though he was smarter than to think that it was for himself. No, Toyne too often divulged in ideas of a glorious conquest to home, to Westeros, championing a Targaryen yet to be found for there were no more Blackfyres, and Griff knew, he was a piece in the plan. He and his steadfast loyalty to a dead prince. He and his undying love.

Because he still breathed the air, he had to contend with himself every day. He mainly did so with the help of drink, though whenever he could he added company to it – what else to spend his earnings on if not wine and whores, he had need for nothing else. He swiftly began to develop a preference there, he chose them young but not too young, nothing indecent, unlike the knight that made a man of him when he was not even fourteen, he had no desire for children in his bed – if there was a bed involved. He didn’t care if there wasn’t, he's happy to have a boy bent over in front of him if that was how it was to be done. He just wanted to forget, just a little, an hour here and there was enough to muddy his thoughts, calm his nerves, quench his thirst for revenge and soothe his aching heart that simply refused to stop beating. He toyed with the idea of drinking himself to death. Robert would like to hear of that, no doubt. Robert, the prick doing nothing more but drinking and whoring when not murdering Rhaegar, or ordering the murder of Rhaegar’s wife and children, was now king. He, Griff, was swiftly becoming something not unlike Robert. He knew, because Toyne in his attempts at changing this course told him as much. He found; he couldn’t help it no matter how he chafed at it. He needed to forget.

Now he could add one more name to those he needed to forget, the ghosts he constantly tried to keep at bay. Ashara Dayne. The night after he received the news, he dreamt of Ashara Dayne. It could have been a pleasant change, for once not dreaming of beating Robert into a pulp. She danced with him, in an empty hall, there was not a soul, not even music. Only her laughter, her smiles, her whispers of stories she’s heard in the Red Keep, who wooed who, who fought who, who fucked who… But then there was a man, there was the Stark, and she left, long looking at him waiting as if he, Griff was to say something. He wanted to, he found that he wanted to warn her, and yet the words didn’t come. “I shall write to you,” he said just as he told her when she was leaving Kings Landing, to return to Starfall and hide there her belly that began to swell. “I shall like that, very much,” she said, just as she did then, leaning to plant a kiss on his left cheek, manners be damned. “Write to me, Lord Jon, if you please. It would please me.”

He did write. He received reply, the first time, and then everything turned into hell around him, but he did write. He never again received reply. Still, he wrote before he sailed to Braavos, he wrote from there as well, advising how to reach him now that he joined up the Golden Company. He enquired after her babe. He never again received a reply. He gave up after that, after hearing of the Trident. He thought, no lady needed missives from an exile, shade on her name now that Robert was king. Ronald made him saw that clearly.

He stood by the gate besides his horse, and took in the sight. In front of him, the Golden Company was making camp at short distance. He was now waiting for Toyne and whomever else Toyne deemed fit to join them. In the end, he could see Toyne riding forth, by himself. He waited until the man was near enough, then mounted his horse.

“Thought us to have more entourage,” he said to Toyne as they made their way through the gate.

“No need,” Toyne shrugged, “Shall stop by the Sealord’s Palace first of all, see if there are messages. Have you meet the spymaster.”

“Why would I want to meet a spymaster,” Griff remarked aloud, “Why you have him sit at the Sealord’s Palace?”

“Because he’s fucking old and a damn cripple since our last fight against Qohor,” Toyne rolled his eyes, “He stays by the inn next to the Palace. Be good to him, he knows a good deal about you.”

“That is no reason to be good to him,” Griff concluded, “My life is an open book. Everyone knows a great deal about me.”

“Do they,” Toyne glanced aside at him as their horses leisurely galloped on the paved streets, the people giving way. “I for one was most surprised that you had fondness for a lady, sending letters… and she had a babe. And she was a Dayne! And you take boys into your bed.”

“Watch your mouth,” Griff hissed, not liking the tone or in truth the conversation itself at all, “You may be my superior but do not disrespect me.”

“Disrespect you,” Toyne remarked, “Or disrespect the lady? All I meant to say is, if she threw herself in the sea because that babe you enquired after was yours, do not carry that on yourself. You didn’t throw her; you wrote to her. You’re a fucking exile, Griff, you aren’t even called Connington here. Don’t carry that as well, you carry enough shit as it is.”

“Lovely advice,” Griff growled.

The Sealord’s Palace was something he never got close to before, never feeling the need for sightseeing in Braavos. The history was enough, as much as he knew, the violent election of citizens and their lives usually cut short to bring forth another violent election… statues of past sealords lined the canals of Braavos. Griff only knew of the current Sealord his name, which was Ferrego. Ferrego Antaryon.

“How in the seven hells did you manage this,” Griff remarked, staring up at the domes and towers, at the golden thunderbolt that kept turning on a spire atop the palace.

“Oh, it was through a friend,” Toyne explained as if it was nothing. “Sirio Forel is a friend of the Company; he is the First Sword of Braavos. Shall I explain…”

“Protector of the Sealord,” Griff interrupted, “Needs no explaining, even I know that much. So I take it, Sirio Forel aids you by welcoming our ravens. What’s the price?”

“That is rather convoluted,” Toyne said, “Sometimes the payment is not in gold, Griff. Sometimes it is information.”

“Fuck me,” Griff laughed, “Who did we sell out?”

“Nobody,” Toyne shrugged annoyed, “Not yet anyways.”

They entered the palace, a servant rushing forth. Without a word the man ushered them into a large chamber to one side. The ceiling was a dome of gold, Griff rolled his eyes. The Braavosi were eager to show wealth. So were the Pentoshi and the Volantene and the Myrenese and the Lyseni… Gold ruled everywhere, they all wanted to live and sleep and fuck under golden domes. Griff couldn’t understand it, he was never one for lavish lifestyle. He remembered how he almost choked on the bite he took from his supper when Rhaegar casually dropped on him the price of the tourney at Harrenhal. This damned dome has likely cost more than that, and it was only one of multiple.

“Blackheart, my friend,” a man came forth, tall and slender, not at all like one that Griff would take for a swordsman. Big lips, big black eyes, curling black hair, and a somewhat big nose. Not a man of interesting features either. Then again, the Frist Sword was a water dancer – those didn’t build muscle the way men like him would, wearing plate armour and chainmail under it and practice for hours on end with their sword and lance. These were nimble creatures, swift and silent, believed to be deadlier than any Westerosi knight. Griff wasn’t feeling eager to put that to the test.

The man embraced Blackheart, Myles Toyne besides him, then turned to him. “And this must be Griff,” he said, and Griff raised an eyebrow. The man pretended not to notice, “Your guests have arrived, they lodge in your rooms in the Inn just to the south of the Palace.”

“My guests,” Griff felt utterly confused, “Lodging in my rooms…”

“They’re my rooms,” Toyne nodded toward him, “The Innkeeper gives them to whomever asks for me by name, subject to pre-arrangement of course. Thought you’d appreciate my looking after this, Lord Howland Reed.”

Griff took a deep breath, “I would have appreciated more if you did not invite him here, in truth,” he said lowly, “What could he tell me that I do not know yet?”

“That I cannot tell,” Toyne remarked, nodding at Sirio Forel to lead them, “You must ask him yourself. Once we concluded our business, after all, tales of a dead girl can wait, you are right about that.”

Griff felt the urge to hit something at hearing those words. Why was Toyne so damn detached, talking about anything that mattered to him with such nonchalance that made his blood boil for a fight? Perhaps that was the point of it, he thought, perhaps Myles wanted him to just let it all out. It certainly wanted to come out, for long now, longer than his time in the company. He neared to earn his first bangle by now, and it still wanted to come out. Perhaps he should seek out some of the bravos while here, put some in their grave with their nimble water dancing for perhaps it needed proving that they cannot defeat a westerosi knight. Not one trained by Ser Willem Darry.

They stopped by a table, on it scrolls of different sizes, beside it, baskets with more scrolls. Beyond the table, in a padded armchair of velvet sat a man with one hand.

“This here is Griff,” Toyne nodded then pointed at Griff and the man looked him up lengthily.

“Jon Connington of Griffin’s Roost,” the man nodded, “Perhaps I have news for you, my Lord. Your cousin had a son borne to him about two moons ago, named the boy Ronnet. Shit name that is.”

“As good as any,” Griff shrugged. Ronald had an heir, if he wed the mother of Ronnet. Griff tried hard not to care, and so he didn’t ask whether Ronald did that or not. He didn’t ask anything.

“What about my knight,” Toyne asked then.

“Rented a house in Silty Town, again not two moons ago,” the man said, “White Stone walled, easy to find for the house is set further back from the rest, has a garden with lemon trees in front. Red double door.”

“You sure it is Ser Willem Darry,” Griff asked then.

“Oh, it is,” the man nodded, “He or someone in his entourage is stupid enough to declare the name to the serving folk at the house, and those have said as much on the markets. The name is now known on the streets of Braavos, it won’t be long before it becomes known in the free cities, and Westeros perhaps even before that.”

“Anything about the boy,” Toyne asked.

“Who’s in the entourage,” Griff added.

“The boy does not leave the house,” the man looked at Toyne first, “But I have my ways. The boy is there. Cannot give names from his entourage, there are three men, two women, and one of the women has a babe. That is all I have.”

“A babe,” Griff remarked, looking questioning to Toyne.

“Most interesting,” Toyne grinned, “Let’s go and pay him a visit, Griff.” But instead, he turned to Sirio Forel. “I trust in you to look out for that knight for me, Sirio. The knight and the boy.”

Griff thought to add, and the babe too, but for some reason he felt silence to be more prudent. Toyne seemed not to have realised the coincidence of a babe’s appearance for what it was, because the spymaster hasn’t presented it other than ‘one of the women has a babe’. That was foolish, the woman was no doubt a wetnurse, the babe no doubt the new-born by the Queen and Aerys. What a surprise, that was. Toyne gave him a wondering look, and so he shrugged it all off. He followed Toyne on the way out.

“That was interesting,” Griff remarked as they mounted once more, “Why does he sit here and not in the Inn, if you have rooms in the Inn.”

“I don’t have them like that,” Toyne explained, “It is merely a favour. I pay for them fucking rooms.”

“Then I shall pay for Lord Reed’s use of them,” Griff nodded.

“That you shall,” Toyne chuckled, “I have already arranged it off your wage, worry not. I look after my own gold, even if it is the company’s gold.”

Griff laughed. “I know not even how much I have left in the chequer.”

“That is foolish of you,” Toyne remarked, “You should always know how much is withdrawn, how much you left in the war chests. The paymaster is old, you don’t want him to make mistakes at your expense.”

“Everyone is old for you,” Griff remarked.

“Everyone put in place by Maelys,” Toyne countered, “And they are old. I have not the heart to dismiss them, seeing that they are the last remnants of Blackfyre ever having led the Company.”

“There’s the new sergeant, it is rumoured,” Griff remarked, “Byrne, that one. Brendel Byrne.”

“And his name is Byrne,” Toyne added, “It is not Blackfyre. What are we to do with him then? In any case, he doesn’t seem interested in being Blackfyre either. He is capable enough, which is why he is where he is. Not capable as much as you, mind you. But he doesn’t drink himself under the table every free night he gets, either.”

“We all need some things to get by,” Griff growled in defense.

“Methinks, you need more than something to get by,” Toyne thought aloud, “Methinks you need to find your way Griff, and find it before it is too late for you and you either got into a drunken brawl and got yourself killed, or drank yourself into a shaking vegetable. Besides, once that happens you won’t get it up, gone will be the fun with the silver-blonde boys, as well. Not that any of them could ever come close to remind you of what you lost, I wager.”

Griff bit back his tongue. He really, really wanted to hit something, to kill someone. Perhaps at the end of this day, he will kill Lord Howland Reed. It only depended now on how dire Reed’s charge will prove to be, for he felt the urge to spill blood. He felt the hate fuelling him.

They rode in silence and at a slow pace, the few people on the streets paying them little mind. No doubt they could tell that these were men of the Golden Company, no doubt some recognised Blackheart even. The news of the Company outside the walls must have begun to spread by now, as well.

“You could put them up in a place in Volon Therys,” Griff remarked after a while. “The Blackfyre men you need to dismiss.”

“I could, and then who would pay for that,” Toyne chuckled, “You?”

“Tell me then why is the Company amassing full chests of gold, if not for matters such as this,” Griff argued, “We shall look after our own, after all.”

“We shall,” Toyne nodded, “And I am quite glad that for once, you spoke as if you were one of us. But while we shall look after the old, we also shall be able to foot the bill for an invasion. The time is ripe for it, I told you.”

“There,” Griff pointed ahead just then. About ten houses ahead, there was a gap between two houses, white stoned wall separating it from the street, a red double door leading across and two large lemon trees in the gap.

“Well, this was easy enough, then,” Toyne remarked. True enough, as they reached the gap, a house emerged at the back of the plot. Not a big house, but a decent looking one regardless. There were no big houses on these streets, nobody was flashing wealth by installing gold domes on their roofs. This was a humbler area of Braavos, although, still not even near to what one could find near Ragnar’s Harbour. It was also a quiet area, Griff noted to himself as he dismounted, and Toyne did the same. Good for the defense of the house, and he caught sight of the two water dancers across the street, their unique swords giving them away. Toyne nodded toward them. They nodded in return. Griff pulled the chain above the stone door frame, and the bell rang on the other side of the wall.

Soon enough, a man emerged, clearly a Braavosi. Toyne motioned toward Griff.

“Tell Ser Willem Darry,” Griff declared, “Lord Jon Connington is here to visit. Tell him of the colour of my hair, and that I bested Ser Arthur Dayne once when I was seventeen, after eleven rounds.”

The servant looked him up with an emotionless face, before he nodded and disappeared behind the red door. Toyne chuckled loudly besides him.

“What is it?”

“That was one elaborate declaration of you,” Toyne remarked mirthfully, “I like it. Bested Arthur Dayne, now I like that even more.”

“No spies would tell you of that,” Griff remarked, “None saw but Rhaegar and Ser Willem. My greatest glory, unknown to the world. But isn’t this why you brought me here? To get you in this house, and get Ser Willem to speak with you?”

“I got you here for him to speak with you,” Toyne corrected.

“I want no part in your plotting,” Griff grunted, “I told you; I am done with plotting.”

“Prince Rhaegar was a shit plotter, I wager,” Toyne said nonchalantly, “I am not a shit plotter, however now I am not even plotting anything. Told you as much, I want to see this boy for myself, see if he’s worth the effort.”

“He’s not,” Griff hissed, “Worth the effort. Not unless you want to serve a second Aerys.”

“I thought he was the second Aerys,” Toyne grinned at him, “The mad king that exiled you.”

“You know what I meant.”

The door opened then, the servant returning. He let them in, stepped out to take the reins of their horses and lead those in the gardens as well, and then he locked the door once more behind them. He left the horses to roam there in the small garden, nodding toward Griff to follow him.

The house was clean, not lavish but it seemed comfortable enough. It seemed empty, there were no host of servants rushing about. It was a far cry from the Red Keep, but with its white walls and white linens hanging off the large floor to ceiling doors and windows to the back, it was undeniably a more tranquil place. The windows they saw for the servant led them straight through, ushering them to sit in a room with such windows. Soon they heard the steps, both of them instinctively reaching to rest their hand on the pommel of their sword. But it was nothing to fear of. The man approaching was old Ser Willem Darry.

“I did not believe it,” the man said, standing by the entrance of the room that seemed to be the solar here, “I swear if you hadn’t told the servant of Ser Arthur, I would not have allowed you in. Jon Connington, in the flesh.”

“Ser Willem,” Griff nodded.

“I heard tales of you joining the Golden Company,” Ser Willem declared proudly, “They won themselves a great swordsman in you. Foolish and reckless and hot tempered, but at least one who wins the fights he starts.”

“That is as much a compliment as I shall ever have from you, Ser,” Griff chuckled.

“I am sorry for that business about you, what the king did to you,” Ser Willem said, slowly settling himself down onto a chair, clearly not without pain, seemingly in his back. “I am sorry for a great many things. Who’s this one with you,” he asked then.

“I present you the captain-general of the Golden Company, Ser,” Griff duly declared, “Myles Toyne, though you may have heard of him as Blackheart, it is the name he is known by.”

“Toyne,” Ser Willem nodded toward the man, “And not a Blackfyre. Good for you, Ser. You are a Ser, are you not?”

“That I am,” Toyne nodded. “Let us cut the small talk.”

Ser Willem looked up wearily at Griff hearing that, and so Griff made to sit as well, facing the old knight.

“Word on the street is that you have Viserys with you, Ser,” he said, trying to not sound as cold as he felt speaking those words, “That is a dangerous charge, and a dangerous rumour.”

“How could they know,” Ser Willem waved it away, “I have my grandson with me, that much is true.”

“Well then let us see this grandson of yours, Ser,” Toyne remarked, “See if he has silver hair and purple eyes like a Targaryen. Word is that he does.”

“And you never had a grandson, Ser,” Griff smiled, “Never wed, I know that much. I remember once you told me that we are to be like children to you, ours will be your grandchildren one day, and there is only me left of us and none of the children now.”

“He told me,” Ser Willem said after a long moment he spent slowly inhaling, visibly resolving himself to this conversation, “Prince Rhaegar, before he left for the Trident, he told me that he met you at Fleabottom. He told me, worry not for I shall recall him, that shall be the first thing I do, Ser Willem. Jon will be home soon… now none of us will be home anytime soon, Jon. None of us.” His eyes watered up as he said those last words.

“Why Braavos, Ser Willem,” Griff asked then.

“First ship that left harbour was to Braavos,” Ser Willem explained, “I figured, it is as good as any of these cities, it doesn’t matter.”

“It is better than the rest of these cities,” Toyne remarked, “If you look out you shall see two water dancers outside. The First Sword of Braavos has them guard your house, Ser.”

“That is a good thing,” Ser Willem nodded, “If what you say is true, that is very good, indeed. I know not the First Sword of Braavos.”

“No but I do,” Toyne nodded.

“Who pays for this,” Griff asked then.

“Why, the Queen did,” Ser Willem explained, “Gave me all her jewels and her gold, sent me off with the children.”

“The boy and the babe,” Toyne remarked then, and Griff made a mental note to be angry about that later. Ser Willem only nodded. “Give me that bell, Jon, over there,” he pointed at a commode, on it a small bronze bell. Griff stood and handed it to Ser Willem, who rang it.

Within moments a servant emerged. “Bring the children,” Ser Willem declared in the voice Griff knew well as a boy, an order was given. He felt the urge to obey, years of obeying it installed that in him.

“You look well enough,” Ser Willem said to him while they waited. He knew it was not true. He looked horrendous, in fact. He bothered with grooming just enough to shave that damn beard if he felt like it, if it could be called that, but he didn’t bother to have his hair cut ever since he joined the Company, now he wore it tied behind his head, out of his face. The sun turned his skin into olive coloured, littered with the damn freckles he despised so much. They were all over him now. He cared enough to wash and shave this morning at the least, but he had no servants to look after such things as clean clothing – it was all a learning curve and he wasn’t even near the end of it. Not to mention his drinking habit and his inability to sleep without nightmares leaving dark circles under his eyes. He wore his makeshift leather armour over his chainmail, he looked more like a bandit than a knight, and even less like a lord.

“Well enough for a dead man still breathing,” he replied as matter of fact.

“I heard that Robert completed your destruction,” Ser Willem nodded.

“I heard he sacked Dragonstone,” Griff countered.

“There wasn’t much to sack,” Ser Willem said sadly, “The storm did most of it, destroyed what was left of the fleet in harbour. Never seen such storm, and the Queen suffered bearing that babe during that Storm. She never got out the birthing bed.”

“That was the mercy in it, then,” Griff remarked, thinking of Rhaella Targaryen. Of all the nasty ugly torment that he knew Rhaella Targaryen to have lived through.

“She crowned the boy, with her own crown,” Ser Willem said, “We brought the crown with us even, for she was adamant for him to have it. What’s he to do with a crown, he has no kingdom.”

“And the babe?” Toyne leaned forward.

“Girl, healthy enough,” Ser Willem explained, “Daenerys her name is, like the Daenerys wed to Dorne. Ironic, is it not? Some believe her to be the cause why Daemon Blackfyre rebelled. She certainly was the cause why Aerys chose Elia of Dorne for Rhaegar.”

“Who knows of the babe, Ser?” Griff asked.

“Nobody,” Ser Willem waved it away, “Nothing gives her away unless you look in her eyes, she has eyes like Rhaegar’s. She’s small to show anything else of Targaryen, no hair yet. Told the wetnurse to present her as her own, and she does so. Mind you, the children never leave the house.”

“Who did you bring with you,” Griff continued his interrogation of Ser Willem.

“Nobody you would know, Jon,” Ser Willem said, “My own brother fell at the Trident protecting the prince, so did Ser Lewin. Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell and the White Bull fell somewhere in South to Stark, but I know not the details. Only Ser Barristan was left and he knelt to Robert at the Trident. And Ser Jaime, but you know what that boy did, I am sure of it. I brought the maester and the septa, a wetnurse from the village that we could find willing, the cook and one of the stable boys, that one for he’s wed to the wetnurse.”

“No guard,” Toyne remarked.

“No guard,” Ser Willem nodded, “I could hire, mind you, but what is the point? If we are to disappear, best we have nobody in this house who doesn’t belong here. Nobody for gold.”

“You have servants working for gold, Ser,” Griff remarked, “It is already word on the streets that you harbour a Targaryen.”

Ser Willem nodded. “I shall dismiss the door boy then, and the other one that takes shift after him.”

“Do no such thing,” Toyne remarked. “You may find worse if you hire new. What is done, is done.”

Just that moment, the maester led in Viserys Targaryen. The boy’s eyes grew wide seeing Griff, but he said nothing. Those purple eyes of his were as cold as Griff ever saw them, reminding him of the boy’s father, of what Aerys became. Instead, he stood, and stepped to the Septa that entered behind the boy. In her hand she held a small bundle, tiny arms wiggling out of it. Griff went to look. The babe had Rhaegar’s eyes, he swallowed hard at the sight. Then he crouched down next to Viserys.

“Your grace,” he bowed his head.

“Lord Jon,” Viserys noted aloud, “You look different.”

“I look like a scruffy Essosi,” Griff smiled at the boy, “But you, you look yourself, your grace, like a king in the making.”

“No,” Viserys declared defiantly, “I am already King. Mother crowned me. I am king of the Andals and the Roynar and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, my Lord. You shall address me thus.”

“Forgive me, your grace,” Griff bowed his head, “I meant no disrespect. I meant merely to say that you look well.”

“I heard nasty things about you, my Lord,” Viserys said then. “Nasty things. You shall explain yourself to me.”

Griff raised an eyebrow, wondering about it.

“I must apologise for that must wait, your grace,” he heard Toyne behind him. Sure enough, Toyne stood, “We must be on the move.”

“And who are you,” Viserys raised his cold eyes to the man, “I do not know you.”

“I am merely a friend, your grace. One who serves better without name.”

Griff glanced at Ser Willem, who seemed to understand the meaning of those words very well. He stood, nodding to the maester, then the Septa. They both turned, Viserys following them, his hand in the maester’s.

“Well,” Griff sighed, “He has not changed the least bit.”

“He is not his father,” Ser Willem remarked, “He is merely a boy who was told too many vile stories about how he lost his home and his family and all those who cared for him. Now he is full of hate, clinging to that crown of his. He shall come around, he is sweet around the babe and even around the servants.”

“He was never sweet around me,” Griff added, “Though I don’t blame him, he barely knew me. He barely knew anyone; Aerys locked him up and it did him little good.”

“You leaving so soon,” Ser Willem slowly stood, seeing that Toyne moved toward the door.

“I have business to attend to,” Griff remarked.

“He shall be back on the morrow,” Toyne said then, “Or the day after. The Company camps outside the city, I shall send Griff. Once I figure out what to do with this situation.”

“There is nothing to do about this situation,” Ser Willem said, “It is what it is. But I would enjoy your company, Jon. I bet you have many stories to tell, perhaps even the boy would warm to you if you told some.”

“Perhaps,” Griff said, just as the door boy opened the door for them, “Have that back seen to by the maester, Ser Willem. And tell your servants to hold their tongue. I shall visit again.”

With that he bowed and he was out the door. He was mistaken, he thought. The house had no tranquillity about it at all. It had all the weight of a failed dynasty and all the sadness of a lost war and lost loved ones. It had a broken, truly broken Ser Willem Darry. The knot in his throat was hard to swallow.

“Now you’ve seen,” he told Toyne as he mounted his horse.

“Now I’ve seen,” Toyne nodded seemingly deep in thought. “Now I know that I really have no idea what to do about it.”

“Think on it,” Griff said then.

“That I shall,” Toyne agreed, as they began to make their way back toward the Sealord’s Palace. “I shall think on it and wonder if I have use of a seven-year-old king. And if I do, how am I to hide him with that old knight of yours. You shall go and meet Lord Reed, perhaps then he returns home and you don’t have to pay out as much for the rooms.”

“Ever the practical,” Griff chuckled, “I shall stay in that inn tonight. Seeing that I am paying for rooms.”

“Good, and you can perhaps convince their washerwoman to have work on your clothing,” Toyne remarked, “You really are a damned lord, Griff. You’ve much to learn yet, once you decide to learn.”

“To wash my own clothing,” Griff nodded, “I need a squire instead.”

“You drink and whore away the payment of a squire,” Toyne laughed, “Perhaps first think about what you want to learn and how you want it to be.”

“I don’t see the point,” Griff remarked.

“That is your problem,” Toyne shrugged, “Just make sure you see it before it is too late. And Griff, no drinking tonight. I will not have you back in camp like that on the morrow. At first sunlight.” With that he nodded and turned toward the road leading out the gate through which they entered the city. Ten thousand men camped outside that gate. Griff let out a deep sigh, kicking the side of his horse to get to that damned Inn. His extremely eventful day was not yet over.

The inn was full, albeit the sun only began to set just now. He made his way through the crowd, straight for the bar and the man that seemed to be the innkeeper.

“Blackheart’s rooms,” he called out for the man wiping some horns, and the man immediately moved to stand in front of him, “I hear you have visitors in those rooms.”

“You of the company,” the man asked instead, “I see no bangles.”

“I am new,” Griff shrugged, wondering how to go about it. “The guests, have they asked for a Jon Connington?”

The barkeeper’s eye widened in realisation, “They even described the man to me. Described YOU.”

“See,” Griff grinned, “Now we are talking, I am Jon Connington. Tell me about the guests.”

“Nothing much to say,” the man shrugged, “Westerosi, all of them, they took two rooms. Two men, small size, and a pretty woman with a babe.”

Griff’s heart sunk. “A woman with a babe,” he repeated, “Tall and slender, with long brown hair, bright purple eyes, is that her?”

“Why, it is her,” the man nodded.

“Where are those rooms,” he asked, no, demanded of the man.

“Why, they are on Blackheart’s floor. Up the stairs to the third floor, first door on the right. They adjoin, with the second on the right.”

Griff said nothing more to the man, he ran for the steps, took them two at once. Up to the third floor, he stopped in front of the first door on the right. For a moment, he took a deep breath, but the door was already being opened in front of him.

A small man peeked out, then opened the door with wide eyes that stared him up at the same time. Griff stormed into the room, looking around. Another small man, true he was told there was two of them. He cared not which one was Lord Howland Reed. He cared for the woman he turned towards, his feet turning into rocks at the sight. There in front of him stood Ashara Dayne, in the flesh, and very much breathing. Her eyes fixed on his, in her arms a small bundle with wiggling arms just as he’s seen another babe today. She was alive. She was here. The room was spinning, he opened his mouth to speak but there were no words to come. He was trying hard to believe, hoping he was not dreaming.

Chapter Text

ASHARA

Here he was, standing in front of her, finally. After the long and uncomfortable travel at sea to Braavos and the five days spent tucked away in this inn, Jon Connington have arrived just as she trusted that he would. Gods, he looked nothing like himself, nothing like the well-groomed, well-mannered Lord Jon that she remembered. He looked worn down and weary, and his hair grown long and tied behind his head in a bun. He was cleanshaven which she thought suited him more than the little beard young men of the court used to wear on their faces. Though she doubted this man to smell of fresh linen and soft spices like he used to do – something she always found appealing. He did not look very well in truth. He seemed even more overpowering in his presence than she remembered, no knightly armour on him but this chain and leather attire that he wore made him that much more fearsome. And he was tanned, and he had the freckles, and those pale blue eyes shining cold and angry and confused, even paler than she remembered. He looked as if he aged at least five namedays since she’s seen him last, not yet two years ago.

“Gods,” he said then, clearly unable to say anything else at her sight. He made her wonder why he seemed so stunned, although she had to admit – she was likely not a person he would expect to pay him a visit from Westeros. If he would expect anyone for Ashara realised now that she never asked after the man’s family, she knew nothing about whether he had anyone left behind. He had no father, he had been the Lord of Griffin’s Roost, and he had no wife. No, he was prince Rhaegar’s, in a way she could perhaps grasp the surface of but likely had no chance to understand.

“That is all you say, my lord,” Quagg remarked by the door. Lord Jon swiftly turned toward Quagg, disbelief still on his face.

“Got your lady and child all the way here,” Quagg shrugged, “And all you do is calling on the Gods. What kind of man leaves a woman and child to find their way…”

“That is enough,” Lord Howland said sternly, and she could tell why – Lord Jon’s hand already reached for the sword by his side, no doubt instinctively for he didn’t seem to lift his gaze from Quagg.

“I will never understand this,” Quagg shrugged then, “Why we protect such a man.”

At that Lord Jon drew the sword, in an instant it was held against Quagg’s neck.

“Please,” Ashara managed to speak calmly the words despite her heart pumping hard in her throat, “Put that sword down. Please.”

“Best if we leave you to it,” Howland Reed said then towards Jon Connington, stepping beside Quagg. He reached and slowly motioned for the sword to be lowered from Quagg’s neck, laying his hand over it and thus he was obliged. Ashara could not see Lord Jon’s face with his back toward her now, but she could see on Lord Howland’s the effort and even the desperation to try make peace was evident. “We shall leave you two to discuss,” Reed repeated then in his soft, mediating tone of voice, “We shall be in the other room. Just knock on the adjoining door once you finished, if you please.”

The sword dropped completely and he stepped to the door between Quagg and Lord Jon and opened it, swiftly dragging Quagg out of the room. Lord Jon turned back toward her, his eyes burning in anger as he sheathed that sword.

“I had word from your brother,” he said then, “He wrote not to write to you again for you jumped off the Palestone Sword tower into the sea.”

“That is what I wanted him to believe,” Ashara nodded, wondering why she never thought about what she will say, once this moment arrives. Now she found that she should have prepared herself. She should have realised that if they ever find Jon Connington, he won’t be the same man that she knew. She should have expected him to become rougher and even colder. Dangerous, in fact, for he looked truly dangerous, he looked like someone Ashara would tremble to walk past in an alley. He lived the life of a sellsword after all, whatever that life was like, for she knew very little about it in truth. She didn’t even think about whether that life allowed the man to aid the boy in any way, or not. She didn’t think it through at all. She just knew that this man was the only person who knew the prince well, knew the boy’s father like nobody else did perhaps, and so he was the only one able to raise the boy according to the boy’s name because even she knew too little to accomplish that alone, not to mention that the boy needed a home, a safe place, and she could hardly provide that the way a man could.

“The fuck happened,” he whispered then, his face calmer, “Forgive me, I lost my manners a long time ago. Why are you here, my Lady?”

“Come and see,” she said then, motioning the babe toward him.

He stepped closer, looking down at the babe in her arms, his face betraying his shock.

“Those eyes,” he whispered, “I have seen a babe with those eyes today. Targaryen eyes.”

“Prince Rhaegar’s eyes,” she nodded, “Even if you cannot call them thus, my Lord, they are the same shape and shade. This is his son, not mine. He named him Jon after you just like he swore to you that he would.”

He let out a deep breath, his eyes on the boy once more. His features softened, betraying a level of pain he must have felt at the sight, as he reached for a tiny hand, tiny fingers locking around his pointing finger then. The boy was calm as always, completely unaffected by it all, fiddling just a little in the swaddle in her arms, his bright purple eyes taking in the sight of their faces as if he was curious to learn them. As if he could decipher anything of what was going on around him.

“Care to hold him,” she asked softly.

“No,” the answer was swift as he pulled back his hand, “Best not to drop a Targaryen. Too few of them left.”

She chuckled loud at that.

“How,” he asked then, motioning for her to sit, and he sat down in the chair opposite her by the small table.

“I can only tell what I know,” she said, “Ned Stark came to me with the babe, and Howland Reed, they were to return Dawn to Starfall. Arthur was guarding…”

“Lyanna Stark,” he finished her sentence, “The boy is the babe growing in her belly when I last saw her, then.”

“He is,” Ashara nodded, “They found her dying in the birthing bed in a watchtower. My brother and Ser Oswell and the White Bull were guarding her so they fought them. My brother is dead, my Lord.”

“Not a lord,” he said bitterly, “Not anymore. No need for pretences, just call me by name.”

“Then I am no lady,” she said, “Lady Ashara Dayne is dead. She jumped off the Palestone Sword into the sea.”

“How come you have the boy,” he asked then, “Did Stark want nothing of his sister’s brood?”

“Ned,” she spit the name almost, “Asked for my help. The boy has his father’s eyes, no way a Stark could pass him as his own and even less so among people having seen Targaryens before. It is what he planned, to use my name, pretend I was mother to this boy and take him North to raise him as his bastard. He wanted to strip the boy of his name.”

He sat back in his chair at that, his eyes narrowing in anger. “I shall gut that man one day,” he declared, “For what he has done to you, my… Ashara. Why Howland Reed?”

“Lord Howland has seen it fit to help me convince Ned that the boy could be safer at Greywater Watch and then no such elaborate lies would be needed,” she explained, “If you ask me, it is because Lord Howland read the prince’s diary. We convinced Ned of it, then we spoke about it some more, and he chose to help me find you in the end. I told him as much; nobody could raise the boy in his father’s memory but you.”

He chuckled at that. “Doubtful I could raise him in any way,” he said, “What am I to do with a babe, he needs a wetnurse and a septon and a maester.”

“He needs his mother and father,” she told him, “But his mother is dead, and his father is dead. My lord… Jon, please. Help me.”

She watched him nod slowly, his eyes on the boy. She knew, it wasn’t his agreement that he nodded, more of an unconscious nod as he forced himself to let it all sink in. There were a hundred emotions in those pale blue eyes now, but he spoke nothing of them, as he watched the boy. Once more he reached out over the table, offering the boy his pointing finger, merely touching it to those tiny fingers and the boy grabbed at it. It made him smile, just a little, barely visibly.

“That small man thinks me the father,” he said then with that slight smile still on his lips.

“He does,” she nodded. “His name is Quagg. He means no harm, it is just… Lord Howland took me to Greywater Watch, and they all saw me with the babe and feeding him and caring for him… they all assumed me mother to him and then they all thought that we are looking for his father. I knew not what to do with it, I thought to leave it to you for it seemed the best way to hide him.”

“Does Robert know then,” he asked, “If he does then the boy is in danger.”

“He does not,” Ashara said, “As much as I can tell, nobody knows.”

“Eddard Stark knows,” he said, “That in my eyes is as much as Robert knowing.”

“Lord Howland swears by Ned,” she argued, “He is certain that Ned will keep the boy a secret for he is his sister’s. As long as the boy is hidden, mind you.”

He chuckled. “As long as the problem is hidden,” he translated it. “And then he would run to Robert once the boy is found out, to save his neck, I wager. He dragged you into this as if he has not done enough harm to you without.”

“It was my choice,” she corrected, “He asked for my name so he could tarnish my honour once more by claiming the boy a bastard born to him by me. Instead, I took the boy from him. He was right at that part, with me around the boy is seen as my own, it has been proven at Greywater Watch. You’ve seen it yourself when Quagg scolded you. They all think him mine, only Lord Howland knows the truth.”

He lifted his gaze then, to meet her eyes. “What happened to your own babe?”

She swallowed hard at that. She’s never before put this into words, and now if she did, then the words will gain the meaning she spent so much time to deny, to brush aside, to ignore. She will never be able to take those words back. She took a deep breath, preparing herself to rush out the words she was meant to speak. “A girl stillborn and buried on the day, not even named.”

He nodded, as he reached and tucked the stray lock of hair out of her face, behind her ear. She wondered at the gesture; it reminded her of Kings Landing. This same gesture, the only physical contact she’s ever had from Jon Connington. He used to tuck her hair out of her face, even when others were around. No doubt there were people who thought more of it than what it was but she always took it as a sign of care. He cared for her. “I am sorry,” he said softly. “I am sorry that I was a useless friend to you, I should have stood by you then.”

The words made her heart ache. “Nobody could stand by me then; it was my mistake. I knew not that Ned will forsake me, I expected more from the man.”

He nodded. “I did not,” he stated, “And that is why I say what I say. I thought about it after I received your brother’s missive. What a useless friend I was to you… I could have sorted it, would not have been much surprise if I asked for your hand after all and it was not like I had thought of wedding another. I could have sorted it and instead I offered you letters. Not much help to repay all your care and kindness.”

She could not figure what to say to that. She never held such things against this man, or anyone else for that matter, because she never thought of it this way. She never thought it anyone’s duty to save her from the consequences of her own lapse in good judgement as she now viewed the whole affair. She never loved before and she thought herself above such mistakes, then she thought that she loved and believed that she has been loved, and thus she made the exact mistake that she thought herself incapable of. She was naïve to trust a man because she wanted to believe his promise of love, and she paid the price.

She watched Jon Connington stand and begin pacing the room. He didn’t speak, she knew by now that was not his way, she knew him that much. In truth, their conversation thus far was more interactive than she expected – it seemed to her that Essos did one good thing to Lord Jon, it stripped away his reservation from sharing his mind with others. Not that she experienced much of that from him before, but she’s seen it enough in Kings Landing.

“You want me to raise the boy,” he said then as matter of fact.

“I do,” she confirmed it once more, “Though I must confess I know not how you could. I know nothing about how you live…”

He stopped at hearing that, his eyes as if searching hers. “Best you know not,” he declared, his voice bitter like she never heard before.

“Are you free to accept this charge, just say as much then,” she asked, not willing to pry when he clearly was not forthcoming.

“As free as a sellsword can be, I wager,” he said, “There is no woman in the way if that is what you ask, but there are other things.”

“Other things,” she repeated.

“Yes, other things,” he confirmed his ambiguous words in need of further explanation. “I know not the first thing about raising a child, and especially not one as small as this boy. Hells, I never thought myself to ever have a child of my own. I told you, he needs a wetnurse and a septon and a maester, if you want him raised properly as a Westerosi. Later he shall need more, a good knight to teach him use of the sword no doubt.”

“I managed this far without a wetnurse,” she said then, “I keep him clean, I feed him on my own breast. The rest of those can come later.”

“You would stay with me,” he concluded then, his eyes searching hers. “You mean to go on with the pretence that the boy is yours by me and you merely reunite with his father by coming to me.”

“It sounds to be an awful lie,” she whispered, feeling the weight of what she was asking for now that he has put it into words of his own fashion, for the first time really seeing the price of what thus far was only a fleeting idea never defined or properly considered.

“It sounds to be the most plausible way,” he countered without much ado, factually as she’s known him to be. “At least here in Essos. I arrived what, seven months ago? I could have fathered the child before I set sail, and now that it is born, you could have joined me… It makes some sense. Makes much more sense than my suddenly having a purple-eyed boy to raise on my own. I cannot do this on my own, nobody would buy into it and I would only declare the boy’s identity if I attempted it. After all I am a known royalist.”

“Neither could I,” she admitted, “I could not do it on my own either, not without a father for him. I would only be a fallen woman with a bastard, then even Winterfell would mean better prospects for him, even with his name forever taken from him. That is what Ned would do, strip the boy of his name and never tell him the truth, I am sure of it.”

“No, that cannot happen,” he declared, “But you are right, you cannot attempt this on your own. It takes a lot of gold to raise a child on this side of the Narrow Sea and do it well and not by begging for food in the gutters.”

She nodded. She knew nothing about that part, she realised. “We are castle-raised, you and I,” she said lowly, “I cannot tell how or where to even start with this, where to get that gold, and the septon and the maester and a home...”

“Volon Therys,” he began to explain, “The Golden Company is a group of exiles and descendants of exiles, for the most part. Many of them have families, they keep them in the town of Volon Therys just north of Volantis. Ask me not how it is all arranged, they are said to have half the town and the garrison, and arrangement with the triarchy of Volantis regarding governance of it all. I never saw any of it though. Those with no families do not enter the town to keep it from becoming an army camp. But that is where the children and the women and the elderly are kept.”

He chuckled aloud suddenly and she gave him a questioning look.

“Toyne believes that you were my paramour,” he explained, “The captain-general, he came to the conclusion that you threw yourself into the sea out of heartbreak over me and a babe I fathered on you. See, it all fits well, if he believes it then anyone would.”

“So, you will do it,” she asked.

“The boy is Rhaegar’s son,” he declared instead of an answer, “He is the heir to the Iron Throne… Gods. This is far more than merely raising an orphan boy in Rhaegar’s name.”

“You know,” she stood, walking toward the crib to put down the now sleeping babe, “I told Ned that I cannot agree to his plan for he would take from the boy his name… I thought about that a lot since.” She turned around to face him. “The boy cannot grow up with his own name. Even Ned said thus, Robert has no love for dragons.”

“No, he wants to kill them all, that is what we believe,” he nodded.

“The boy needs to remain hidden,” she said, stepping closer to him. “He needs another name until he is grown to claim his own, and he needs someone who will give him a proper name to grow up with and prepare him for when it is time to claim his own. You could give him your name.”

“Not without you, I could not,” he said.

“Artus thinks me dead,” she reminded him then, “I wanted no argument over this or my leaving for who knows how long so I left him with that belief. I can stay with you.”

He nodded. “Best to keep up the pretence, then.”

“What is that man like,” she asked, “Toyne, you said, your captain-general.”

“Prying, mainly,” he shrugged, “I know not whether I can trust the man just yet and he gladly uses me to his advantage so best not involve him, or anyone else for that matter. If we do this then we know of it and nobody else.”

She nodded. She found his eyes looking her up, in them wonder. “This will tie you to me,” he said.

“Could be worse,” she smiled, “It could tie me to Ned Stark. You will do.”

He merely nodded; she couldn’t read his eyes just then. “You ought to be madly in love to follow a man to Essos with your new-born babe,” he told her, “Having faked your own death to be able to do so. You will have to pretend that you love me like that.”

“And you will have to pretend yourself in love enough to be glad for it,” she noted and he let out a sigh.

“So far not a hard task,” he smirked, “I have been miserable enough for anyone to believe it. I did things… you may hear things about me not for the ears of a wife, I suppose.”

She nodded once more. Walking past him, she sat down by the table once more, wondering about his last words. He’s been miserable because he loved prince Rhaegar, most likely, and he lost the one he loved. Now he has to pretend that it was all about her, she understood. The things he did, she wondered, likely those were things that men do when they are miserable, drinking and whoring. Some man did those things even if they were not miserable, like Robert Baratheon was known to do. She never heard of Jon Connington doing any such things, and Kings Landing was full of rumours. None involved drinking and whoring by the lord of griffins. But this was not Kings Landing, here he was not one of the prince’s companions – and more to his prince than any other – here he was a fallen lord who lost everything, an exile alone…

“You said wife,” she said aloud in realisation.

“Isn’t that why a woman so madly in love would follow her man to Essos?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I suppose so,” she nodded, “I suppose her man would want to make an honest woman of her.”

“We shall be wed then,” he stated once more as factually as she’d known him to be, “If we mean to do this right, that is the first thing we should do. There will have to be… changes.”

“Changes?”

“I am not the kind of man you would want for a husband, Ashara,” he said forgivingly, “I do things that are best left unspoken. I shall stop doing them if I mean to convince anyone that I love you like that.”

“Whoring it is then,” she chuckled, “I already thought so.”

“And wine,” he sighed, “Toyne will gladly tell you to get me off the wine, repeatedly I suspect. And… Perhaps best you know, after all… See if you wish to change your mind then, it is only fair that way.”

“Know what?”

“They are boys,” his eyes were searching hers, as he said it. “The whores. Young men. Whatever, you know what I am talking about.”

She nodded, trying to hide whatever surprise came to her and hoping that she did so successfully, with his eyes locked on hers. It was not that she was surprised at what he confessed to – it was that he confessed to it. Artus never would confess doing the same to whomever he will choose to wed.

“My brother does the same,” she said then, “I am a Dornish woman, Jon. I may have been raised according to your values, but I was raised in Dorne.”

“That settles that, then,” he sighed of relief.

“If I may ask,” she spoke up before thinking it through, before realising where the question would have led. She stopped mid-sentence.

“Rhaegar.”

She hesitantly nodded, wondering just how he knew what she would not put into words to ask now. Of course he did, he knew of all the rumours no doubt, he lived with those rumours for years. He must have known what they called him behind his back, a sword-swallower. Arthur was protecting him as much as he was protecting the prince when he arranged for her presence in Kings Landing, for that first walk in the gardens, and no doubt Jon Connington knew more of Arthur’s reasons than she did at the time.

“It was true,” he whispered, “Though I suppose some of the stories went a bit too far, people have too much imagination. This said… Elia had nothing to worry about. I doubt that Rhaegar ever truly loved anyone like that, not even Lyanna Stark and look what all he did for that girl.”

“You loved him.”

He took a deep breath. “Yes... No need to deny that to you.”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “The princess told me the same once. During one of the times she knew you were with the prince, she told me that it cannot be love for her husband could not love anyone. He did not have it in him.”

“No, he did not,” he nodded. She wondered how he could be so factual about it, how he could speak about it without breaking down like she used to break down every time she had to speak of Ned Stark during the months of her belly swelling, her babe growing in her womb, even after the horrendous ordeal that meant an end to that for she could not put that into words. Perhaps men were different, they did not get broken by such truths. But then she understood, Jon Connington knew this all along. Unlike Elia, he knew what he entered into, he had no pretences. She respected it, that someone could be strong enough to have the willingness to give love without expecting it in return. She wondered if she was capable of the same. Not that it was a question of her actually loving Jon Connington, they were plotting an arrangement. In another life it could have been their fathers plotting the same arrangement perhaps. Artus could have arranged it with this man just a few years ago without her ever meeting the man before the day of the wedding, or perhaps meeting him for one time like Elia met Rhaegar. When the prince travelled to Dorne and spent not a week at Sunspear to finalise the arrangement and do courtship, as if it mattered if he courted his bride or not. Ashara thought it chivalrous at the time when she first heard of it because she was a naïve girl with foolish ideas that men were to woo their brides and love was the result of every marriage arrangement, even if it was not there before. This arrangement could have been made like that, and then likely he would have never confessed to her the same things he confessed now, just like how prince Rhaegar never admitted to Elia anything, no matter how the princess tried to pry it out of him. At least they were making an arrangement without such pretences. She always knew that she could have asked him. Now she knew the answer, as well.

“Are you able to do this,” she asked softly.

“For Rhaegar’s son?” He turned toward her; his face resolute. “I tell you something else. Ser Willem Darry is settled in Braavos, Toyne and I met with him today. He has Viserys with him on the queen’s orders, and he has the queen’s newborn as well, Daenerys her name is. I remember when Toyne told me of them for he wanted me to confirm it is Viserys with Ser Willem and I chafed at the task. You know what I thought? Was it Rhaegar’s son, I would run all the way from Volantis for the boy, that is what I thought. I would not think twice whatever there was to do if it was for one of Rhaegar’s. Now I have Rhaegar’s son. It is no choice to make now for I already made it.”

“It is settled then,” she declared and he chuckled.

“Could have asked you when that trouble happened, and save the rest of it,” he said. “Perhaps then you would not have had need for Lord Reed. How long have you waited here?”

“Five days,” she shrugged, “Not that long in truth. The innkeeper looks after us well enough.”

“On my bill,” he gave her a mischievous look, “He better have been feasting you lot or else I shall contest the bill.”

“He was kind enough,” she assured, “He saw how small little Jon is, so he had the crib brought up. The washerwoman comes twice daily to collect the linens and brings them back all clean, he told us that he shall add that for free. Lord Howland enquired after the bill, but the man said it was settled.”

“Aye, Toyne has it, passed it onto me today,” He nodded, that mischief still in his pale blue eyes. Ashara liked seeing that. It reminded her of mischievous jokes at the expense of passers-by in the gardens, sitting on the bench and making mirth together. “We best get the crannogmen out of that room,” he said then, “Who knows, that bearded one may have one ear pressed to the door all this time. That one will have trouble with me I am sure of it.”

“Try not to cut him down,” she laughed, “Quagg has been good to me.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” he said, leaning close to her to tuck that stray lock of hair behind her ear once more, before he stepped to the adjoining door and knocked.

“Lord Reed,” he called out, “If you care to join us.”

It took a few moments for the door open, and it was Quagg opening it, Ashara trying to bite down the grin on her lips at the thought of Quagg’s ear pressed against that door all this time. Quagg held the door for Lord Howland, and Lord Jon – no, just Jon from now on, she reminded herself – motioned for Reed to enter. Quagg followed.

“All is settled then,” Reed asked with an eyebrow raised.

“Not just yet,” Jon said, still looking mischievous, so much so that Ashara wondered for a moment if he will give the secret away just by the change in his demeanour. “I shall find a septon, I need a day or two perhaps, see what I can arrange. We have never met, Lord Reed.”

“Oh, we could have,” Lord Howland turned toward Jon then, “We both attended the tourney at Harrenhal. I saw your matches in fact.”

“Ser Barristan bested me,” Jon nodded, “Just as I thought he will when I saw my pull, unlucky that was. Had I won, I knew who I would have crowned the queen of love and beauty,” he nodded to Ashara just then. “But I was never particularly good at jousting with lance, I stood no chance against Ser Barristan.”

“Well, you did better still than I would have ever accomplished,” Howland laughed.

“We all excel in different things,” Jon said then, “Thank you, Lord Reed, for bringing my lady to me. It is hard to express in words how grateful I am for what you did, not many men would have done what you did. Perhaps none of them would have. I will not forget your kindness to me and mine own.” He said it so convincingly that Ashara almost believed it. He said it for Quagg’s benefit, no doubt.

“Why a day or two,” Quagg asked then, “Just to see what can be arranged.”

“I am no lord anymore,” Jon said then, visibly trying to keep calm at being questioned, “I am under command in fact, I am to be back in camp at sunrise. The Company camps just outside the city walls. I need time to sort this.”

“That is understandable,” Reed nodded, “And a few days really is nothing.”

Jon turned toward her then, “Have you tried sweets from the markets,” he asked and Ashara shook her head, wondering at the sudden and strange change of topic.

“Just as well then,” Jon said, as he reached to unbuckle his sword belt and seeing that, Ashara truly became surprised. “I shall bring you some, there are stalls at night by the Moon Pool. If Lord Reed agrees to join me for the walk?”

“Gladly,” Reed nodded, “Let me take…”

“No visible weapons, Lord Reed,” Jon interrupted.

“Why is that,” She wondered aloud, “Surely a city like this cannot be safe at night.”

“It is the safest of all the cities at night,” Jon began to explain, “The bravos are out at night, wear a sword after sundown and they may just take it a challenge to duel to the death.”

“The bravos,” Reed repeated with wonder in his voice.

“Swordsmen of Braavos,” Jon nodded, “Water dancers, if you heard of those. Swift and nimble things, they duel by the Moon Pool at night.”

“Is it safe, still,” Quagg asked then, “Perhaps my lord should…”

“I carry two daggers,” Jon shrugged, “I assure you; I know how to use them.” He laid his sword on the table and then he stepped to her, leaning down to take her face in his palms he placed a swift kiss on her forehead. For Quagg’s benefit, she knew. He motioned for Lord Howland and the both of them were gone in no time.

“Strange man,” Quagg said with a sigh as he stepped to the crib, looking at the boy. Little Jon, now having a father and a mother once more, Ashara thought. She sat down by the table, her hand reaching for the sword. She touched the hilt, the leather of the belt.

“He seems glad enough,” Quagg remarked, “For a man who wished to cut my throat, I suppose he is glad enough.”

“Think of it this way,” Ashara remarked, “You, Quagg, are a lord, son of an ancient and noble House. For losing a battle you could not win, you get stripped of your lands and titles and exiled from your homeland. You leave, knowing not what will become of you. Then one day you are told to go and meet a man at an inn, and find there your wife and child that you did not know you had.”

“I take it this way,” Quagg said, “If I am that lord, I lost everything I had. Until I found everything that really matters at that Inn, my lady.”

“Then you know how he feels, Quagg,” she nodded.

“I thought he knew.”

“He did not,” Ashara gave Quagg a smile, “He knew not many things that he learned today, and the same is true for me.”

“As long as you are to be happy at the end of this, my lady,” Quagg said as he came to sit by the table with her. “Being wed to this man, I just hope that he will make you happy. We all grew very fond of you and the babe.”

Ashara smiled widely at Quagg, reaching out she laid her hand on his.

“Worry not, my dear friend,” she said, “All will be well now. I know it.”

Quagg nodded and sat back in the chair, and she retrieved her hand, once more she began to fiddle with the leather of the sword belt laid on the table in front of her. Her thoughts were on Jon Connington, the man whom she now agreed to wed for a plot to raise together a boy born to a dead prince, and who knows, perhaps to do much more than that. To end the stag and the lion and the wolf and everyone who wronged them at the end of it all, perhaps. When the boy has grown, with his true name, and perhaps an army since they were so close to one now that was known to be eager to return to Westeros, the boy could take back what his father lost at the Trident. Perhaps that is why Jon agreed, she thought. Perhaps that was what drove her as well, though she never thought of it, perhaps she wanted revenge, for herself and for the children, for little Rhaenys whom she adored, for Elia and most of all for Arthur, so his death was not in vain. Who knows what awaited them at the end of this, once the boy has grown. She thought to ask Jon about it sometime.

It was interesting really. While they discoursed the matter of the boy and came to the eventual conclusion that now seemed as obvious as it seemed inevitable to her, they were having the most open discussion they ever had. Not even the jokes and the laughs in Kings Landing were shared with such honest openness. At the same time, she felt Jon Connington so different from the man she remembered him to be. He seemed more dangerous to her, still, as if his quick temper now ruled him above everything else. How he had no issues drawing a sword at the perceived insult to him when he arrived was not missed by her. It made her wonder, what kind of life the man had after leaving Westeros, that made him so eager to kill? Was it the result of dangers experienced here? Or was it the result of what he’s lost and the anger he surely must have felt about it all?

When she was a girl, about eleven-twelve of age, she often tried to imagine what kind of man will be her husband. Father was still alive then and he oft spoke about his own views on the matters the time for she was to flower soon, and in turn Ashara often wondered about what kind of life awaited her. She used to sit with Arthur in the gardens discoursing the same. Arthur was always meant for knighthood, since she could remember her brother wanted nothing else. Not even the touch of first love swayed Arthur’s mind. For her, the path was in a way just as clear, father was looking for a good match for at the time Ashara was his only daughter, Allyria came much later. But in a way the future seemed far less clear, for she knew nothing about who her intended shall become beyond that it shall not be a Dornishman. Father had been one of those who hailed themselves descendant of the First Men and not of the Rhoynar, and he did what he could to keep his children from becoming the followers of certain Dornish customs. He installed his views and a degree of chastity in both his sons and in Ashara as well. Father likely never realised Artos’ inclination toward men… just as he never learned of Arthur’s first love and his secret experiences of a woman’s touch, before Arthur gave that all up to become a white sword of King Aerys when the appointment came. Ashara had no such experiences, not while father lived and once he passed Arthur soon arranged for her the position as one of Princess Elia’s ladies. If father was still living, he’d tell her that she was his greatest shame for what happened with Stark. She felt the shame of it all too well.

She never thought herself settle with a man who had such fiery dark red of hair, the curious thought came. Not that this was the kind of settling that she imagined for herself, far away from home in Essos, to become… what? Wife of a sellsword, who was in turn an exile and a Stormlander, cultured quite differently from her own. She used to think that Jon Connington had the rough and prickly demeanour he had because he was raised through those famous storms of his homeland, with view over Shipbreaker Bay from Griffin’s Roost where if caught in a storm out on water, you prayed to the Gods to save you and most likely they would not have listened. That the demeanour helped the man to keep people at bay, safely away from his secrets and his heart, was in part the result, and in part Jon's own doing she thought, taking advantage of his own nature.

Now they were agreed to become man and wife, to be able to raise the boy as their own. She understood that Jon took Lord Howland for a walk to have a word about just that, perhaps even discourse the how and when and what there was to be done. Ashara knew little about Essosi customs from this perspective. She thought now once more about Jon Connington, remembering the man pace around the room deeply lost in his own thoughts. Tall and strong just as she remembered, and even more so, she thought. Red of hair and freckles that she knew, but now he had the tanned olive skin tone, no doubt having spent countless days on army marches out in the open. Cleanshaven really suited the man better, she smiled to herself. He will do. She never thought the man uncomely, no, and if gave it proper thought now, he was quite a handsome one, with all his roughness and his overpowering presence and his quick temper setting him apart from all other men she knew. And she knew the man to be a wise one, most certainly not witless. He was well read and cultured, though clearly have lost some of his manners in the short time he’s spent with the Golden Company.

He drank and he whored and the whores were men… That was something to think about. He said that he shall put an end to those things though. He certainly shall, no man would believe him to love her if he spent his nights away from her drinking and whoring. Perhaps even… Ashara wondered how far they have to go with the pretence, they failed to talk about that. Interesting thought that was, for she didn’t think herself to ever be wed after what has befallen her with Ned Stark. Not that it was widely known in the land, Artus made sure of it kept secret at Starfall. But she had no inclination for another man and now she agreed to take one. And if she really thought about it, with the two of them pretending to be so madly in love that his exile could not put an end to it and that they had lain together already despite being unwed… would people believe them if there were no further children to follow? Something to ask Jon about.

The babe stirred in the crib then, chuckled as was his way, for he did not cry much. He was truly a good boy already, calm and quiet with a good appetite and sound sleep and adorable giggles that she managed to coerce out of him sometimes. She stood; she took him in her arms. Quagg paid no mind to her sitting back beside him, untying her dress to feed the babe, humming a melody to the boy as she did so. When finished, she took her handkerchief and laid on her shoulder, and laid the babe to rest his head over it.

“It is all well, “ she murmured to the boy, “All is well. You have your papa now. He will make it all well now.”

Chapter Text

GRIFF

It was to be a short walk, but because neither of them spoke a single word, and because he could not pace according to his own quick fashion if he wanted to be mindful of the man beside him, it felt longer than what it actually was. In truth, Griff was thankful for that as well, perhaps even more so than for Reed’s role in Ashara’s appearance with Rhaegar’s boy.

Good Gods, Rhaegar had a boy, still breathing. Rhaegar had a boy borne to him after his demise. Rhaegar if you watch me from somewhere right now, from wherever dead princes go, I hope you see this for the joke it is on me… You and your ideas of my wedding the lady Ashara Dayne, such a good match that none could hope for better, you said…I never wanted to wed, what with my inclinations, I never wanted to know wedlock. But I shall strive to be good to your boy. I know I shall never be a father near as good as you were, I have seen many times… In truth I know not the first thing about it. I won’t be singing the boy lullabies like you would, best not expect that from me. Gods. I hope I can do this. Rhaegar, do you hear me, I hope I can do this. For you. One last thing, for you. By the Gods, you still have me. Even from the grave, you still have me. Damn you. Your boy needs a father.

He yearned for a flagon of wine. He could buy himself one, share with the crannogmen perhaps, and it would not be much, not enough for Toyne to fuss about it. He could even blame it on the crannogmen, though it would need telling Howland Reed. What is a lie about a flagon of wine compared to all the lies he shall speak, Griff wondered. He needed it, he needed the relief and damn, he needed Rhaegar’s ghost to make his appearance for he felt like a complete fool.

Of course it was no decision to make, what was he to do, turn away Ashara Dayne with Rhaegar’s boy? It is as she said, she would be nothing but a fallen woman with a bastard. Perhaps Lord Reed would have taken her back to his hold, and there she would have been viewed as a woman rejected. A woman used; she deserved better than that. And who knows perhaps Lord Reed had a wife of his own. Perhaps not and then he would make a far better husband, of that Griff was most certain. Anyone really could have done better than him, he had nothing going for him to turn him into a devoted husband and father. I am a sellsword for Gods’ sake, a fallen lord in shame stripped of my titles and lands and exiled, the end of House Connington so ancient and proud, fifty griffins to rule from the Griffin Seat only for it to end with me. Me and my love for Rhaegar. What was I thinking… I am a sellsword, I serve in the Golden Company, I kill for gold, and I drink, and I whore whenever I can I fuck men for that is to my taste, the abomination that I am. Damn you Rhaegar for once making me believe otherwise. Rose too high, fell too low. Ashara is wrong, I am the worst to raise your son in your name. I am the only one left – lest we hand the boy to Ser Willem, good man that he is, what’s one more Targaryen in his care after all?

It was nothing more than musings, he knew, for he already gave his word to Ashara Dayne. That is all I have left. My word, I never went against my word. I will not begin now.

Besides, Ser Willem went about the matter of Viserys so clumsily that Griff was in truth surprised that the man still breathed the air. No, Ashara’s way was certainly better for Rhaegar’s own son, the last of Rhaegar’s brood. He chuckled to himself.

So much for your prophecies, Rhaegar, the Gods played their joke on you like they played their jokes on me. You wanted your Visenya, the dragon was to have three heads. Now you have a boy, named after a griffin, and the dragon doesn’t have three heads, not from your loins like you believed… Look what you have done. Besides, your own mother disinherited your own boy, she crowned Viserys.

That may be an issue, to top all the other issues Griff could not even foretell. He couldn’t worry about Viserys, not for the boy of seven and not for the future if that boy survived to manhood with that damned crown of his on his head. He had other worries, his mind as usual racing to convince him just what a foolish mess he’s gotten himself into.

I need a house; I need to convince Toyne to arrange one in Volon Therys. I need servants, Ashara cannot be expected to clean and cook and wash the damn soiled linens of the boy… I need servants. A septon and a maester. I cannot even tell how much I have left in the chequer. What does rent of a house cost for a man of the company in Volon Therys… Good Gods. We may be paupers for all I know, after all I cared not for my spending and the damn boys and rooms were expensive treats, and the weapons and the armour and the three horses to begin with. Perhaps I need a loan from the war chests, if possible. Need to see Gorys about that, better than the old man to tell me and it cannot wait until we are back down south. Need to feed them and clothe them… Ashara is a lady, castle-raised like she said, she is accustomed to things. And she needs a wetnurse, Lord Reed should have thought of that. What’s a woman like her doing feeding a babe on her own breast, that has to stop. No man will believe I have love for her if I allow her do that, she needs a wetnurse first of all. And a septon, we need a septon, I know not if there is a sept in this accursed city that would wed us… Good Gods. I need to tell Toyne, I need his help to arrange all this. He will enjoy this no doubt, I shall be forever in his debt for this. As if we needed Toyne’s attention on us. Perhaps Gorys can help, surely, he must know a thing or two about Volon Therys… I need to speak to Gorys about it.

He stopped, in his thoughts as well as in his steps, for they reached the Moon Pool, as close to a square as Braavos could offer. In the end the journey here proved long enough to work himself completely into a mess. Now he looked around, his mind barely registering the two young men eyeing each other in the middle. Instead, he took in the sight of the by-standers, men and women, and more boys with their funny swords – more of the bravos. One of those two shall die today most likely, once they stop dancing around each other. He watched one of these duels before, it took hours for the two kept eyeing each other, going around each other. He knew enough about water dancing to know; they were trying to reach each other. In the end, one will always snap, make a mistake, and the other will catch the opening – they could have fought like Westerosi and save the hours of dancing around the matter, the end was the same anyways. The better one spilled the blood of the other. He felt the need to spill some blood, as well. His eyes settled on the stalls to one side. He nodded to Reed to follow.

The first one offered little of interest, dried and smoked fish of different kinds and other delicacies from the sea. Salted smoked salmon among them, Rhaegar’s favourite. Griff used to sneak out of the Red Keep a few times to get some in the harbour, before the sunrise when they were just being laid out, still fresh, he did that a few times for Rhaegar. Not all of those nights were spent in Rhaegar’s company, but some were, and he tried not to recall now the sleeping image of his silver prince as he used to murmur in his sleep while turning on the bed, oblivious to the disturbing noise being Griff dressing besides. There were other nights as well when he did that without them having been spent so well, nights when he knew that Rhaegar had to deal with his father. He knew for Ser Arthur or Ser Oswell would come and tell him thus, it was their way. The white swords knew a lot, could do very little, so they relied on others to try and fix all the shit by Aerys. It was a small thing to do for Griff to try and lighten the blackest of moods that always followed such a night, darker than even the melancholy after visits to Summerhall. Stop musing about Rhaegar, think on your new wife. You promised sweets to Ashara. Griff left the stall for the next, and seeing it had little difference, walked past to the next. There better be one selling sweets.

The fourth one was the one. He studied the merchandise on offer, dried fruits mainly, slices of pineapples and mangos but also dried figs and whatever else he could not even identify. Ashara liked figs, he knew that much. He asked for half a dozen of those three, took the parchment pack from the merchant. The next stall was easier to read, all kinds of baked goods, though he wondered how fresh these could have been so late in the night. “Have you had supper, my Lord,” he asked Howland Reed who merely nodded, studying the merchandise himself. Griff settled on that sweet biscuit type thing he once tried, they bake it and soak it in melted sugar and then roast it, and the result was a crunchy sticky thing sickly sweet. Perhaps she will like that, for at least that one could not mind a few hours out on the stall, he thought. He wondered if he should get himself something to eat, he had no supper after all, has not eaten since the Company began to make camp. The turn of his stomach settled the matter quickly though, he had his nerves all worked up. He won’t eat a thing tonight. Another parchment bag obtained; his eyes took in the sight of the rest of the stalls.

“A favour, Lord Reed,” he said, motioning toward the last stall. “I shall buy a flagon of good wine for us, but I cannot be known to have bought it, if you mind to claim it your own.”

“Then I shall pay for it as well,” Howland Reed chuckled, “One less lie to speak.” Griff nodded, so be it, he thought. “What is the issue of you buying it?” Reed asked him.

“The issue of being known a drunkard,” Griff explained, not even thinking whether he should be honest about it. What of it, knowing Toyne they all shall know soon enough for knowing Toyne, as soon as the man hears of Ashara, he shall be visiting her first thing, even if it meant visiting her without Griff. One more thing to worry about, that was. Not that Toyne would act dishonourably toward her, no he would not. The man was respectful, in his own way, he said things but Griff never heard a story of Toyne doing more than that. No, it was what he would reveal to Ashara that bothered him. Just as well that he came clean about all his wrongdoings, and even the right ones as well.

He pointed at a small flagon, listened to the merchant explaining what he already expected, sweet fruity red from the Summer Isles the man claimed. Good, perhaps Ashara would like a cup. He nodded, Reed paid, he felt a slight tingle of guilt, he brushed it away. They turned to leave, and the two water dancers were still dancing around each other. “Look at them fools,” Griff nodded toward them, “They will be at it for hours and they think themselves better than us Westerosi. I say, attack is the best defense, overwhelm with swift strikes instead of this pretence of reading each other’s minds. Speed is the key, followed by aim and a good mind to think five steps ahead, as Ser Willem Darry would say to these fools. Spill the blood and be done with it.”

Reed chuckled. “I am not much of a swordsman.”

“What do crannogmen fight with, then,” Griff asked.

“Tridents.”

“Three-pronged spears,” Griff translated to himself, “I like that.”

They walked slowly backwards past all the stalls they passed, Griff carrying the parchment bags and Reed carrying the small flagon. Griff didn’t think of taking it from the man. He wondered what to say, how to approach the conversation he needed to have. In the end, Reed must have had enough of his silence for he spoke instead.

“Indeed, we came for sweets,” Reed said with an honest smile that made Griff wonder about the man.

“Do you know how to woo a woman, Lord Reed,” he asked.

“Truly I have no idea,” Reed laughed.

“That makes the two of us then,” Griff nodded with a slight grin, “And here goes my effort to waste, hoping for some advice.”

“Methinks she needs no wooing,” Reed remarked.

“She does not, I give you that,” Griff nodded, “Only the rest of the world needs to see me wooing her. Men who do know how to go about wooing a woman into their beds need to see me charming her off her feet.”

Reed nodded, seemingly thinking about it. “Because you mean to raise the boy as your own, just like the lady expected that you would.”

“That I do,” he declared, “Though I know not the first thing to go about it, in truth.”

“One step at a time,” Reed remarked.

“There is no other way than one step at a time,” Griff agreed, “Now if only I managed to figure the first step. That is not why I asked you come with me.”

“No, it is not,” Reed nodded, making Griff wonder even more about the man. “You mean to ask me to join in on the lie, because I know the truth. I take it, you mean to reveal to no one.”

“Exactly,” Griff said, “Because the fewer know the better. Enough as it is that Stark know. He’s a lapdog to Robert, Lord Reed.”

“He wants no harm to the boy,” Reed whispered, “The boy is his blood after all. I know he may not have gone well about it, but I know he meant to protect the boy.”

“Let us hope it not being naivety speaking through those words, Lord Reed,” Griff remarked. “Perhaps I also mean to tell you, one day I shall gut Lord Stark for what he’s done to my lady.”

“Your lady already,” Reed remarked instead of taking his bait.

“Better get used to this new situation,” Griff remarked, though he felt the need to tell Reed just then, Ashara was more his then anyone else’s ever. Had Reed spent a little time in Kings Landing during Aerys’ time, he would have seen that much for she never had eyes for another, she only spent time with him. With Lord Jon Connington of Griffin’s Roost.

He could still remember how proud that made him feel, how others looked at them. She was a beautiful girl, more beautiful than any other he knew in truth, much more so than Rhaegar’s princess even. Yes, he used to be proud to have her on his arm for those walks, have her come to him during gatherings. Have them all stare, see the jealousy in the eyes of other men. Perhaps he really should have asked for her hand then.

“I also have something to say,” Reed changed the topic once more, “I have read prince Rhaegar’s diary. I have it here in Braavos with me in truth.”

“Why bring it here?”

“Thought it confirms the boy’s identity enough,” Reed shrugged.

“I know he wed Lyanna Stark, my Lord,” Griff countered, “he told me thus himself. I even saw her and her swelling belly at the Tower of Joy. Was little joy in it for them in the end.”

“The word of an exile lord, or the word of Rhaegar Targaryen,” Reed remarked and Griff knew, the man had him there. As good as he was with keeping his word, his word was now worth nothing in the eyes of others. If he claimed the boy to be Rhaegar’s trueborn, the most he’d achieve is people see him desperate enough to claim anything for a chance to return home. “This is not my point, Lord Connington. I know what was, that is all I say.”

Griff chuckled. “Fuck Rhaegar,” he hissed, “He had to put it to parchment. The Gods know why he had to put his life to parchment, I never understood it. What do you want me to say, my Lord? That I fucked him? I did and he returned the favour, many a time. Nobody’s business but his and my own.”

“No that is not why I mention,” Reed remarked, amusement in his voice at Griff’s sudden anger. “I suppose that is fine where you come from, who am I to judge.”

“It is not,” Griff said lowly, “Fine where I come from. It is an abomination. Let us move on for we do not choose whom we love, Lord Reed.”

“No, we do not,” Reed nodded, “All I mean to say is, the lady will be in your care, you can make an honest woman of her after… you know I am sure of it. Doing such things perhaps shall be avoided if you mean to do her honour, that is all I say. I had to speak my mind about it, and now I did.”

“Tell me Lord Reed,” Griff growled, “Was I fucking women, would you preach me such a lesson? Have you met your new king, Lord Reed?”

“Fleetingly,” Reed nodded, “I heard stories.”

“Well, I can assure you that the stories you heard of him are true, more than likely a faction of what all he does in his spare time. Now he has the whole realm to fuck, how many maidens is that? What a lucky man he is, king Robert, now he can truly live for what he does best and fuck his way through the Seven Kingdoms. Imagine the amount of maidenheads he shall claim.”

“I make no comparison,” Reed remarked.

“No, you preach me lessons,” Griff countered, “Preach them to the countless maidens, tell those who shall bear Robert’s bastards. I loved my silver prince, Lord Reed, even Ashara could tell you thus and I never will deny it. I told you, nobody’s business but his and my own.”

“I have to ask,” Reed pushed, “For I have much care for your lady, I have to ask if you plan to set such inclinations aside.”

“I must convince people who saw me spending my gold on drinking and whoring in my misery until now that she is my one and only true love, that I bedded her and fathered that boy on her,” Griff declared, “And therein lies your answer, Lord Reed. I do this, not for you, not even for her no matter how fond I am of her, but for Rhaegar’s son. His last living son, Lord Reed. I could do a great many things for Rhaegar’s son, I assure you, this is but one thing. I need you to play your part these next days, help me convince them. If you care for my lady as you say you do, then you help me convince them.”

Reed nodded, and just as well that they concluded this uneasy conversation for they reached the inn. Griff stopped by the entrance, turning Howland Reed toward him. “I need your word, Lord Reed.”

“You have it. You had it all along in truth.”

Griff nodded, before he motioned for Reed to enter and followed the man.

*****

He arrived in camp just as the sun appeared on the horizon. Just as he was ordered to do. He rode past the guards who nodded in greeting. Even in a company of ten thousand, he had the appearance to set himself apart, and no doubt Toyne’s attention on him furthered that, now most of the men could recognise him, knew the name Griff. Knew him for the exile Westerosi lord he was, as well. He wondered fleetingly how many knew of his love for his silver prince, as well. Damn his own honesty, damn his pride for refusing to deny it. How twisted it was now that he needed to deny Rhaegar for the sake of his own son. He needed to figure a way to do that, as well as to figure a great many things. He needed to find Gorys Edoryen in this camp.

He stopped by his own tent. To his surprise, a boy sat next to it on the ground, half asleep. Seeing who approached, the boy jumped up in an instant and bowed to him.

“And you are,” he asked as he dismounted his horse.

“Name’s Malo,” the boy declared and he stopped for a moment to take in the boy’s sight, “Malo Jayn.”

“I have seen you before,” he remarked, “One of Toyne’s recruits.”

“Not yet,” the boy said hesitantly, “Got to learn to fight, you see. I am eighteen, but I train every day. I will join and I will earn my spurs. Blackheart said I am to be your squire.”

Griff laughed aloud at hearing that. “Did he now,” he said as he stepped into his tent. The sight that welcomed him was… different. Orderly. “Did you…”

“Blackheart said,” the boy explained as he stepped in behind Griff, “Sort Griff’s tent for it is a mess, sort his clothing and his armour, I put that there,” the boy pointed in the corner where on a pike his plate mail was laid out in perfect order, “and I sharpened the one knife I found. And I packed your saddlebag, Blackheart said to do so, and I tended the horses. One needed a new shoe; I need payment for the smith. And…” the boy looked down on the ground.

“Blackheart said?” Griff was by now utterly amused by the boy.

“Blachkeart said that you shall give me a gold coin if I do well,” the boy admitted hesitantly, clear hope in his eyes.

“Here you are then,” he laughed at the boy, reaching into his pocket he dropped two coins into the boy’s palm, “One for the smith and one for you, then. Now tell me where I can find Gorys Edoryen’s tent and then go tell Blackheart of your success.”

“Third row to the left from here, twelfth tent from the back,” the boy rushed the words, “Am I your squire then?”

“Blackheart said so, did he not?”

“That he did,” the boy nodded, “He said you will argue it, and you will be prickly.”

“You found me in a good mood,” Griff told the boy, “I feel less prickly than my usual self. Go tell Blackheart that I am in camp.”

He stepped out of the tent, the boy after him, and after a nod the boy duly ran away toward the direction of the command tent. That monstrosity could be seen even from here, the cloth of gold catching the first rays of sunlight.

So it was that Toyne arranged for him a squire. He did say just yesterday that he needed a squire. And Toyne did answer that he has no gold for a squire. Damn that, one more thing needing gold to pay for. He swiftly made his way to find the tent belonging to Gorys Edoryen.

Gorys was a young lad about eighteen of age, newly knighted, though Griff did wonder whether he earned the spurs with a demonstration of fighting skills or with his quite invaluable assistance with the chequers. The boy was well educated when it came to letters and numbers it was known. As Griff heard the tale, the old paymaster, unwilling to join in on the endless marching around anymore or perhaps unable, has arranged somehow with Toyne for Gorys to become his stand-in when away from Volon Therys.

What made Gorys interesting for Griff was that the young Volantene had natural dark red of hair, just like he did. He hasn’t spoken much to Gorys, he had no need to, their conversations were short and centered around Griff withdrawing from his chequer. They made drunken mirth a couple times at a bar. But Griff knew, if anyone then Gorys could give him an idea about how much he had left in the chequer, and being the in-effect second paymaster, he perhaps had information about the rest as well. Griff hoped that he did.

He arrived at the tent, just as a boy who was definitely not Gorys was leaving it. Griff didn’t recognise this one, pretty blonde that he was with lips to die for, Griff could see as the boy looked him up in a short moment, giving him a wide purple-eyed shy glance before he turned and swiftly left. Griff could recognise a boy after a tryst when he saw one and so his eyes narrowed. That was foolish, he has to give friendly advice to Gorys it seemed. He stepped into the tent.

“Can wait until I dress,” the boy said nonchalantly.

“Cannot, in truth,” Griff said as he sat on the stool beside the boy’s sleeping mat, the boy still on it, naked as his nameday no doubt under that blanket of his.

“I am not interested,” the boy said before he stretched and Griff raised an eyebrow.

“Not interested in what, exactly?”

“I will not do it,” Gorys winked at him, “Will not take you Griff so make nothing of my current state of undress, I find no enjoyment being on the receiving end.”

Griff’s lips turned to a wide grin at hearing that. This morning proved to be full of mirth, indeed. “Now that is a grave misunderstanding,” he declared grinning at the boy, “Or a grave mistake, was I interested in you, Gorys. But I am not and my business cannot wait for exactly why I am not interested.”

“Suppose I am not blonde,” Gorys remarked.

“Aye, I like them blonde,” Griff shrugged. “Listen to me, you mean to be paymaster one day, do you not? Stop fucking around in the camp, you need no enemies and even less those who would demand favours from the paymaster in return for their silence.”

“Now why would they do that,” Gorys asked, “You have a grave view of the world, you think it as miserable as you are. The world is full of fun, Griff, you ought to see it.”

“Until someone double crossed you,” Griff remarked, “Have your fun elsewhere, you make yourself a liability if you do this. Why you think I never did what you do? Have you known any of those who fuck around here to be promoted?” Not that he cared for his own promotion, his decision not to take the easy pickings of the camp had nothing to do with him wanting to be promoted and everything to do with him feeling himself an abomination for his preferences thanks to growing up in Westeros, and so he hid it from those in camp. Gorys knew, of course he did, the boy was in Toyne’s favour and thus at Toyne’s drinking table in every inn, similar to Griff who albeit preferred not to share Toyne’s table, never missed the chance to join the drinking party. The boy knew because the boy saw. Griff made nothing more of it.

Gorys seemed to think on his words. “Problem is,” he sat up as he spoke, reaching for his shirt, “Not everyone can just withdraw from their chequer whenever they want a fuck, Griff. Some of us have to make do without, but you made your point.”

“And thus we arrive at my actual reason for this visit,” Griff chuckled, “My chequer.”

“Give me my breeches, would you,” Gorys pointed at the piece of clothing next to Griff on the ground and Griff handed it to the boy. Gorys had no reservations about his nakedness after all, he stood and revealed himself while he dressed as if it was nothing. Griff dutifully looked away, wondering if the boy was testing him after what he said about not being interested. Gorys was a cocky one, young and always full of mirth and even more so, full of pride, after all. Griff could understand much from the boy’s nature just from the few conversations he had with this boy.

“Do you need to withdraw,” Gorys asked then, tucking his shirt into his breeches. He sat back on the mat and began to pull on his boots. “Not sure you can.”

“Have I nothing left,” Griff asked in panic.

“Oh no, not that,” Gorys began to explain, “Blackheart has sudden company business, and I brought the one chest. He said to stop withdrawals until he knows how much he needs.”

“I see,” Griff exhaled. Panic averted. “I need to know if I have anything left, in truth.”

“That, you do,” Gorys nodded. He stood and opened a chest in the corner with one of the keys hung around his neck. Foolish that was, rutting with those keys around his neck.

“Heed my advice, Gorys I beseech you,” he said then, “I know not the boy who left before me but he could have stolen your keys while you slept. He can tell others of it, and you never know who signs up in ten thousand, there are always rotten apples.”

“Blackheart is right about you,” Gorys’ reply came, “You should be leading.”

“He says a lot of things,” Griff shrugged.

“He does but it is true,” Gorys was no longer mirthful. “By the way the boy asked me after you. Said he liked redheads. So, I take it perhaps he had no interest in my keys.”

Now this was an interesting turn, Griff thought. “Tell me about the boy.”

“Not much to say,” Gorys shrugged, “I doubt I even have his name for the name he gave me just means Lyseni. Never seen a man that beautiful I must say, and it was a damn good one.”

“Could tell that from the look,” Griff nodded, “Blonde, purple eyed… A Lyseni.”

“Just like how you like them,” Gorys remarked. True, Griff thought, exactly as he liked them boys, silver-blonde and purple-eyed. Here was a new problem emerging, then.

“What did you tell him,” Griff asked.

“Not much,” Gorys shrugged once more, “told him he’s out of luck, mind you. I know you don’t do such business in the camp so I told him thus. I told him that you are a knight from Westeros and an exile lord and that is exactly what I know about you. Because that is exactly what I know about you.”

And that was exactly how Griff wanted it, people not knowing anything about him. “Do me a favour, if you please,” he told Gorys, “Next time the boy comes calling, send him to me. I’ll see to it why he asks after me.”

Gorys nodded, just as he found what he was looking for it seemed, he was searching among the pages of a leather-clad book. The chequers. “Here,” he handed it to Griff, “See for yourself.”

“I didn’t realise that you carry the chequers,” Griff remarked surprised.

“I do not, I carry a copy. Once we get home, I shall copy across everything into the actual chequers, that is how I can keep them up to date.”

Griff’s eyes were studying the page, on top of it one word: Griff. It wasn’t all his dealings on the page, only the past two months or so, with a starting balance. Still, it gave him a grim view. He truly had withdrawn too much, he lived far too large for his own good. He could add spending to his newly acquired Essosi vices – drinking, whoring and spending his gold. Though he spent it on the first two. It didn’t look very good; in truth it didn’t look good at all.

“Can I trust you,” Griff sighed.

“Thought you trust no one,” Gorys remarked, “What is it, I shall tell no one.”

“Not even Blackheart,” Griff looked up at the boy.

“You won’t be the first one crying to me for a loan, if that is what you want,” Gorys told him then, “And Blackheart knows nothing about most of them, those who trusted me not to try the same with him. I tell you, advice for advice, no loan above your chequer from Blackheart, not unless you can prove your good reason for it. So, what it is then?”

“A loan above my chequer, I suppose,” Griff raised an eyebrow, shaking his head in disbelief. “Let’s move on from that. I need information, perhaps you can help me.”

“That depends,” Gorys took the book from him, and packed it away in the chest whence it came from, locked it with his key and hung the keys around his neck once more, tucked them in under his shirt carefully. He seemed mindful of the advice he received; Griff was glad for that.

“I tell you what I need and you tell me if it is possible and how, and tell none about it,” Griff declared, before he added, feeling the need to assure the boy as much as himself that there was nothing wrong with any of this, “I need to tell Blackheart myself, that is why.”

Gorys nodded thoughtfully, and so Griff took a deep breath and began. “I need a house in Volon Therys, one with a garden and room for a few servants. I need the servants as well, door boys, a cook, at least two maids and a housekeeper, I suppose. I need a septon, and I need something akin to a maester.”

“You need no room for the maids or the door boys, Griff, you can hire them in the town without hosting them. You need to house your squire, or more than one if you so choose for the squires are your charge though you get paid for looking after them. You need to house the housekeeper and likely someone who keeps the peace in your lot while you are away, for you have nobody to stay behind. The septon and the maester I have no idea about, but you need room for you and for any children. And specify that you need a house with a garden lest they try tuck you into one of those lots they have for the likes of us there. Did I get that right?”

“I cannot even tell Gorys whether you did,” Griff succumbed to feeling overwhelmed by what he’s heard.

“Do not look so surprised,” Gorys gave him a smile, “Laswell Peake keeps a household like that in Volon Therys. Figured you are a lord and he is a lord so you want something like it. Question is why, and another question is how.”

“My reasons are to remain my own,” Griff said lowly, “Until I spoke to Blackheart. I suppose I shall be running to you right after, either that or fucking selling all I have to make it happen.”

Gorys only nodded. “Here’s what I can say. Laswell shares the house with his two brothers, but he has it for his wife and the two little ones that he has. He shares it Griff because it is fucking expensive, that house. It’s huge, it’s bigger than the house Blackheart keeps for his woman for they need the many rooms, you see.”

“Not a good start, then,” Griff noted aloud.

“That depends,” Gorys smiled at him, and Griff thought the boy was trying to reassure him somehow. “Tell me not your reasons, I tell you how you can get it. You need a woman and you need children. The company pays your wage but your wage comes from many things, a wife being one, or be it a paramour for this is Essos and we don’t have your silly customs, you see. The children are another, the more your woman pops out the more cost for you to keep them and so you get paid after them. Laswell makes thrice as much as you do Griff, because he is a serjeant, that doubles his wage and then there are the wife and the two little ones. Like I said, he also has his brothers there, suppose they share the cost. One thing to note though, the company does not pay if you mean to set this up to house some boy. Fucking boys are not family, but if you have elderly, that is family, though I suppose it is harder to explain it, was your elderly not of the company before. Blackheart had his mother in Volon Therys I heard, before she passed, and then he moved his woman in the house.”

“Any idea of the cost,” Griff asked, “Needs not to be a fucking palace. I need something decent, though. And the garden, you are right about the garden.”

“I know the cost of a decent room in the lots,” Gorys chuckled, “There’s reason why I can’t afford your lifestyle, that room cost me half my wage but I just can’t stand being in the camp all the time, I need my own place. You stand no chance to get this set up on your current wage, Griff. Simply not possible.”

“Wonderful,” Griff sighed, “Suppose then I shall cry for a loan or sell myself for one.”

“Now that would be fun to see,” Gorys laughed, “You could find buyers for yourself, I can assure you that. As for the loan, it is hard to come by, Blackheart does not like it. And if you fail to repay, know that we deal with the House to retrieve our gold just like everyone else, if there is no other way to be found. I heard stories of deserters who lost their faces, it is nasty business to owe the Company and run from it.”

“I know that much,” Griff nodded, “After all this Company sacked Qohor for lack of payment once.”

“I heard of it,” Gorys nodded, “I think everyone did.”

“Heard of what,” Toyne stepped into the tent without much ado. Gorys swiftly moved to pack up his bed, which basically meant to fold his blanket and wrap it around his pillow, for if he rolled up the sleeping mat, he’d have nothing to sit on. He motioned for Toyne to take the one other stool he had in the tent, which Toyne did, “Remind me that you need a table, Gorys.”

“Will buy me one when I can,” Gorys shrugged. The boy was smart enough not to be completely bought off, Griff thought. Toyne merely raised an eyebrow, but let it slide.

“Either of you care to enlighten me,” he asked mirthfully. Oh, Toyne already knew there was fun to be had at someone’s expense, no doubt.

“Said I heard that the Company once sacked Qohor,” Gorys explained.

“I am sure that is not why Griff so eagerly made your tent his first visit of the day,” Toyne remarked, eyebrow drawn and eyes on Griff.

“I needed friendly advice,” Griff declared.

“And our Gorys here is your new best friend,” Toyne laughed, “You share certain interests, I give you that, but I never thought the two of you to grow so close so swiftly. What’s with Howland Reed?”

Griff looked up, at Toyne, at Gorys.

“Shall I leave you the tent,” Gorys asked then, “I need to tend to my horses today, may as well go and do that while you talk.”

“No, stay,” Griff made up his mind then. At least this shall save him a bit of running back and forth between Toyne and Gorys, and no doubt Gorys had figured out half of it already anyways. Gorys indeed was his new best friend, for how the boy handled his matter today. He took a deep breath, slowly exhaled to collect his thoughts.

“Tell me you are not thinking of leaving,” Toyne said to him then, his tone serious, “The fun is just beginning, Griff.”

“Depends, I suppose,” Griff said bitterly, “Whether I am to sell myself for a fucking loan or not.”

“You need gold,” Toyne nodded, “I can figure that much just from you sitting in Gorys’ tent at first light. Is this about Howland Reed, do I have to drag it out of you?”

Griff swallowed hard, wondering how to go about this. Sooner or later, he will have to speak the lie, not that he cared much about the lie, Rhaegar’s boy was worth that lie. He cared about whether that lie will be believed. In the end, he decided there was nothing to it, dive into it on the deep end and let it go from there.

“I have a son,” he whispered. When nobody spoke, he looked up, at their faces. Both were stunned by his revelation. “I have a son, a new-born babe. That is why Howland Reed is here, he delivered my lady and my son to Braavos. They’re at the inn.”

“Seven Hells,” Toyne cursed but his lips were already turning to a grin. “Wait, your lady… had she not thrown herself into the sea then?”

“She has not,” Griff chuckled, “She needed to get away so she faked it.”

“That lass has balls,” Toyne laughed, “And she thought that your miserable sorry ass is worth leaving family behind.”

“I have no answer to that, Myles,” Griff said then.

“Thought you loved your silver prince,” Myles said then.

“I did,” Griff nodded, “Can I not love more than one? It is not the same.”

“No, it is not,” Toyne nodded, by now completely immersed in his mirth, at Griff’s expense of course. “Your lady has a womb, guess you forgot about it when you put it in the right place that time. Now there’s a babe, a Young Griff, how wonderful!”

Griff looked up at Toyne hearing that. “Laugh all you want at my expense, Myles, but do not disrespect her. She does not deserve it.”

“No, she does not, I suppose,” Toyne nodded, albeit still grinning, “Firstly because she’s clearly the one with the balls in this, secondly because she has to put up with you.”

“You’ve a son,” Gorys caught up just then, and Griff gave the boy a begging look not to make mirth at his expense, but the boy clearly was otherwise immersed in the story. “That can help with what you want, I told you. A wife and a son, that is seven-tenth on top. Get a squire, that is three-tenth, and you double your pay but you don’t pay the squire, you house him. One more room, that is less than what you make on it.”

“She means to stay then, I take it,” Toyne remarked.

“I mean to make an honest woman of her,” Griff corrected, “And make no mirth of it, you know nothing about it.”

“Fine, just tell me this,” Toyne patted his shoulder then, “Was it just the once, a lapse in judgement on your part, or was it something more?”

“Much more,” Griff whispered, “No lapse of judgement, I meant to do it before. Ask your spies if you will, ask your spymaster about my time in Kings Landing.”

“Oh I already did that, more than once,” Toyne remarked. “Sword-swallower, prince Rhaegar’s man… and yes, I heard of the lady Ashara, as well. Story goes she was visibly fond of you, and you spent your time with her. Until she disappeared from Kings Landing not long after the tourney.” Damn. Griff realised then, they didn’t think it through, they didn’t plan it well enough. How it won’t add up at all, in the end.

“Indulge us, Griff,” Toyne said then, “Since clearly Gorys here is indeed your new best friend, he may as well hear it. Lesson in how to not fuck up your life, Gorys.”

“I disagree,” Griff protested, “I have no regrets.”

“No, you have a woman with a babe in an inn in Braavos,” Toyne countered, “And we are none the wiser how you managed to make this fucking mess.”

“It is as you know,” Griff began then, “She came to Kings Landing for she was to be one of the Princess’ ladies, her brother was Ser Arthur you know that. I began spending time with her and I grew to love her. I know not the first thing how to woo a woman Myles, it took me time, so much so that… She left after the tourney it is true.”

“Long story short, I asked for her hand in the end, I even went to court her like I should, I was to do this properly, but then I had to return to Kings Landing because Arryn called his banners and word was that Merryweather was halfway out and the rebels were gaining ground. We agreed that we shall wait until the rebellion is dealt with. We promised each other, so what if we did things?”

“Then Aerys did me his kindness of thoroughly destroying me. He named me, I lost that damned battle, and he destroyed me. I wanted to see her, to tell her, but I knew her brother will never agree now how could he? I gave her up and that is all you need to know about it.”

And that was only half a lie, Griff thought. He lied that he did what he now knew that he should have done, in the end. The rest of it, that could as well have been true, for he had love for her enough. He did consider it for he was truly fond of her; even before the tourney it was Rhaegar’s grand idea that he should wed Ashara… He was just too immersed in Rhaegar and his plot, and the love he had for Rhaegar, and his own broken heart over Lyanna Stark, to take this any further than his own thinking. Or he was a coward who thought that she still deserved better, who could tell? The visit to Starfall that he implied, that could have been true, albeit he was seeing to Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark at that time. But the boy needed a begetting that fitted the timeline.

“You gave your word to her,” Toyne asked.

“I have,” Griff whispered, wondering if his story was as good as he hoped it to be. “I promised myself to her and I could not keep my promise, I could not expect her brother to agree after my downfall, after all… I gave her up, the fool that I am.”

“You fucked her before you gave her up,” Toyne remarked.

“She was my betrothed for all I know,” Griff countered.

“Fine, tell me this then,” Toyne argued, “Was it you who deflowered her at Harrenhal? There’s that story, rumour it is said but she conveniently left the capitol just when a woman’s belly would begin to swell had she gotten with child at that tourney. Was that you, as well?” Griff got stunned, truly stunned at the question.

“How do you know…”

“I employ a good spymaster, Griff,” Toyne scoffed at him. “Let’s see, so your lady was at the damn tourney, I even know that you danced with her there. But then someone got to her, she got with child, she left Kings Landing. All the while you say that you loved her. And then you finally found your balls to ask for her hand, to court her as you say… and you got her with child, again?! She must have the womb of a fucking breeding mare. And what is going on with the first child?”

“Stillborn,” I am such a shit liar, now he thinks Ashara nothing more than a damned whore, or an opportunist who’d rather wed herself to a sword-fallower than face the shame of bearing a bastard. The thought came to him like a lightning bolt. Own up to it.

“It was me,” he said, “I just didn’t know about it.”

“So, she has lain with you at Harrenhal,” Toyne began to sum it up once more, “You got her with child, you fucking potent bastard, and that was stillborn by the time you figured that you ought to be a man of honour and ask for her hand. You did that, but you could not keep it in your pants and so you got her with child for the second time. Fuck me, Griff, you’re a far bigger arsehole than I thought you are, and her? Not only the womb of a breeding mare but no brains at all to go with it to fall for your shit the second time!”

“Watch it, Myles,” Griff grunted, “That is my lady you speak of.”

“Well fuck me,” Myles countered, “You never spoke of her before, all we hear is your silver prince this and Rhaegar that. We know well enough that you fucked that one, now you say you had a woman, and not just any woman. Sister of the Sword of the Morning, lady Ashara Dayne now tucked away in an inn in Braavos in a room on my name, waiting for you to fucking figure out how make something out of this mess because you managed to leave her with child, twice over. Is there any honour left in you?”

“I love her,” he said then, more in desperation than anything else, “Yes, I should have gone about it differently. What would you have done?! When everyone speaks of you being a sword-swallower, an abomination, would you have thought to win her hand? She was the only one who understood and she loved me regardless, what would you have done in my place?”

“I would not have fucked the sister of Ser Arthur Dayne, no matter what a great beauty she is or how loving she is to me,” Toyne declared, “Oh and Ser Arthur should have cut it off for you.”

“He did not,” Griff hissed.

“No, he did not,” Toyne said, rolling his eyes, “The blonde boy-whores all the way from here to Volantis can testify to that. Never a woman, not once did you take a woman.”

“Why should I,” Griff asked desperately, “There is only one woman for me, I will not have another, only her. I don’t ever want another.” True enough.

“Good as well,” Toyne sighed, “Else we would have bastards growing in bellies from here to Volantis. Fucking twice over you got her with child, damn you fool. I would laugh at it if it wasn’t such an impossible pile of horseshit. I thought you better Griff, now you must fucking make good of your word or else I fucking cut it off like Ser Arthur Dayne should have done. I swear the two of you truly deserve each other! Now you better clean up your shit Griff for I won’t have this behaviour in the Company.”

Griff stood then. “Clearly you cannot help me with cleaning it up,” he said coldly, “So I suppose this is where my service ends. Gorys, I need to withdraw the balance on my chequer.”

Toyne looked at him bewildered then, for calling his bluff so easily. Gorys was to move but Toyne held out his hand motioning for the boy to stay put. Gorys started to look like all he wanted was to sink into the ground there and then, while Griff waited whether Toyne will call him on his own bluff. If he did then Griff truly messed it up, and there’ll be begging at the end of this, he knew. He needed this work after all and he knew that he can’t find such a pay anywhere else like what he could make as a knight in the Golden Company. “You cannot mean this,” he argued, “The fuck you will do with a woman and a babe in tow and nothing to your name!”

“Who knows,” Griff shrugged, “But I will not have your disrespect Myles, and I will honour my word to her because I love her, I want her, she is all I have left and I have a son to raise.”

“And how do you plan to raise your boy,” Toyne asked, by now truly angry with him, “Which of you will beg for food in Ragnar’s Harbour, Griff? Is that what the Lady Ashara Dayne deserves after all you put her through? Fuck your love then, I am glad to not have any of it.”

Griff swallowed hard. He couldn’t come up with anything to say. Thank the Gods that they were in Gorys’ tent with only Gorys to witness this, albeit by now he wondered who else had been listening outside. He tried desperately to clear his mind. The argument had to end, because he had to collect his thoughts and remember what all he’s just said, if he wanted to get anywhere with this. He had to force Toyne into a corner, after all he was the entry key to Ser Willem Darry and Viserys Targaryen, was he not? “Gorys, if you please.”

“You will do no such thing, Gorys,” Toyne stood. “This is insanity!”

“No,” Griff said calmly, “Just my life.”

“Fuck your miserable life,” Toyne spit the words. “Time to grow up Griff, for you truly cannot fall lower than this. Here’s what we will do.”

Good, I am listening, Griff thought, feeling shameful and miserable like never before. How he will get out of this, he had no idea. Even worse, now he knew that even if he got to keep his place in the Company, it was not enough. He will have to send Ashara back to Westeros with Lord Reed and hope that Reed keeps providing for her. Goodness knows, perhaps wed her, even the crannogman seemed a better match than exile Jon Connington. Ashara was wrong, he was the least suitable to raise Rhaegar’s son. He felt completely defeated.

“You stay here with Gorys and you two come up with a bill for this shit. I don’t care how you do it, just tell me what it costs to give the Lady Ashara Dayne a home that befits her station as much as we can in Volon Therys, let me see the bill. Gorys, I want a breakdown of it, as well. This stupid fuck here is a lord, his son is to be his heir, the boy needs education like we have none in the Company.”

“I go and break my fast and sort the new boys and whatever else needs sorting, and then I shall come back here and you two better have what I asked for by then. And then you Griff will come with me and speak to Ser Willem for I fucking have to sort that mess as well now. You Westerosi cannot think to save your lives, damn all of you! If this is the level of stupidity in Westeros then I am glad for my ancestors to have fucking rebelled against it. Thank the Gods in the name of all of us for Daemon Blackfyre and Bittersteel!”

Griff wondered how much more he can take.

“Once this is all done, we shall go to that inn and I’ll see to the Lady Ashara Dayne and if she really so loves you as you say for I cannot figure for the life of me what a woman like she is said to be could see in a stupid fuck like you. And then I shall figure what the fuck happens with this shit. Damn I have never been this mad. Stupid boy, stupid stupid boy that you are!”

With that, Toyne stepped past him and left the tent. Griff just stood there, feeling unable to move. Feeling Gorys' eyes on him.

“Give me the list again,” Gorys said, his voice trembling. He wasn’t used to such scenes, no doubt. Griff swallowed hard, feeling his eyes tear up, more in anger than in anything else. Anger, and desperation. He was to sort a life for Rhaegar’s son, he couldn’t even do that much.

“Sit down, Griff,” Gorys patted the sleeping mat next to him and Griff literally dumped himself onto it. Gorys’ hand was on his shoulder in no time.

“For what it is worth, I think it wonderful,” the boy said with a slight smile, “You have a son, that is wonderful. You have a woman who travelled across the Narrow Sea just to be with you. The bards sing songs of loves like this.”

He looked up at Gorys for a moment, before he gave in. He couldn’t help it, he buried his face in his hands, and cried. For what, he could not even tell, he had no coherent thoughts. He cried for Rhaegar’s son and his own complete inability to do anything right, the failure that he was, while Gorys for all his good heart sat by him without a word, his hand on Griff’s shoulder to provide whatever little consolation he could.

Chapter Text

BLACKHEART

Stupid, stupid boy.

He could not recall the last time he felt anger such as this. Oh, there were a great many things that angered him, in a company of ten thousand there were thousands who did stupid things every single day. Most of that he simply brushed off, like Gorys’ little escapade last night with one of the squire boys that the company picked up on the march. Damn these two foolish redheads, one pumps babes into a woman not his wife but with a name so bloody illustrious that it could be the envy of princes. The other just fucks every single blonde in the camp that’s willing. He made a mental note of it, he will have to have a word with Gorys. Before someone makes use of the boy, or worse, someone makes use of him and steals the war chest. Now, then he would get really damn angry.

Myles knew, most of the boys had zero idea just how much he knew about them. He knew a great deal, there was the spymaster, and then there were the spies. He couldn’t care less about the squire boys and such, and especially about the squire boys because most of them won’t make it. They tire of the march, of the work which in truth is damn hard for boys like that at times, or they fail in training, or they got caught in a skirmish, or worse, in a proper battle, and they run after, thinking their miserable life better spent elsewhere. But in his near twenty years as captain-general, he knew, the best recruits came from those boys. If only they weren’t fucking around, hot blooded little things that they were.

He cared enough to know what was going on with the men who mattered because besides choosing the best pickings from new recruits and especially from them underage squire boys, the men on his radar were those who made the Company, each of them part of one of his plans. Take the boy, Gorys, bright as sunlight that boy is, dutiful and honest and a truly cheerful company to have around, with good spirit and manners. It was clearly one of his better ideas when he convinced the paymaster of this arrangement for Gorys to take on the paymaster’s duties on the road, giving young Gorys a real shot pretty early on in his career in the Company. He was now fucking it away, because he was young and reckless and comely enough to be given what he wanted from others, like the Lyseni squire boy who was so damn beautiful that even he, Myles Toyne considered the boy and he really wasn’t fucking around in the camp. No officer should do such a thing, and he won’t take the Lyseni’s shot in the Company from him just to satisfy his own hunger. Something to remind Gorys about, as well. He knew about their little fun, just as he knew that Brendel Byrne, the serjeant named not a moon ago, or truth be told, the serjeant that he convinced to finally take the position of serjeant because he was a damned Blackfyre if only on the female line and he was respected and capable, he now had a girl barely of age in Volantis with a swelling belly. Brendel, not the young boy anymore, had no idea about yet but the captain-general already knew – he just didn’t get to talking about it to Brendel yet. Or take Griff, not a serjeant for he was not showing the behavioural traits that Myles required from his serjeants. He was no longer having a woman with a swollen belly, now he had to figure what to do with Griff’s baby boy for Griff was part of something far bigger, he could not allow Griff’s foolish pride to end his career in the Company just as much as he didn’t have the heart to kick the boy because of what he now learned, at least not just yet. Myles couldn’t put a finger on it just yet, but Griff was essential to what was to come for the Company, that much he knew. As long as it didn’t empty the company chests because now that became a threat twice over. Myles chuckled to himself as he walked back to the command tent, the men nodding in greeting as he passed them by. Who would have thought, Griff impregnated a woman twice over. And the woman was Lady Ashara Dayne. And she loves this stupid boy, or so Griff claims. She’s said to be a beauty. Myles was curious, to say the least, and Griff seemed pretty immersed in the situation. Griff, who truly have had every silver-blonde whore from here to Volantis, as long as they were young and male. He never took a woman. He said it was because he only wanted Ashara Dayne. All this time he mourned over Rhaegar Targaryen, and he took the boys that resembled Rhaegar Targaryen as much as Myles could tell. And now he says he was actually moving on from his silver prince, he was to settle with a wife after the rebellion, an illustrious wife, Ashara Dayne. Griff surely didn’t know shit about women, that much was clear, both if the lady loved him as Griff believed she did, and also if she used him, like Myles thought Rhaegar to have used him. He had to figure that out before Griff gets lost in the matter even more. Someone had to be the sense and the voice of reason in a Company of men who were constantly marching and training for war, and in truth saw very little fight. Blood boiled, as much to kill as much as in lust, and Myles understood that well. He had to deal with something related to it almost every day.

He needed to know of these things, for the nature of men was that they did the most stupid things to fuck up their lives. Someone had to sort all that, step in whenever that was needed. Scold when that was due, or just pick up one of them boys when they needed a father. Most of them had no fathers, most of those never knew what it was like to have fathers. Myles had no sons. No children at all, in fact.

He remembered Maelys’ preachings about that, the fool that Maelys was. You’re the last of your house, you need sons, sire some sons to come after you lest it be all for nothing in the end. Hahhhh. Maelys tore off the head of Daemon the fourth. He didn’t exactly ensure the continuation of his house now did he? He dealt with cousin Daemon the fourth for the Sword, and then he went and died by the sword of Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold. That kill earned Ser Barristan his white cloak, Myles knew that. He also knew that of the white swords of Aerys, only Ser Barristan remained by the new Baratheon king’s side, besides his new law-brother Jaime Lannister. He found Ser Barristan’s loyalties interesting, to say the least.

He reached the command tent, without a single glance toward any of the gilded skulls on the pikes around it, he walked in. The boys by now have put it in order, have put his bed and belongings away and he knew, he could trust that it was all done orderly. They were good boys, the Strong brothers, funnily enough recommended by Griff when it was time about two moons ago to change Myles’ own squires. The boys had a lot to learn yet, how Griff stumbled upon them was one of the few things Myles could not tell, but at least he knew there was no lust involved. At least Griff had the wits not to fuck around like Gorys. Because he preferred silver-haired manwhores and Ashara Dayne. He wanted no other woman ever, what a fool Griff has proven to be in the matters of the heart. He sent Malo Jayn to him in truth to repay the good choice of the Strong brothers. Now Malo sat in the command tent with the brothers, breaking their fast. The boy jumped; he knew well that he had no place here at this time but Myles merely waved him back to sit. What’s a breakfast among his friends, that was a rule that could be broken, after all the boy broke his fast here until yesterday and now had no company of his own. Duncan was already preparing him a plate and as he sat down it was placed in front of him as well. Duncan was of Gorys’ age, but he had his younger brother Denys, shy boy that bright and bold and thoughtful Duncan was fiercely protective of. Orphan boys who signed up to squire for the Company. He had to have a word with Duncan, now was a good time as any, since he had to have a word with Malo as well.

“How did you find your new charge,” he turned toward Malo.

“Said he is in a better mood,” Malo said, visibly wondering at the question, “said he feels less prickly than usual and gave me the coin. I did make order though so I earned it.”

“Good,” Myles nodded, “He needs that. These Westerosi lords, they get pampered and served all their lives and they know nothing about how to wash their shirts or keep their affairs in order by themselves. He needs your clean head. Now, how did he smell?”

“Smell?”

“Yes, smell,” Myles nodded. In truth he got so carried away in Griff’s story, he forgot all about the rest he was interested in. He looked at Malo’s stunned face. “Did he smell like he spent the night drinking, or did he smell like he spent the night serving his bodily urges.”

“Neither?”

“Good,” Myles nodded. He didn’t feel like explaining the question but he was glad. He just hoped Malo could really tell apart, after all the boy was no stranger to either. Another one to protect from his own sword, this was, at least he showed absolutely no interest in men. Hence one of the reasons why he could work out for Griff, apart from how meticulous the boy seemed to be in all other things. So, Griff’s reunion with his beloved Ashara Dayne didn’t go that far. Just as well for based on his story, had he taken off his breeches there would be now a third Connington growing in her belly most likely. Griff didn’t need yet another babe, he couldn’t feed even the one he now had. If it was even his, Myles wasn’t so sure. True enough, the fool protected the lady, but to Myles it didn’t add up. There was something, he knew, he just couldn’t put a finger on it yet, but there was something amiss. He shall find that out later from Ashara Dayne. He wasn’t one to be fooled by a beautiful woman after all, unlike Griff who spent most of his adult life swooning over Rhaegar Targaryen no doubt. If there was something amiss, Myles will find out from Ashara Dayne.

“Duncan,” he turned toward the boy, “I mean to give you some work. I need you to help out with a couple contingents if you’re up for it.” Duncan’s eyes grew wide. He kept glancing at his little brother Denys. “Now the three of you can keep a secret, is that right?”

The boys nodded, all of their faces turning eager. It was stupid to ask them, of course they kept the secrets of the captain-general. It was something to be proud of, to have the trust of the captain-general. Even knights envied the squires of the captain-general, for the close proximity to where decisions were made. It was no secret either, squires in this tent were chosen based on ability, and they were being groomed to lead. Knights would give up their spurs for the opportunity that these boys had. “Especially you, Malo, for you will be closest to the fire.” Malo nodded his understanding.

“We have two contingents in need of leadership, I am thinking of giving one to Griff,” he explained, “But I need all your eyes and ears. He drinks too much; he cannot be a serjeant and show that example to the men. Let’s watch Griff together, I need to know if he drinks, I need to know if he whores, and I need him to know nothing about it. Understood?” The boys nodded. “Duncan, I need your help with that, we shall speak later about what I need you to do. Just to help out a little.”

“Not a problem,” Duncan nodded, “I just don’t want to miss training.”

“You should not miss training,” Myles chuckled, “If you want to make it, you have to learn use of a sword. All of you do. No skill, no spurs. Now, something else. There’s a Lyseni boy, tell me about him.”

“Looks like a girl,” Malo chuckled.

“I noticed that much,” Myles nodded, “I also noticed that he’s not overly reserved or selective with his affections. What do you know about him?”

“We picked him up with a few others off Myr,” Duncan spoke, “He knows how to use a sword, or a dagger, I have seen. He said that he is orphan and he calls himself Lysono Maar because he doesn’t remember the name he was given, so he chose that one. Likes the sea, he said, and well, he’s a Lyseni, that’s plain to see.”

“Looks like a Targaryen, that boy,” Myles nodded, “Anything else?”

“He likes… you know,” Malo said, “He doesn’t hide it much. And he said he likes redheads.”

Aye, he spent the night in Gorys’ tent. Something was off with that boy, pretty little thing that he was. “How old?”

“Like me,” Denys spoke, and at that Myles was surprised. A boy of fourteen who can use a sword and dagger, fucks around in the camp and looks pretty like a girl. Something was amiss with the boy, now he was certain. “Another charge for you lot, watch out for that boy for me. Let me know what he’s up to.”

They seemed surprised, but they said nothing. For a while they ate in silence, before Myles decided to speak some more, to Malo. “Your new knightly charge has some domestic problems, Malo. I fear he may get prickly, just bear it while I sort out his shit.”

“Domestic problems?” Duncan asked instead, “Griff has nobody.”

“I cannot tell more,” Myles averted the answer, “It is not mine to tell, and a knight does not tell on others now, does he? Let us help our friend Griff, the fool that he is, without telling on all the trouble he causes to himself and to us.”

The boys swiftly made the remnants of breakfast disappear once they finished, Myles taking the time to sit with his thoughts while watching them work. Watching how Malo Jayn helped in, how little Denys ran and made work of dishwashing in record time for he returned with them plates so swift that he should have earned half a spur for that alone, Myles thought. These were good boys, they shall make fine men for the Company, and hopefully fine serjeants. The company needed young blood in leadership, Myles knew that too well. Even he was in place for over twenty years now. The thought made him feel old and made him fully aware of his time limited. Sometime in the future while these boys will hopefully still serve, his skull will be dipped into molten gold to gild it and put on a pike outside this very tent, the one captain-general not a Blackfyre.

He planned the day differently for he needed to spend time with the actual serjeants, no matter how they didn’t need his daily intervention. Instead, now he was to plan it with the problems of Westerosi, this latest rebellion really proved to be ugly and Myles knew, it was not yet over. Baratheon’s rule won’t be as peaceful, there’ll be problems, judging by the man’s character. That man was no leader. Fucking Griff could have made a better king than that one, and Myles really wasn’t so happy with Griff today. He set the boys to the task of watching out because he had to make a decision. He had to see how Griff performed under this new duress he in truth brought on himself, because if Myles was to cut his losses and let Griff disappear in the ranks of knights, he was to decide that sooner rather than later. But if that was the decision to make, he had to make it, regardless of what Ashara Dayne brought into the matter. Griff pumped a babe into her, Griff ought to be a man and make sure the babe was fed and clothed and whatever else babes required, or if he couldn’t, then send the girl back home with Howland Reed, at least until he can. That Howland Reed Lord of the Neck was part of Griff’s mess was just the icing on the cake for Myles couldn’t make sense of that at all.

There was the other problem he assigned to Griff, though in truth Griff had nothing to do with it: The problem of Ser Willem Darry and young Viserys Targaryen. And the other babe, but mainly Darry and Viserys. The babe was hidden after all, being claimed by the wetnurse, for now that will just have to do. Viserys could not be hidden and Myles had to figure out if it was worth to intervene. If he stepped in, how would he do it, and would that be safe for he could not have the Company openly meddle in the affair, not just yet, not while there wasn’t a grown up to follow. Viserys had nine more years to survive before Myles would consider any aid to the boy, because the last thing he needed was a child king that as soon as he gets where he’s supposed to be, would receive a regent to rule in his stead, at least that was Myles’ opinion about the matter.

He thought of giving some gold to Ser Willem and then he will let them be. The gold will assure the old knight that Myles and the Company were friends to the boy. But if they don’t make it, the gold would be wasted. The Golden Company was no Iron Bank, it was a mighty operation that required a lot of gold coming in, because there was a lot of gold to pay out. Hence why one of Myles’ first acts as captain-general all those years ago was to change their charging system. Gone were the days when they were paid for a fight. They were the Golden Company, the best of the best, their word as good as gold and under gold the bitter steel and whatever else. The reputation began to present itself a curse when there were less and less fights to be had, to the point when just like Gorys recalled, they had to set an example and they sacked Qohor for refusal to pay. Though that was after the system change. Now payment was a defined amount of gold per each month in contract, a month deemed full if certain criteria met, either ten days having been spent in contract or the cost of the camp having reached an amount he defined with the paymaster back in the day and honestly, by now he forgot. He was shit with numbers, he didn’t even know how much he had in his chequer, not for years now. On top of the monthly fee there were still allowances and charges, and if there was a fight, that did raise the charges depending on their losses. And still, the change slowly brought in different contracts, mainly in the Disputed Lands, but also in Braavos, even in Pentos that was traditionally to call on other forces for aid. Now the company lived off those monthly fees, though it meant a lot of marching. Myles wanted to expand, but to the North was Norvos, protected by the Company of the Rose after an ill-fated fight against the Golden Company that made them tie down and eventually settle in the Hills of Norvos, and to the east of them was Qohor, an enemy of the Golden Company since that fateful sacking, the sorcerers were not interested in making amends. In the south the Red Waste separated them from Slavers Bay and Myles didn’t think it a good idea at all to offer services where it would take two months of marching through the Red Waste just to arrive. The cost of supplies would outweigh the gains, charges would have to be levied, and then the slave cities would deem the cost too high, and besides, they were slave cities. Myles didn’t like the idea of slavery, personally. But because of these limitations, they were limited to the Rhoyne, mainly marching around aimlessly. It was boring. It made the boys fuck around too much out of boredom and made discipline harder to maintain.

The boys finished and so he stood, for he promised a training for these boys, or at least something akin for he will not be staying out the yard for too long. He had not the patience to watch them too much, when so many other things were to be done. But he shall sit there for a while for he needed to see which of them boys showed potential, there was about two dozen of them in total. He’ll grab a couple of the knights and have them test these boys, see who made progress, and while he does that he shall think on the problem of Ser Willem and Viserys Targaryen. What in the Seven Hells was he to do with a seven-year-old king?

In the end he needed not to grab any knights for he found Griff himself on the yard, sword in hand, speaking to a couple boys that Myles didn’t even know the name of. In the near distance a couple more boys sat, Myles noticed among them the pretty Lyseni. They were watching.

“Duncan,” Myles called, “I want you to challenge Griff. Show me what you got.”

Duncan looked somewhat fearful at that, “He will disarm me in no time.”

“He will not,” Myles gave Duncan a cheeky smirk, “He is slower today. See if you can catch him.”

Duncan duly went and told Griff of his charge. Griff glanced in Myles’ direction, and nodded. A couple moments later the boys sat down with the others, with Myles now seated on the bench beside them, the boys eyeing the captain-general but saying nothing. To the side, a few of the men were watching as well. Griff walked to the circle, motioned for Duncan to attack, while his sword was still seemingly lowered but Myles knew better. Duncan didn’t, he went in and aimed too low.

“That was a mistake,” Myles told the boys, “Griff fooled Duncan with the sword low. Expect the speed, aim higher.”

Just then Duncan must have realised for he mounted a proper attack. Griff rolled to the side, crouching down with sword at the ready behind his back.

“How do you attack that,” one of the boys asked.

“Sometimes you wait,” Myles said without looking at the boy, “Attack does not mean to charge in mindlessly. Can he maintain his position? You need him to move so make him move for that is easier than attacking him there.”

Duncan knew as much, he trained with Griff enough to know. He stepped back, sword raised waist-high he began to take steps to the side, never turning from Griff who thus had to move. Griff even allowed a smile at it. He rolled and jumped, got Duncan on the side. Duncan defended, but then Griff’s speed showed, he went in three times in three widely different angles, causing Duncan to lash around and then there was an opening. Griff didn’t disarm Duncan; he merely raised the sword to his neck. Duncan raised his hands with sword toward the ground indicating that it was over.

“Malo, go have a try,” Myles said then. He favoured his boys, but he also threw them in the midst of everything, it came with the territory.

“If he got Duncan, he will…”

“Practice, Malo,” Myles said, “If you never try, you never get to practice.”

In truth, Malo was right, he wasn’t near as good with figuring out what to do with a swordsman like Griff as Duncan was. He soon returned to the bench, looking completely defeated, though Griff was kind, so far he didn’t toss either of them to the ground. He gave them no respite either.

“Anyone else feeling brave?” Myles asked.

“I would try,” a boy stood. Dark haired, black eyed, Myles didn’t recognise the boy. He could tell that the boy was young, definitely not older than Denys Strong.

The boy made Griff sweat though, so much so that so that the boys began to cheer for him in hushed voices. He danced around Griff. Not like water dancers, he had too many wasted moves, but he made Griff work for it. Until Griff stood still, and the boy didn’t know what to make of that, so he went in, and that was his demise. Myles took the time to explain the boys while watching Griff giving a hand to the boy who was first to land on the ground. Watching the man clearly praising the boy, giving some advice as well, no doubt.

“Your name,” Myles asked as the boy returned to the bench, still brushing the dirt off his clothing.

“Lorimas,” the boy said, as he sat.

“Age?”

“Thirteen,” the boy declared, “Fourteenth nameday in a month though, then I am youngest no longer.”

“That was good for thirteen,” Myles nodded, knowing well that the boy received all the advice he’d give. “Anyone else?”

“Can other weapons be used?” Myles glanced aside, surprised at the boy who spoke – the silver-blonde purple-eyed Lyseni.

“If you can best him using a dagger, I welcome you to it,” he said with a grin.

The boy nodded and stood, he tied his hair behind his head and walked to the clearing, picking up the sword on the way. It proved to be quite interesting. The boy didn’t move much at first, he mainly stood, he was swift to defend Griff’s first blows who now had to assume the role of attacker. When it proved to be too fast, the boy ducked and rolled aside, standing once more behind his opponent, repeating the whole manoeuvre. But next time he didn’t just stand, he went in, and the boys behind Myles wondered aloud if attacking from the back was honourable. “Does it matter if it means you can win the fight for your life,” Myles asked, “Honour is an important thing to have, no argument there. But you should beware not to make your honour your enemy, better have your life than be an honourable corpse.”

The boy repeated again, for Griff defended, and then again, three times attacking high as he went in, three times from the back. Myles saw it coming before Griff did, that fourth time the boy didn’t roll away. He ducked, rolled, and Myles could clearly see him pull a dagger from his boot as Griff raised his sword to switch angle the boy already raised the dagger against his loins under the chain mail.

“Fuck me,” Griff cursed laughing. The boy gave Griff a cheeky grin and said something, and Myles stood. He clapped his hand together a few times, after all the boy outsmarted Griff in the end. Myles didn’t bother to go through the list of rights and wrongs, there were plenty. He will have to see how this boy does against someone else. For now, he sent them boys to make pairs. He whistled toward the by-standing men, waving them over, and two of them took over the session to actually make these boys practice something useful. The fun was over, he waved Griff to himself and the man came and sat beside him on the bench.

“What did the boy say,” Myles asked as he also sat back.

“Gladly,” Griff shrugged, “That is what he said to my cursing.”

“He likes redheads I hear,” Myles nodded, before he called out, “Duncan, pair with someone other than your brother, it is practice not brotherhood.” Duncan Strong made a face but the men made him switch right away. “Stay off the pretty Lyseni, Griff.”

Griff rolled his eyes, “As if I needed reminding.”

“Who knows what you need reminding of these days,” Myles remarked sarcastically, “Thought I told you to stay with Gorys and get me a bill.”

“He sent me off,” Griff shrugged, his face solemn. “said he is faster on his own. I needed to do something so I came to the yard, thought I can be left unseen.”

“Well, you were helpful in the end,” Myles said, “Duncan is improving and I still can’t get Denys to grow balls. You shall train Malo one to one, the boy needs it, he’s smart and dutiful and shows promise but he’s damn awful with a sword. The little one I need to watch out for, never seen that one before, Lorimas. And the Lyseni… Well, I think the Lyseni just wanted to put a dagger to your balls and knew how to go about it. I’ll see how he does against the others with hair other than red, and I shall see if he has a place here.”

He glanced aside to see Griff nod, clearly wondering why he got Myles’ breakdown of what he saw. “Thought your speed to be off with all your troubles no doubt filling your head.”

“Never,” Griff said, “Always been like this. Have troubles, take them to the yard and they will be gone.”

“Doubt this one will be gone, Griff,” Myles said softly. “Once you have a child, you have a child to the end of your days, and that is if you are lucky not to bury your brood before you are laid to rest.”

“Wise words,” Griff remarked, still solemn, “You never had a child.”

“No,” Myles nodded, “The Gods saw it fit to make me choose a barren woman. Not sure which is better, my case or yours.”

They watched the boys for a while. Lesson about speed in defense, they were switching angles with the other defending, then switch upon the sign of a whistle, then repeat.

“I have seen enough,” Myles stood. “Have you washed, changed shirt and all of that?”

“You checking on my grooming habits now?”

“No,” Myles gave a slight grin, “But I had Malo sort some clean clothing for you, and I know the boy so I know he did it. Best go see your lady looking like a man who has grooming habits.”

Griff nodded.

“Good, let us go and see the lady Ashara then,” Myles remarked.

“Not Ser Willem,” Griff raised an eyebrow.

“No, not Ser Willem,” Myles said as they began the track toward the horses. Myles could see, the stableboys were already moving, saddling two horses. “I have no idea still what I am to do about your Ser Willem, and that boy king of his. Honestly, I am inclined to let them be.”

“They have little chance to survive it,” Griff remarked.

“Perhaps,” Myles answered, “But I cannot support them openly and I cannot afford to finance them either, and I am considering both of those options still for I cannot figure what in the seven hells I am to do with them. The Company comes before a boy king, and a boy king is completely useless to us, he needs to become a man grown if he actually wants to become a king.”

Griff didn’t reply and so Miles glanced aside, but the man was deeply in thought.

“You don’t care about Viserys Targaryen either,” Myles remarked.

“I never cared much for Viserys,” Griff shrugged, “I care about my own boy. I honestly don’t give two fucks about your musing over Viserys. Do whatever you want, you don’t even need me to go there anymore, Ser Willem will let you in, I am sure of it. Just leave me out of it, I have my own problems to sort and they are far more important to me than Viserys.”

Myles nodded. At least the man spoke like a man should, had his priorities straight. He couldn’t argue with that.

They rode into the city without exchanging a single word, Myles wondering about what he’ll find in this inn at the end of it. Trying to sum up whatever he could recall from their earlier argument for he surely couldn’t ask Griff about it. So it was, the lady arrived in Kings Landing, and somehow these two began courting, for that was the proper name of what they did. Myles wondered about it, perhaps Ser Arthur Dayne was playing matchmaker there, arranged the position for his sister to sort the considerable headache that Princess Elia was dealing with, not by providing her company but by providing the man in the way the distraction he needed to come to his senses.

Perhaps Ser Arthur wasn’t match making, and he arranged it for the position itself, with it arranging more presence of House Dayne in the capitol, more favour for he himself could show little favour being a white sword, and by every account he carried his duties honourably.

Whatever it was, they began courting and then nothing came of it, because Griff could not find his balls, no doubt having lost them in the prince’s bed. But then Griff says that at the tourney of all places, he has found his balls. They proved to be quite productive as well, and then the lady had to disappear, hide the fact that she’s been dishonoured, and Griff may or may not have known the reason. But the babe was stillborn and so the lady was once more available, fairly honourably if not for the rumour of her deflowering at Harrenhal.

And then the best, Griff’s claim that he tried to arrange it, and these two promised themselves to each other. For whatever stupid reason Griff decided that he cannot delay the bedding and boom, he proved to be too potent for the lady Ashara once more. And now there’s the boy.

He had to see to the truth of it, for it all sounded outlandish to him. The man signed up near seven months ago by now. A babe to travel with must be at least a month or two, and that makes this one’s begetting about four months earlier than Griff signing up. Let’s be generous and make it five. The timing then would fit, just before Aerys named Griff his Hand, and Myles knew as much, Griff wasn’t in the city at that time, he returned to King Landing shortly before he was named by Aerys. Fine, so he went and fathered the child perhaps, but that was still no explanation why the lady would be such a fool. That Griff was such a fool, of that by now Myles had no doubt. Something had to change for the man, Myles waited long enough but he knew, something had to change or Griff will be out of the company. He tried all he could, he assured himself.

They arrived at the inn, just as their horses were led away Griff laid a hand on his arm.

“Could I speak to her,” he asked.

“I think not, Griff,” Myles denied, though he tried to keep his demeanour somewhat understanding. The man looked truly miserable. “We go and speak to her together.”

“Let me keep some of my dignity in there,” Griff said then, “Ask the men to leave, at the least. I have no secrets in front of Ashara, but I don’t know the men.”

Myles only nodded, before he entered the inn.

“Left of right,” he called out toward the innkeeper behind the bar who only raised his right hand, and Myles was already on the stairs. Up to the third floor, he bumped into a man, a small bearded man giving him a wondering look.

“You are back,” the man told them, to Griff behind Myles. “Lord Howland is in the city; he just went for some of those sweets you brought last night for the lady liked them. He shall be back in no time.”

“Perfect timing then,” Myles said, “Ser stay outside, let us speak with the lady.”

“If the lady tells me so,” the man shrugged it off. Myles couldn’t help but chuckle at the gesture, he was twice the size of this man. Still, he knocked on the door, before he stepped in.

He didn’t expect it, at all. He walked in on a woman feeding a babe on her breast, he turned before she could even look up, feeling like a mannerless moron. Griff walked past him, and there was his best shot to separate these two, now gone, for he had to turn, murmuring an excuse he left the room. He could hear, they were speaking in hushed voices, but couldn’t make out what was said.

“Griff,” he called out, “Come out here, let the lady finish for Gods’ sake.”

Griff was by the door in no time, waiting in the open door.

“What needed discussing, Griff,” he asked, staring down the object of his ire. Griff in turn glanced at the small bearded man. Myles understood, he wasn’t to speak. He was a fool, and a proud one, so bloody proud that it will be the end of him one day, no doubt. Just then they could hear the steps. Myles saw another small man approaching up the stairs, this one clean shaven.

“Lord Howland Reed, no doubt,” he called out.

“I am he,” the man nodded. He seemed rather mild mannered to Myles, the first man in a very long time who didn’t look threatened just by his presence. That was intriguing, he thought as the man asked, “Is there anything wrong?”

“Aye, I am a mannerless moron, my Lord,” Myles grinned, “I am not used to highborn ladies being behind the closed doors in front of me so I walked in on Griff’s lady feeding her babe. We are waiting for her to finish.”

By the time he finished speaking, Howland Reed was returning his grin. “I am Myles Toyne, captain-general of the Golden Company, though people only know me by the name Blackheart. Honoured to make your acquaintance, Lord Reed.”

“The honour is mine,” Reed nodded, “Not every day that I meet the captain-general of the Golden Company. You booked the rooms for us.”

“Merely an existing arrangement,” Myles explained, “For when we have visitors. Men of the company cannot just up and leave to be here and meet whomever come to visit them. This was quite a lucky arrangement; we were to march north anyways for we had some business in Braavos. Quite well timed, I would say. I was hoping to make your acquaintance, Lord Reed, I cannot help but wonder how the Lord of the Neck became escort to Lady Dayne.”

Reed gave a smile once more at that, “An unhappy occasion,” he explained, lowering his voice, “I was returning Dawn to Starfall with Lord Stark. The lady needed escort, so she travelled with me up north for a while and I learned of her story. I chose to help.”

“That is a noble deed,” Myles remarked, “Especially if it takes you so far from home. I thought crannogmen are solitary folk.”

“We are,” Reed nodded to him, “I have been the bad apple, going to a tourney and fighting in the rebellion. Now I find, at least I saw the Titan of Braavos, I much wanted to travel to Essos one day. Seeing the lady to Lord Connington has been quite a good excuse.”

“You attended the tourney at Harrenhal I take it,” Myles remarked.

“I did,” Reed nodded with a wide smile, “Saw Lord Connington unhorsed by Ser Barristan, and then Ser Barristan unhorsed by prince Rhaegar in the final. Was a mighty gathering, and the most lavish feast I ever attended opened it. I even recall seeing the lady Ashara there at the feast dancing and laughing with my Lord Connington, so you see it was easy to understand the gravity of her plight. And I saw the Knight of the Laughing Tree joust, have you heard of that tale, my Lord?”

Myles nodded, though he really didn’t remember the specifics. Mindless chatter this was, he thought. Reed seemed quite keen to not tell him anything of importance while telling him a lot.

“Jon,” a soft voice called from the room, and Griff glanced back before nodding to Myles.

“Now, let me make the acquaintance of the lady Ashara,” Myles gave Reed a grin, “Properly this time. Well met, Lord Reed. I hope you don’t mind my wish to speak with the Lady and Griff alone.”

“Not at all,” Reed said, handing the parchment bag to Griff, “We shall be in the other room, shall you have need for us.”

With that Reed walked past him, the other one following while giving him a questioning look. That other one was clearly suspicious even of his shadow, Myles thought.

He turned toward the door, only to see Griff already walking in to the room. He sighed, well now the task begins. He walked in.

Once more he found himself unprepared, for Griff’s lady was a true beauty like one he’s never seen before. She had soft, delicate features, a fairly tall and notably slender woman, albeit well bosomed, no doubt because of her breast feeding. Why a lady did that, Myles had no idea, but it wasn’t the most important thing to notice. Lady Ashara Dayne had wide purple eyes. He wanted to laugh at Griff’s expense, of course even his woman had something Targaryen in her. Everything led to them Targaryens and his silver prince with Griff.

“I am…”

“Myles Toyne, captain-general of the Golden Company,” the lady finished, “I heard. Forgive me for earlier, my Lord.”

“The fault lies with me, my Lady,” Myles spoke. The lady looked truly threatened by his presence, Myles cursed himself for the situation, for scaring the woman before he even knew whether he had reason to scare this woman. He felt out of his depth all of a sudden, and he very rarely felt out of his depth. “I was eager to meet this one,” he pointed toward the babe that was resting his head over a linen on her shoulder, “It got the better of me. Forgive me, if you please, and forgive my appearance. I’m a soldier, the Gods saw it fit to curse me with such features.”

Finally, she gave him a slight smile. He glanced at Griff, who stood by a few steps from her. “Do sit if you please, my Lady,” he said then, “I came to meet you and the babe; not to scare you into a corner.”

She stepped to the chair he found her in earlier and sat, her eyes on him still. “Do you meet the ladies of all of your men, my Lord?”

No, I do not. “No, I do not,” he sighed, “Would be a nice treat, but who’s got the time. I meet the ones of men who matter, and the ones with a story to hear. I find you are both.” Let’s not make smalltalk then.

She nodded, seemingly troubled. “Jon tells me that he went and checked but he does not have the gold we need,” she said then. “I have some of my jewellery with me. I doubt either of us know where to get the best price for them and Jon will no doubt seek for your help in any case for you are his commander, so I would give them to you…”

Now, this was unexpected. This woman managed to turn him into a complete fool in mere moments, he thought, she wanted no smalltalk either. She clearly didn’t view him friendly either, and he found, that cut deeper than it should have. Perhaps he was making a mistake, he wondered now. He needed to focus on what he came for, it wasn’t jewellery. “Let’s not rush so far ahead,” he said then, watching as she walked past him, laying the babe down in the crib, laying the linen on the side as well, then turning toward him.

“Forgive me,” she said, “I cannot figure what to make of the situation.”

“Let us start again,” Myles bowed his head as he began, “I am Myles Toyne, captain-general of the Golden Company, and I am very honoured to finally make your acquaintance, my Lady. I hear you have this man of mine smitten up to his ears, so much so that he failed to act toward you like an honourable man should. You should have heard the scolding he got for it.”

She chuckled, glancing at Griff, who still stood by motionlessly, as if on guard. His hand on the pommel of his sword didn’t go unnoticed by Myles. That argument earlier today clearly left its mark on Griff, it seemed to have undone months of subtle work to get the man to open up and trust a little. That was a regrettable loss.

She stepped close, reached out her hand, and Myles placed a kiss on her wrist. She smelled of flowers, something he was unaccustomed to, and now he could really take in her features, her pale porcelain skin and all the delicateness of her face, with her wide purple eyes settling on him. “I must say, now I understand how Griff could have lost his wits for you, my lady. You are truly a beauty as such I have not seen before.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” she nodded with a smile. He motioned for her to sit once more.

“Forgive me, I must correct,” he began to speak, to make chatter, to ease her to himself some more, “While it flatters me to be called a lord, I am none. Merely a Ser.”

“Thought House Toyne a noble house, Stormlands if I recall correctly,” the lady remarked as she sat.

“It was once,” Myles nodded, “And now it is extinct, my last kin Simon chose to lead the Kingswood Brotherhood instead of making something honourable of himself and so you see, Barristan Selmy put him to the sword at the end of it, about two years ago. Now it is just me left, for my own ancestors had a fate not at all dissimilar to Griff when they chose to support Blackfyre.”

“Ser Barristan must surely be a torn in your side then, Ser,” she remarked, and Myles could finally see some mirth in her eyes. The woman isn’t afraid to speak her mind, then, he concluded. “He put your last skin to the sword, and he put Maelys Blackfyre to the sword. That is trouble twice over.”

“I cannot complain,” Myles laughed, “I shall thank Ser Barristan for thus aiding me into the position of captain-general at a young age. As for Simon, my kin, he got what was coming for him. Now you see, if we make it back to Westeros, I’ll be the Toyne to restore my house.”

“That is a mighty legacy to strive for,” she remarked, “Are you planning to return to Westeros, then?”

“Always, my Lady,” Myles admitted, and these words he could honestly stand by. “I am responsible for my men; they are exiles and children of exiles. They yearn for their homeland my lady, there is no need to explain further than to look at Griff to understand, why. So, it falls on me to find a way for them, and I strive to do so.”

“And have you,” she asked, clear interest in her eyes now, “Find a way, have you?”

“Not yet, I am afraid,” He said, “Best not raise hope where I am unable to back my words just yet. It shall not be in Westeros where you shall be settled, should you really choose this fool of a man, my Lady.”

“Why would I choose anyone else,” she whispered then, her eyes on Griff for a moment, “Took me long enough to get here, Ser.”

“Even on this side of the Narrow Sea, men treat their ladies honourably, my Lady.”

“Myles,” Griff began, but he raised his hand to silence the man.

“In truth, I wanted to hear the story from yourself, my Lady. I am not a young man anymore; I have heard a great many things in my life and many men tried to fool me with all kinds of stories. I tell you, this one must be one of the worst kinds I came across, if his tale is true,” he motioned toward Griff with his hand, “And I am greatly disappointed to have to come and treat with a lady treated thus. A lady of House Dayne to top that, sister of the Sword of the Morning, my boys listen wide eyed to stories of your brother. You see why I am in disbelief at what a disgrace this is.”

She swallowed, her eyes on Griff. Myles didn’t bother to look at Griff, knew well enough that the man stood stiff from his pride and anger having to listen to this. He asked Myles to save some of his dignity and have the crannogmen out of the way. He didn’t ask him to not speak openly about it to his woman, and even if he did, in that he would have been refused.

“Tell me your tale if you please, Lady Ashara,” he declared, shifting to stand at ease, for he was still standing by the door and he decided, it was best not to move further, no matter how he wanted to see that babe with its dark hair. So, the babe had the mother’s complexion, that was not helping him now. A redhead baby boy could have eased his conscience at least a bit.

“You place much blame where I feel it is unjust, Ser,” she said. “Jon knew nothing about my baby. I refused to reply to him for he’s left me. I would have come to the end of the world with him and he’s left me.”

Myles nodded. “He’s left you because he could not provide for you,” he said, “I understand that part at the least. That was the right thing to do. Forgive me for saying, my lady, taking to your bed was not the right thing to do, whatever he was thinking when he did that, likely wasn’t thinking with his head. And he’s done so twice over which just tells me that he’s a damned hopeless fool.”

“Twice over?” She looked up at Griff, and now Myles looked, he could catch Griff slightly shaking his head to her.

“I see,” he said, “And now I think we shall really begin talking. Griff, go outside if you cannot hold your tongue, let the lady tell me the truth of it.”

“I go fucking nowhere, Myles,” Griff declared but Myles didn’t bother with the man’s anger, he didn’t even bother looking at him. His eyes were firmly on the lady, who buried her face in one hand, leaning on an elbow on the table.

“From the beginning, Lady Ashara,” he said, trying to sound reassuring, knowing as soon as he spoke that he failed, “Start at the beginning and tell me all about it. Let us see if I can be of help sorting this colossal mess.”

“I was a fool,” She whispered, as she looked up he could tell, she became quite distraught at how this conversation evolved. “From the beginning. My father died and my brother Arthur arranged a position for me as one of the Princess’ ladies, I think he had prince Rhaegar arrange it. I met Jon through my brother. He was so… distant to everyone and prickly and hard to bear, but he wasn’t that with me. He was never that with me. I remember Arthur tell me, soon Lord Jon will ask for my hand at the end of all this walking in the gardens and all. Even the Princess mentioned me once, heard it from prince Rhaegar. But he never asked.”

“Because he couldn’t man up to the task, if you don’t mind me saying,” Myles remarked.

“Whatever his reason was,” the Lady said, “It doesn’t matter. I made a mistake. I can see now that Jon tried to take the blame for my mistake, but it was my mistake, no matter how many times he will tell me that he is sorry for not asking me, it was me who made the mistake. I thought nobody will ever know about it, Artus was so careful, my brother…”

“I have my ways,” Myles nodded, “For a man like me, information is key, my Lady, I know a great many things. You left Kings Landing after the tourney at Harrenhal, and if I may say, you left around the time a woman’s belly would begin to visibly swell, was she with child begotten at that tourney. There was a rumour about you at that tourney.”

Myles hated himself in this moment, he really did, for making this woman cry, for her tears began to fall. Griff will explode soon enough, he knew, Griff was protective of his Lady enough to not bear this much longer. But he had to know, he had to see if the one babe at hand now was who they said it was. And if he wasn’t, he will tell Griff to send the woman back whence she came from no matter how captivatingly beautiful she was. And if Griff chose to go with her, then so be it. He loses a promising man from the Company, one that came with so much baggage that seven months was not enough to untangle it. Perhaps it would be better that way. “Who was the father?”

She looked up at him, straight in his eyes. “Ned Stark.”

“Why, my lady,” Myles asked then, “If you wanted this one, why give yourself to that one?”

“Because I am a foolish girl who believed in foolish things, Ser,” she declared, faint defiance in her voice, “I know what you think, Dornish woman, she has no standards, no honour. But I descend from the First Men, Ser, not from the Roynar, and I swear to you that my father taught me well. I was a maiden when I went to Harrenhal, and if my father was still living, he would now tell me that I became his greatest shame. I brought shame upon my name, but I beseech you not to blame Jon for it. He didn’t ask me; I cannot fault him for what I have done because he didn’t ask me.”

Myles could only nod. In truth, he didn’t even think about her as a Dornish woman, he didn’t go that far. For all he knew of Dornish women, they would not be crying in front of him for giving their maidenhead to the wrong man. “Did Griff know why you left?”

“Yes.”

“And he knew who it was?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he have to say about it?”

“He was sorry that he didn’t ask me.”

“And then your bore a lifeless babe,” Myles remarked, and she truly broke down. Her hand went to her belly, as she shook silently crying, hiding her face from him. The sight was almost too hard to watch, and Myles really wondered if it was worth pushing her any further. She didn’t lie to him in the end, Griff did. He could just as well understand why Griff did it, for it was he who called her a breeding mare, he made no secret earlier today of what this seemed in his eyes. Now it seemed more of a naïve foolish girl, castle-raised by her septa filling her head with foolish stories that in truth had no relevance in the world. The world opened to her and she was unprepared for what the world really was like. Cursed her with a stillbirth on top of the mistake she’s made and the shame it brought on her, and Myles knew what that meant, in a company of ten thousand with many families, he’s heard enough times over the years about what it was like for a woman having to bear a lifeless child into the world. He swallowed hard.

“Let me finish this tale and you tell me if I am right,” he said then, “Our Griff here wanted to make an honest woman of you, promises were made, and frankly until today I knew him as a man of his word so I can see why you would trust his word. You had the man you wanted, but the rebellion was brewing. He returned to Kings Landing, got named Hand by Aerys, lost the battle at the Stoney Sept for he thought that wars are won honourably, and he lost everything with it. And just as you told me, he left you for he had no means to provide for you any longer. And by me never having heard of your name, by him never receiving reply to his message enquiring after your babe, I presume you resolved to raise your boy in Westeros ignoring his overtures, and he resolved to drink himself into a vegetable here. What made you change your mind, my Lady?”

She looked up, toward Griff, but Myles didn’t want to look at Griff now. Part of him wanted to give some consolation to this woman, though he could not tell how he could. She looked at him then with pleading purple eyes.

“I may as well tell you…” she whispered. “Jon knows nothing about it but I may as well tell you, how much worse can it get? I used to go up the tower, the Palestone Sword at night, listen to the waves as if they were calling… I used to sit there wondering when will I throw myself into the sea. But then Ned Stark arrived with Howland Reed, they brought Dawn and the news that they have slain my brother Arthur, and his excuse for why he didn’t honour to me the promise he made at Harrenhal. You see, he felt it the honourable thing to do instead to keep the marriage alliance with Tully that was made for his dead brother, to tie Tully to the cause of the rebellion and then they marched together to the Stoney Sept. Jon’s name came up and I found myself defending Jon’s honour against the man who besmirched mine claiming to me that it was what his honour demanded. What has the world come to, Ser? I wanted no part in it, I would have jumped that night, but for little Jon I could not, so I threw my dress into the sea, the one I wore to that feast when I met Ned Stark at Harrenhal and I left Starfall. Later Lord Reed helped me, for he knows what his liege lord has done to me, that is why he helped me I believe. Now you know all of it, judge me at your will, Ser.”

Myles nodded, swallowing the knot in his throat for now he felt, the Gods indeed have dealt a cruel blow to this woman. He didn’t feel like he wanted to judge, he made his fair share of mistakes in his life and he hasn’t even been born pretty to be taken advantage of by others. He would have invited nobody to judge his own mistakes, neither would he accept anyone to try. “The boy is named Jon,” he asked instead and she nodded.

“After Jon Connington,” she said, “Jon is the most honourable man I know.”

He nodded once more. What a painful situation this was, a colossal mess indeed, but not the kind that he expected to find. “May I,” he pointed at the crib and she nodded. He stepped close, looking down at the tiny little babe in the crib. He wasn’t sleeping, no, he raised his big purple eyes on him calmly, he made no sound. The boy had the mother’s colouring.

Myles let out a deep sigh. “I heard what I came for,” he said, “Now it all makes sense to me. Griff, stay with your lady tonight, she is in need of your company but please…”

“Don’t say it,” Griff growled. Fine, it’ll take a while for this one to learn that sometimes you just had to swallow your pride, Myles thought.

“Fine,” he said instead, “Be in camp at sunrise.”

“And what will await me there,” Griff asked then, “Will you send Malo to pack my things for my leave?”

“I will do no such thing,” he declared, quickly growing annoyed by Griff, “And for once, learn to hold your tongue. Do not take me for someone I am not, come to camp by sunrise so I can discuss this with you. I will not take you from your lady now, she is no state to be left alone.”

“And who’s fault is that,” Griff asked, “Why couldn’t you just take my word for it?”

“We shall discuss on the morrow.”

He swiftly left the room. On the top of the steps he paused, it sounded as if something has been broken. But all she could hear was her crying words then, “I am sorry, I am so sorry…” Gods, Myles took a deep breath, and ran down the steps. Waiting for his horse he leaned against the wall out in front, wondering about it all. Beauty truly is a curse for a woman, for this one was truly the most beautiful he’d seen. In wholly different circumstances, he’d also be eager to gain her affections, was she a naïve young girl dancing and laughing at a feast, he'd also ask for a dance, he’d also try to see if he could have more. So was the nature of men, and when the nature of men collided with the naivety that women were raised with, this was the result. Add to it Griff’s absolute inability to manage his own affairs of the heart, and this was the result. Now here they were, in a room on his name in an inn in Braavos, in serious need of help for Myles could not see how they could make it without. Even worse, he could not even blame them for it, he only found king Aerys to blame. Name a boy of one-and-twenty as Hand of the king, send him into the first battle of his life, and blame him for his naive thirst for honour, take from him all he had, the seen and the unseen, for it wasn’t just lands and titles that the boy lost there, it was the woman as well and the son he didn’t even know he had, as Myles saw it now. Now he could understand why he never heard of Griff’s lady before. Sure enough he was smitten dumb for his silver prince, but it seemed to Myles that it wasn’t the love that broke his heart, no it was the love he never spoke about.

For a moment he wondered if he should go back and try give them some kind of reassurance, but he knew better. He was also a man of his word, and he made no promises where he wasn’t certain that he could keep them. He had to ride back to camp and see what Gorys came up with, no doubt he will be shocked by the bill he asked for. He needs to see what he can do about it. He won’t foot the bill, that much he knew. He also won’t release Griff from service. He needed to sit with Gorys, tell the boy to stop fucking around, then tell him what he’s found here for he had to tell someone and the boy knew about it anyways, and then together with that boy they will figure out what to do about it all. Griff’s fallen lady and his son and his drinking and spending problem, and his whoring, and his pride and lies, they all need addressing at sunrise tomorrow. This is going to be a long day and night; he sighed as he mounted his horse.

Chapter Text

GORYS EDORYEN

There need to be five rooms.

One for Griff and his lady – he knew, in Westeros such ladies would have their own room, more than one rooms in fact, he’s heard stories enough about how castles worked. Ladies would live in their rooms, and the lords would live in their rooms. And if they wanted to spend time together at night, then one of them would have to go to the other’s rooms. He found the custom impractical, but then again, those who could afford to have multiple rooms just for their own private use like that were the ‘highborn’ and they were said to be wed blindly. They marry for name, pair the seed with a womb and hope the seed will take hold for that is why they were wed in the first place, to make heirs who then would carry on the name, and when those are grown of age and have their own set of private rooms there will be an arrangement to pair them the same way… it seemed quite stupid for him.

He grew up in one room, there was a bed in a corner for him and his sister, and they shared the mat for it wasn’t much more than what father built, a platform where they laid the mat that mother sew together. In it were stuffed their old clothes and linens and some wool remnants father got traded that weren’t sellable as wool, and it was the best sleeping mat he could remember. When he had to give it up for his ailing sister, he was quite upset about that, and when his sister passed not long after, he felt just as guilty for having been upset about it. He was a boy of six.

He had the mat all to himself after that. There was a curtain in front of it, and the same was on the other end of the room for that was where mother and father would sleep. And sometimes he’d wake in the night to sounds he would not know, not until he grew to be thirteen and figure it out on his own. But by then mother would be gone too, the childbirth took her and what would have been a brother to him, and so there would be no sounds for long, father never took another woman, or he never took her home.

Father was one of those few who knew letters and numbers and he took great care to pass on the knowledge. When he was a boy he hated it, he saw it completely unnecessary, something father did for free to him while he sold the skill to others. There weren’t many buyers, he didn’t know then but by now he learned that those who cared about their children learning their letters and numbers cared not to pay such a man to do it when they also could afford slave teachers to house and have those to teach their children, for that was cheaper. But this was why he spent many a day by the docks, when he was younger he just used to sit and ask for food. Beg, let’s name it, he used to beg for food, he used to take it home. His days were his own, father was working wherever he was working, teaching or doing whatever else he could to earn a coin or two. He was hungry so he figured, a boy can ask for food from others. He learned how to be a pauper on his own.

Father didn’t like it in the least, he could tell, it was on his face. Father made him sit and study his letters and numbers and made him read aloud and count and write and kept telling him, he should think about what else a boy could do. A boy can run from one place to another and deliver message for a coin, perhaps. That was a good idea, he tried that. He made coins with that. Then father said, a boy could see if there’s need for help loading those ships in harbour, when he was older, and once more father was right, and he earned coins. Not to mention how at the start his legs used to tremble carrying heavy loads, sacks and chests, and soon enough they stopped to tremble – the work made him stronger. He could see on himself the difference, and he earned more coins. He was still studying his letters and numbers with father one hour each night and he still hated it. He was thirteen.

It all changed when one day he was returning home from the harbour and there was a brawl on the street, many were fighting and blood had been spilled. He had to pick another way, and when he did he’s learned what those sounds used to be, or close to it. He saw a woman and a man, and when the man stood from between the woman’s legs he gave her coins. A whore, then, he knew enough to know, but walking along the path there were more and he saw boys bent against the wall, boys like himself. They were making coins. He thought himself smart enough so he figured, perhaps he can make some coins. That was the worst idea he ever had, no wonder why father never suggested it to him. He tried it, the pains he went through that one time made his eyes tear up and he bit his lower lip so hard that he drew blood, just to bite down the screams. The man told him, now he was a man, next time will be easier. There wouldn’t be a next time, he spent that night sitting with father studying his letters hoping he wasn’t bleeding through and father would never know what he did and sitting there was a damn agony while he realised, father knew a thing or two about how to make a coin and not have to bite down his screams in the process. The man told him, while he was doing it he told him, many like it. He didn’t like it, as he told Griff he found no enjoyment to be on the receiving end. It was far later when he learned that on the other end of that bargain was a lot of fun to be had, but by then father was long gone. He turned fourteen.

Father began to ail; and he began to carry more chests and sacks and he found that even if he loaded all the ships of Volantis on his own, he would never make enough coin to pay the bill for their room and still make sure that there was enough food on the table. Begging was not an option, he could tell that while it worked for the little boys sitting on the pier, it didn’t work for the men, and even less so for the women who were often taken off the pier by other men. He knew very well why, he figured it out for he sometimes saw them on the way home, with men between their legs. Father was soon unable to rise from the bed and then it truly fell on him to fix things. Soon father told him, now he has to make his own way, he was a man who knew his letters and numbers, he was strong, he was someone who had a proper family name, he had all he needed to make something of himself. He had to, for no matter how he couldn’t believe in father’s words, soon after father was gone. He had to give serious thought to father’s words then, for he could no longer keep the room. He was old enough to realise how it all was when he was still a boy and shared his mat with his sister, mother used to spend the days washing endlessly, that was all she did – that was how she earned her coins. He understood, it was never one who made enough to pay for the room and the food on the table. He sold everything from the room first, trying to bide for time until he can figure out what to do, but soon enough there was nothing to sell. He sold father’s mat before he even considered selling the one mother made. Something had to change or else he will find himself on the street, and if he had no place to sleep and wash then there’ll be no work and if there’s no work there’ll be only the hopeless begging on the pier. He was proud enough not to want that to be his way, not after father made him promise that he will make something of himself, and he was absolutely certain that his was not the way of other boys bent over in front of men, either, that one time was enough.

It was by chance, really, and he overheard some of the men talking about a camp north of the city. He never left the city before. They discussed that a sellsword company camped there, looking for recruits. He was fourteen, he had no idea how to make use of a sword, father never taught him that. Those camping there would be selling their sword, and there were boys planning to go to that camp to see if there was work to be had there. There was nothing to it then, he thought, for he heard that the boys also knew nothing about how to use a sword, and they still went. Better than selling the mat that mother has made, he rolled it up and he packed whatever he had left and with that pack and the mat on his back he met with the boys at the city gate. They walked north, walked for hours, and then they reached the camp.

There were banners flying made of cloth of gold, and there were men walking around giving them questioning glances, men who wore armour and sword on their belts and gold bangles on their wrists. There were rows of tents and horses in groups and strong smell of food, and more men walking around making nothing of their sight, they were chatting and laughing. A man came forth, asked them if they came to sign up, and one of the boys spoke. He didn’t say a word, he followed the man and the boys to a tent of cloth of gold. There were skulls, golden skulls on a pike in front of it. They were made to wait right there standing beside the pike with the golden skulls. Surely, there was a lot to earn as a sellsword for they wore gold bangles and they dipped skulls in gold and their banners were made of cloth of gold…

The man who came forth from the tent was the largest man he’s ever seen, had a nose bigger than he’s ever seen and a pink scar across his lips, and voice booming as he spoke. He felt the urge to run at the man’s sight, but the man spoke kind enough and in any case, there was nowhere to run back to. They were to leave their things in a pile there and go to the ‘yard’, and there for the first time he held a sword in his hand. He knew not the first thing to do with it, he landed on his arse on the ground in no time, feeling his cheeks burn in shame. The large man asked each of them, have they ever used a sword. Or even a dagger. And he’s told the truth, he never did such things, his father was a teacher so he learned his letters and numbers and he helped out in the harbour and he never had to use a dagger. There was no judgement in the eyes of the man, instead they learned the man was to be called Blackheart. And he got work running around in the camp.

He made no coins, though he really didn’t care soon he realised, for it was an interesting place to be. He shared a tent with the other boys, still sleeping on the mat his mother made, and during the days there was fun to be had and lots of laughs. There was company, there weren’t hard works like loading ships, and he certainly didn’t have to constantly look for more work. The work came to him, run to this tent or that tent, call on people, polish armour, sharpen knives and swords, prepare food, wash dishes, wash clothing, the whole of the days were spent with such things and when not, he was on the yard watching men and sometimes joining them, and they were explaining to him the use of a sword, teaching him things. For the best part though, he had company. He’s met more and more people, they came from other cities and they came from the land beyond the Narrow Sea, they wore the armour he polished and they wore gold bangles on their wrists. Not to mention, he never had to beg for food, despite not making a single coin he always had a full belly, he could sit with the boys and break fast on eggs and sausages and fresh bread every day. There was proper supper each evening, and he never had to do a single thing more for it than take a bowl to himself. He turned fifteen.

Father was right in the end, the key to making something for himself was in letters and numbers. Soon the camp was on the move, the way with which it was packed up and made disappear in the matter of hours left him astounded and then he was to get on a horse not his own, hoping not to fall off, for they were on the move. Ten thousand men, more or less, and horses and carts and more horses carrying loads, and then when they finally stopped marching in the day and sleeping in the same tents at night, the camp once more appeared. The pikes were dug in the ground around it within hours, and it was the same orderly thing he’s known north of Volantis. Even the tents were all in the same place, in neat rows. The yard was the same, it was hard to believe it was actually a completely different place. He grew to figure a thing or two about how to use a sword as well, which was fun, but then one day he had the task of counting and that was when it all changed for him.

Blackheart began giving him different tasks. He was to write a lot, and count, and then count the same things again and again and find missing things. He was counting horses and buns of bread and barrels of dried meat; at one time he was to count sausages which he found utterly funny despite how the task took him several hours to complete. One day Blackheart called him into the tent made of cloth of gold and told him about his father, and mother too. Blackheart knew things, he knew about why he slept on an almost flat mat in the nights. Blackheart gave him a new mat and told him, it was time to be someone else. He was to begin writing ledgers, and soon after he was named Blackheart’s squire. He turned sixteen, he was now a man grown.

The boys he walked into the camp with were all gone, none of them made it. Some got lost on the marches, some found their charge too much, some got dismissed for never figuring out what to do with a sword. Some got dismissed for other things, for spending their nights in the tents of knights too many time, collecting coins. There was one who stole a gold chain at one time, and Blackheart told him that in Westeros the boy would lose the hand he stole it with before he would be sent to the Nights Watch. By then he knew what the Nights Watch meant. He learned a great many things, the world opened up for him, and he slowly understood that Blackheart was teaching him, not just about counting and managing buns and sausages and horses, and even gold coins, Blackheart was teaching him about a great many things. Blackheart took him with the serjeants and few other men into Myr, to a place full of drinking men and whores, and there he was asked if he’s ever had a woman. He didn’t, and so he was given a couple gold coins and told, give it to one of the girls he fancied and go in the back. He did. It was fun and the girl was pretty, and she said nothing about how clumsy he’d been. Later Blackheart asked what that was like, and more such events followed. He started to be given coins for his work, though by then he knew that as squire, he was not to earn any coins. He was being provided for, but now that he knew what coins could be spent on, he didn’t mind receiving some for all the counting he did. Soon after he used some of those coins in another place full of drinking men and whores, and spent a few hours with a boy. That was life changing for now he understood what that man paid him for all those years ago. He turned seventeen.

The camp returned to Volantis, and he was to stay in Blackheart’s house for he was a squire. Knights were to host their squires if they had a place for it, and those who didn’t have such a place had their squires in the camp sharing those tents where he also started out. But now he was Blackheart’s squire. He met Blackheart’s woman even, and those two really were loud when they were randy. That was funny enough, but soon Blackheart sat him down and told him, he will be dismissed as squire. He wondered what he did wrong, where did he mess it up. Instead, Blackheart introduced him to the paymaster and told him, from now on he will assist the paymaster. The work was easy, letters and numbers. It didn’t come with a room in anyone’s house though and he found it hard to be back in the camp, despite how now he had his own tent. He figured, he has to solve the problem, he missed the town, and so he asked around, found a room in the lots that was in truth far better than the one he grew up in, with a proper bedframe and table and chairs and curtains on the window, for it had a window and key to its door for it to be locked. It was all very nice except, all the coins he earned and saved were not enough to pay for it. He figured, there was one man who made things happen, perhaps he should ask Blackheart how to go about making more coins for himself. The man took him to the yard, told him to pick up a sword and try to attack him. He did. He landed on his arse wondering what this all had to do with the room he had in mind, but by then he knew, there was reason to everything that Blackheart did. And so he got up and attacked again. And again. He kept landing on his arse in the mud, though it was rather fun. He could figure the man’s moves, he started to avoid them. Then he started to trick the man. It was tiring work, it went on for hours, he kept landing on his arse. Until that one point when he didn’t, he managed to turn in time to miss the kick, he swirled around and got the sword against Blackheart’s back. The man nodded, and told him to kneel, charged him to defend the innocent. He became a knight, and he understood then, now he was a sellsword, he made his way in the world and he was to begin earning his own coin. That night Blackheart and the serjeants and a few others spent the night in Volantis and he joined them and made mirth, took a boy for a few hours and indulged himself as he rarely did, and the next day he went and took the room he found in the lots in Volon Therys, but not before he wrote his own name on top of an empty page in the chequers. He became a sellsword. Soon after, he had some gold coins melted and three gold bangles made for himself, just before he turned eighteen.

Gorys wondered when he began musing about the past, how much time he’s lost from his task. In truth he forgot why he started with the five rooms, now he had to count it once more. Sure enough, Griff will just have to settle sharing the room with his lady as Griff called the woman who took to a ship and travelled across the Narrow Sea to find him. Gorys found that the most wonderful thing he’s heard. It was as he told Griff, bards were singing songs about such loves. They’ll share the room, even Blackheart shared his room in his house with his woman after all. They can get loud when they are randy, Gorys chuckled.

One room for Griff and his lady, and another for their babe. One for the housekeeper who would have to live with them. One for the knight who will have to serve there and guard the house when Griff is away. One for Malo, for Malo was said to be Griff’s new squire, and knights hosted their squires if they had a place to do so. Five rooms. Gorys sighed, this is going to be expensive.

He had all kinds of scrolls and ledgers that he collected over the past year. It was one of Blackheart’s teachings that gave him the idea, when he was told that the more he learned, the more worth he will have in the Company, for his strength was not in the sword, it was in his letters and numbers just like his father once told him that it would be. A Company of this size was a grand undertaking with much management and counting and administration, it needed men whose strength was in performing those tasks, men who knew things that the ordinary knight wouldn’t have to care to learn. He couldn’t possibly keep it all in mind, he thought, so he began writing down things. Now he had somewhere to find information, which he needed.

He scribbled the cost of the house on a piece of parchment – the goal to get to, the cost he found on one of his scrolls where he recorded such things as prices in the town, wages for servants and the like, he used this information whenever knights came to him to ask for it. Griff was nowhere near to being able to pay for that house, not on the wage of a knight in the Company. So he started counting towards it, a wife, and a son, and a squire, already doubling what Griff will make in the future, still not enough. It could now pay for the house, but Gorys knew, that’s not near enough. There was food and clothing and whatnot, and despite all the things he’s learned over the past few years he knew very little of what Blackheart meant when he said, this was to “befit the station” of the Lady Ashara Dayne.

How wonderful was that? Griff, this grumpy prickly young man with red of hair and freckles and muscles strong enough to throw men on the ground when he wasn’t being his deadly self with his sword, he had the love of a true highborn lady, a Dayne. Sister of the Sword of the Morning, Blackheart said. Gorys heard the stories about the Sword of the Morning. Of course, he knew that Griff was a lord, Jon Connington was his true name. Blackheart could have been a lord, Myles Toyne was his true name, though Gorys rarely used either of those names. But still, knowing that Griff was to wed a lady Dayne was mind boggling. And she already bore him a son. Well, Griff claimed that she bore two children and one was stillborn but Gorys could tell that Blackheart had an issue with Griff’s story and so he settled with the fact that there was said to be one babe with the lady now, so Griff must have had a son. Gorys knew that in Westeros the babe would be called a bastard, his parents not having been wed when he was born. They’ll wed soon enough, of that he was certain, and for all he could tell, that made the boy what they called trueborn. Who knows what elaborate processes westerosi had for such things, but here in Essos the boy will have Griff’s name, Connington. He will likely just be a Young Griff to everyone, like Blackheart called the babe.

Back to work, Griff now doubled his wage on paper, could pay for a house, if not for the rest of it. Gorys knew, if Griff took in another squire boy, he could still make more than what it cost to feed the lot, but it would still not be enough. Still, he wrote it down. Perhaps Griff needs to make a couple more babies, though the idea of making babies just to be able to draw higher wage sounded twisted to Gorys. Griff was an interesting man to say the least, but he didn’t think that Griff would take such a route. There had to be another way.

He knew nothing about septons and maesters, or if they needed rooms. He began writing down the servants needed for this settlement, two maids and two door boys, the runners who’d in truth be like squire boys were in the company, do whatever needed doing. Except those would not be hosted in the house, they’ll have to be hired from the town and make do with their own wage. Similar to how Gorys did before he joined the company, though that thought didn’t draw much emotion in him. Each of them has to make their own way, the difference was that Gorys has done that. He was a knight of the Golden Company, the assistant to the paymaster in fact. He was proud of that, very proud indeed. He was making his own way, he no longer needed to rely on anyone, he could pay for his own lodging, though it was as he told Griff that the room took half his wage, he still had enough to get by and even could leave a few coins in his chequer to save. It was something to be proud of, father would be proud of him. He was nearing the time when he'd have a fourth bangle made for himself, and he was still just eighteen.

He had all the servants listed, their wages next to the roles for he had no idea who the servants will be. He could only name Griff, and Griff’s lady though he didn’t write her name on the parchment, and Young Griff as he now took to call Griff's boy in his mind liking that idea, and finally, Malo. Gorys liked Malo because Malo was fun to have around, and always helped with whatever was to be done, and he was so damn meticulous that it even made Gorys look bad. Griff wasn’t meticulous, his things were disorderly, so Malo in Gorys’ eyes was a good squire for Griff, for he needed to be more tidy if he wants to live with a woman. Gorys remembered mother’s scoldings about tidiness. He chuckled at the thought of a woman scolding a man like Griff for being untidy. Well, that comes with being wed – you don’t have to pay for it, but you have to live with it.

Now, he had everything on the parchment that he could give Blackheart. He scribbled on the bottom, septon, maester. He had no idea about those at all. All the rest was listed out, summed up. Griff will have to double himself if he wants to pay for all this, but Gorys knew better than to worry about that, his task was to present his findings. Now that he was done, he locked away everything once more and tidied his tent finally, rolled up his sleeping mat smelling of that Lyseni boy. Damn that boy was too beautiful.

Gorys was so very proud last night that the boy sought him out. The boy had this desirable thing about him, being so damn carefree about what he wanted and confident in himself like Gorys saw only pretty people to be. He told Gorys flat out what he wanted, and why, because he liked redheads and so Gorys didn’t think twice about the matter. The boy was fun and it was really damn good to be with him, the boy knew how to do things. Griff’s words this morning cut deep though, because as they discussed it, Gorys realised that the first time he’s been used. Griff thought about the keys around his neck – one of those opened the war chest. If Gorys didn’t remember that the Lyseni boy asked after Griff, he would be frantically counting the coins in the war chest now in the command tent, making sure the contents matched exactly the numbers on his ledger. Something to learn from, because Griff was right, Gorys wanted to be paymaster. The current paymaster was old and half way out, no doubt, else why would Blackheart put him in charge of things and promote him this way? Gorys knew, he needed to stop seeking company in the camp, just like Griff said. There were enough willing even if none were as forthcoming as the beautiful Lyseni boy last night, but some of those willing Gorys had some fun with before, and now he realised that was a mistake. He will have to be more careful; he will have to stop having such fun in the camp.

He took to a walk around the camp perimeter as he often did when he needed to figure out things. It was calming and reassuring to walk around such a vast camp, it took time and through that, it provided the privacy of being alone, the monotonity of walking aided his thinking.

Except he wasn’t alone this time. He was just climbing through some pikes when he saw the boy, the Lyseni, sitting in the grass, his elbows resting on his knees and his head buried in his hands. He stood for a short while, watching the boy but the boy wasn’t moving. He remembered when he was the boy’s age, the year he walked into the camp. Perhaps the boy was having trouble with the work, that is why he sat out here. Perhaps he was getting trouble for other things he did, and Gorys remembered now that there were boys dismissed for what this one did. Regardless of how this boy thought to use him perhaps, he was good with a sword, he was better with a dagger, he could make it, Gorys thought. There was no reason why not. He needed to have word with the boy. The boy wanted Griff, Gorys was just the replacement last night, at least that was how Gorys saw it, but Griff was right and it could have been much worse. It stung enough, that much was true, but Gorys didn’t blame the boy for it, he blamed himself, and so he thought, perhaps he should have a word with the boy. He made his way closer.

“Go away,” he heard the boy as he neared.

“Just came to talk,” he replied, and the boy raised his head, though not looking at him. He didn’t really come to talk, he was walking around the pikes because he wanted time alone with his thoughts and his thoughts actually concerned this boy in parts. Still, he went a little closer. He saw, the boy had his dagger beside him in the grass. Perhaps he’s ought to be careful, the boy was deadly with that dagger for all he knew.

“Thought I could give you advice,” Gorys said then, “I joined when I was your age, you know.”

“I have no need for advice,” the boy said coldly, “I sort things on my own.”

“So do I,” Gorys shrugged. If he could understand anything, it was making one’s own way in the world. It included sorting your own problems for there usually was nobody else to sort them for you. He stood at a few steps distance, watching the boy who was now just staring ahead, still not looking at him. It seemed to Gorys that the boy was troubled, and he was angry. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Nobody can help,” the boy declared.

“If it is about what I said,” Gorys remarked, “About Griff, he really never takes to anyone in the camp. Best set such fancies aside.”

“Fancies,” the boy repeated.

“Thought you came to me because you could not go to him,” Gorys said then, wondering how easy that was to say. It stung, but he didn’t blame the boy. He went to others to get what he wanted just the same and sometimes he didn’t get what he wanted and he made do.

“I went to you because I like things on my own terms,” the boy said. Gorys nodded, that was one way to put it. Perhaps he should warn the boy, now was a time good as any.

“Thought to warn you,” he said then, “I knew boys who were dismissed because they were fucking around too much in the camp. Best not to raise Blackheart’s ire, he disapproves of what we did. I was just told the same this morning. I suppose we both ought to learn to say no.”

“What’s the point,” the boy asked then.

“The point of what,” Gorys asked. The boy was strange, he wasn’t near as carefree or forthcoming as the previous times Gorys spoke to the boy. The boy seemed dangerous to him now, he felt the urge to just leave the boy and keep looking behind his back as he leaves to make sure he doesn’t get that dagger in his back.

“Saying no,” the boy said after a moment. Despite the urge to leave, Gorys felt something was amiss. This boy made mirth in the camp, laughed a lot with the other boys, and for all Gorys heard, the boy worked hard for his share and yet now he sat here asking him what the point was in saying no if someone wanted to come onto him. Gorys understood then. He stepped in front of the boy who lowered his head.

“Look at me,” Gorys said, crouching down in front of the boy, and slowly he did. There was a damn huge mark on the side of his face, skin torn and taking on all kinds of shades of red and purple. “What happened?”

“I said no,” the boy rolled his eyes as he said it.

“Do you know who it was,” Gorys asked, perfectly understanding now what happened to the boy, though he didn’t want to linger on the thought itself. He has lain with this boy last night. Someone did the same after him but without the boy willing, Gorys had no doubt. “Got to tell Blackheart or one of the serjeants.”

The boy’s eyes pierced his, “I sort things on my own.” His hand reached for the dagger beside him, he tucked it into the pocket inside his boot, his purple eyes on Gorys.

“That is a bad idea,” Gorys said, understanding the relevance of the dagger very well, “If you are caught, Blackheart will have your throat cut for violence in the camp.”

“I never get caught,” the boy said sternly. Gorys didn’t believe him.

“You did get caught,” he said softly, “By the one wo did that to you. Let me help.” He couldn’t tell why he offered his help for he had no idea what to do really. He never faced this situation before. Nobody ever tried to come onto him in this camp. But then again, he wasn’t near as pretty as this boy.

The boy stood. “I sort my own business,” he declared to Gorys, “Worry not, they shall pay for it. I never get caught.” With that he turned and began to walk away from Gorys.

“Thought you liked it here,” Gorys called after him and the boy turned.

“You know very little,” he said, and then he left. Gorys stood there wondering what that even meant, watching the boy climb through the pikes before he disappeared in the camp. When he was the age of the Lyseni boy, Gorys knew very little of the world. Father sheltered him, the men who he worked alongside in the docks never tried to do him harm. The only harm that ever came to him was his own doing, that one time. But he wasn’t that boy anymore, he considered himself a man grown and he knew a lot more about the world now. Still, the realisation that there was a rapist in the camp has shocked him. More than one, the Lyseni said they will pay for it. Gorys knew, he had to get to Blackheart right away with what he found out, before the Lyseni boy takes that dagger to whomever has wronged him. It was clear now how the boy learned the use of that dagger, why he carried it. Damn, Gorys thought, he really didn’t want this to end with the boy’s throat cut for taking that dagger against someone who wronged him. It was not up to the boy to sort this; he was now a squire of the Company and he had to abide by the law here. He had to get to Blackheart with what he knew. If he can find the boy in the meantime, all the better.

He rushed and climbed through between the pikes. The boy was nowhere to be seen, Gorys cursed himself silently for letting the boy out of his sight. He ran straight to the squires’ tent, but the boy wasn’t there, none of the boys were there. There was some disarray, two chairs thrown aside, mess on one side of the table, its other side empty, cups were on the floor. Gorys knew, the boys never left the tent in disarray, the scolding they can get for this was not one that any of them wished upon themselves. He paused for a moment because he could clearly see in front of him the scene of what happened here and for the first time he really, really worried about the Lyseni boy. He left and ran to the command tent. Blackheart was not there. The guard told him that he left with Griff to the city. Damn. He could see Brendel Byrne in the distance, now he turned to run toward the serjeant.

Byrne wasn’t someone who Gorys had much dealings with before. He asked the serjeant aside, whispered in his ear what he’s learned. Byrne seemed shocked but nodded. He called a few man to him, sent them to find the Lyseni boy, Gorys could only hope that they’ll do so before the boy does something that can turn the situation into far worse. Just then, he saw Blackheart riding through the camp toward the command tent. He parted with Byrne, ran back through the corridors and between the tents. Blackheart was just dismounting when he reached him. One look at Gorys, the man seemed to know there was something wrong. He waved Gorys to follow him into the command tent.

“What is it,” he asked as he turned toward Gorys in the tent.

“Someone raped the Lyseni boy,” Gorys said, “I think. I cannot be sure.”

“What makes you think so,” Blackheart raised an eyebrow.

“I was walking around the camp and I found him sitting outside the pikes,” Gorys began his tale, “And he wasn’t himself. I tried to make talk, to and fro I told him that he and I should learn to say no, and he asked me what the point was in saying no. He had a nasty gash on the side of his face and I asked what happened, he told me that he said no. He told me he will sort it and they will pay for it. He carries a dagger in his boot. I tried to find him later but I couldn’t, and the squires’ tent is a mess. Brendel Byrne sent men to find the boy.”

Blackheart nodded with a sigh, and rushed out the tent. Gorys for lack of better idea followed him. They made their way across the camp to the squires’ tent, one of three around the camp, making Gorys wonder how Blackheart knew even which one was the one shared by the Lyseni. Blackheart just knew things. The tent was still the same mess.

“You say Brendel is looking for the boy,” Blackheart asked him then.

“He is, he sent men around the camp.”

“Well then,” Blackheart’s eyes studied once more the table and the mess around it, “Bring to my tent what I asked from you, we may as well discuss it while we wait.”

With that he left Gorys in the squires’ tent. Gorys found, it was harder and harder to look at that table. He left speedily. On his way he ran into young Lorimas. He was eager to tell the boy to start carrying a dagger seeing that he was comely enough, but he couldn’t say such things. He just told Lorimas to make order in the tent, then he went to grab the parchment that contained his findings regarding Griff’s bill and made his way to the command tent once more, by now feeling absolutely mad at today’s events. As sorry as he was for the Lyseni, he hoped the boy to be found before he does something foolish. He also found it unfair somewhere deep within him that they were looking for the boy, not the ones who did the boy harm. He wondered about it as he walked through the corridor between the tents, but it made sense in a twisted way, the boy could tell who did him harm, and then Brendel or Blackheart could send men to arrest those who did the boy harm. He turned toward the command tent, saw Brendel Byrne standing outside. He ran.

“The boy’s been found,” Byrne said, holding out his arm in front of Gorys indicating that he was not to enter the tent. Gorys stood aside, and waited with Brendel.

It took a while. Blackheart came out once, told Brendel to bring Caspor Hill, another serjeant, and Gorys understood from it that the men who did the boy harm were Hill’s. Hill came, went into the tent, appeared a short while after visibly angry and rushed away. Soon after, the horns sounded. The whole camp began buzzing as men obeyed. Gorys saw this before a few times when they were looking for thieves. Men were lining up, standing in front of their tents, the horns ordering them to their tents. It took little time for the thousands to obey and then there was almost no movement as the whole camp stilled, awaiting whatever was to come. Blackheart emerged once more, told Brendel to stay in the tent with the boy. Gorys wondered if Brendel was safe alone in the tent with the Lyseni boy and his dagger in his boot, then wondered if it made any sense thinking that because Brendel was a seasoned warrior, the scars on him were proof of that, and he had his own sword and dagger. Once more not knowing what to do, he followed Blackheart who was making his way toward the row of tents belonging to Caspor Hill’s contingent.

He wanted to see what comes to men who take advantage of a squire boy. Hill’s men stood in front of their tents like everyone else, both the knights and the squires who, being of age and actually knowing how to fight, rode with the knights if it came to battle.

“Found one,” Hill told Blackheart as they arrived, “Looking for the other.” Gorys could see ahead, some men were indeed searching the tents.

“Sound the horns,” Blackheart said sternly, “Nobody is to leave, shoot down whomever tries.”

Hill merely nodded, and stepped from them. As Gorys watched the search, he could soon hear a horn, and more following right after. He knew, the archers took position around the camp. He liked this about the company – sound a horn and men move into position in no time. Order, efficiency. He was proud of that. He also felt pride watching what was happening – clearly, Blackheart stood by the Lyseni boy, he wasn’t letting it slide. That was reassuring, to say the least, for the sake of the boys. Denys was the same age as the Lyseni, little Lorimas even younger. Gorys had been the same age as little Lorimas when he experienced what such a thing could feel like, though it was due to his own foolishness.

There were other thoughts as well. Gorys realised, it’s wrong, what they did. The Lyseni was fourteen, not yet of age. Whatever the Lyseni thought about that and however he liked things on his “own terms” as he called it, he was still underage. Gorys should have known better, he was a man grown. He felt acute shame at what he did last night. Even more so because of what the boy said, he liked things on his own terms. Gorys had assumed that today’s events were not the first time for the boy when he didn’t get things on his own terms, because otherwise he wouldn’t be speaking about his own terms, and because the boy seemed resolute in his own justice to be meted out as if he’d done so before. For some reason, Gorys had no doubt that the boy had done so before. The thought came to him, he was glad not to have been so beautiful as the Lyseni boy, his life would have been a lot harder if he was, no doubt.

Just then, a rider appeared, an archer. He stopped next to Blackheart and leaned down whispering into the captain-general’s ear. Blackheart only nodded, then turned to Caspor Hill.

“Call off the search,” he said calmly, and Gorys understood then, someone, likely the other man they were looking for, had been shot down trying to leave the camp. “Bring the one to my tent.” Then Blackheart began on his way back to the command tent and again, for lack of better idea Gorys followed. There was a lesson in this, he thought, how to sort such a thing, how to handle thieves and rapists. This was what Griff reminded him this morning, that there were always bad apples signing up. This day was full of lessons. Gorys understood now the gravity of what Griff was trying to tell him – it could have been him abused today. Of course, he wasn’t pretty like the Lyseni boy, but if someone wanted the war chest that probably didn’t matter. He remembered the few thieves over the past years, and now they had rapists. There were men who didn’t belong here, and those men won’t abide by the laws of the Company, they’ll rape and steal. Gorys understood now why Griff was counselling him to be more vigilant.

They reached the command tent, Blackheart walked in so after a moment of hesitation Gorys followed. Brendel Byrne stood by the entrance, the boy sat at Blackheart’s table, the one where he’d break his fast with the squires or hold his meetings. The boy looked up at Gorys, his eyes full of anger, then he turned his attention to Blackheart.

“We shot down one of them,” Blackheart told the boy then, “Caught the other one. I want you to go with Brendel, stay in his tent until I send for you, wherever Brendel goes you go with him. Good way to learn as well and no need to worry, Brendel has no fancies for boys.”

The Lyseni stood and followed Brendel out of the tent without a word. Gorys wondered at the kindness in Blackheart’s voice. He wondered even more when the captain-general literally fell onto a chair in front of him with a sigh.

“Let’s get to this bill,” he said.

“They will bring the man,” Gorys remarked, but he was already pulling the parchment from his pocket, he handed it to Blackheart who unfolded it and began to study it.

“Way to get my blood boil before I see to that man,” he said as he folded the parchment and handed it back to Gorys.

“What will we do about it?”

“About what,” Blackheart asked, “The bill, or the boy, or the man who took advantage of him? Be a good lad Gorys, find two cups in this tent and something to drink.”

He didn’t need to look, he knew this tent inside out since he squired here before. Soon he handed a cup of wine to Blackheart. “One for yourself as well, you are not a squire anymore. You can have a cup.”

Gorys was glad for it, if not a bit proud at those words. He sat down at the table with cup in hand.

“What a bloody mess,” Blackheart said then. “Seems to me that we have more mess by the day. By the hour in fact.”

“May I ask…”

“Ask away, Gorys,” Blackheart grinned, “Told you, you are no longer a squire. Got to learn these things, so you can handle them on your own later.”

He wondered which one, the boy or the man who took advantage, or future bills this was referring to. Or other knights who end up finding out that they have sons to feed.

“What did the boy say?”

“He took some work,” Blackheart said, “That boy is no stranger to such things, no doubt because of his looks. Sad that is. What do you think, what should we do about the boy?”

“Nothing,” Gorys said before he even thought about it, “I mean… I think he never had anyone helping him. Now he had someone helping him. Either he takes the help or not.”

“Well said,” he heard Blackheart to his surprise, “So what should we do about the man who took advantage of him? The other one is dead.”

“There were two,” Gorys thought aloud. “How could they do that? If the boy wants nothing from them, then that should be it no matter how pretty the boy is.”

“And yet, some men just have it in their nature,” Blackheart remarked, “There are always those who think they can get away with it.”

“I think you should set an example,” Gorys remarked.

“And how would you set an example,” Blackheart asked.

“I would hang him and have a sign around his neck that says Rapist,” Gorys declared, he didn’t even think about it. It had to be an example that deters others from doing the same, Gorys thought of the little boy Lorimas, of Denys Strong. They would handle it far worse than the Lyseni who in truth enjoyed the act if it was on his ‘own terms’.

“And once we do that,” Blackheart leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, “What will that do to the boy who wears their mark on his face now?”

Damn. “I see,” Gorys nodded, realising the lesson in it immediately. Blackheart once more used what was happening to teach him. “It would declare to all what happened to the boy.”

“It would shame him, Gorys,” Blackheart said softly. “It would make him seem weak in the eyes of others. That in turn would make the boy even more eager to spill blood, or worse, we’d found ourselves with more men who think that our pretty Lyseni squire can be taken advantage of. So we can agree, we are to set an example, but we are to do it without drawing attention to the boy.”

“How?”

“That, I am yet to figure out,” Blackheart’s voice was stern and resolute. “But the man will hang. There will be no tolerance of rapists in this company while I lead it.”

Gorys nodded. Just then, Caspor Hill stepped in. Gorys got dismissed, as he left the tent he saw the guards outside, a man with hands tied with rope between the four of them. A knight, a large man. Gorys didn’t stop to study what kind of man he was, he will study him when he hangs on the rope. He returned to his tent.

Soon after he went to the squires’ tent for he found that he had to do something. He told the boys that Lysono has been given a charge by Brendel’s side for a while. He wasn’t told to do this, but he thought, best to get ahead of any other rumours. The boys were weary, just as everyone else in the camp. The men no longer had to stand in line, but it was clear that tonight there’ll be no mirth in the camp. The archers were still on guard all around the camp, the order to shoot on sight anyone leaving has not been rescinded. They would shoot even Gorys if they saw him climb through the pikes now, and they would not think twice about it.

As he left them, he found Blackheart with two horses by his tent.

“Join me, Gorys,” the captain-general said, the stable boy handing him the reins of a horse, “We have some business in Braavos.”

This day was turning into one of the most eventful days he’s had so far in this company, Gorys thought as he mounted his horse. Just then, the horns sounded their command, and Gorys could rest assured that he won’t get an arrow in his back riding out of camp.

He’s been to Braavos once about a year ago, a group of them went with Laswell Peake to spend the evening in an alehouse. It ended in disaster when one of the knights with them, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword outside the alehouse, has been challenged by two bravos. Water dancers, Gorys never saw them before. Peake tried to break it up, drunk as he was, he tried to keep everyone else from engaging, they were to unbuckle their sword belts keeping sheathed swords in hand, but in the end those skinny bravos cut down the knight. Gorys didn’t know the man’s name. The event ended their mirth for good. Laswell ordered everyone back into camp right away.

“What’s our business,” he asked once they neared the gate, not willing to speak earlier seeing that Blackheart seemed deep in thought through the journey.

“We shall meet Griff’s lady,” the captain-general said. They rode through the gate. “Before we do this, I must tell you though, this is far more than your charge until now. I need your help, and I need your discretion.”

“You have it,” Gorys nodded, wondering what it was all about.

“Oh, I know that,” Blackheart grinned at him, “I know for all the men who asked you for loans and favours and you kept their secret while you denied them all, like you should. But this is far bigger than that.” Gorys wondered how Griff’s baby could be far more important to Blackheart than any other man’s troubles with their spending. But then again, Blackheart had a kind of fondness for Griff. Gorys thought at first that it was the usual, Griff got selected to be groomed for a role that Gorys didn’t know about. Then he thought, perhaps they just became friends, though it seemed truly hard to be a friend of Griff, and he couldn’t tell if Blackheart actually had any friends. After this morning, Gorys thought that he had no idea really for he never saw Blackheart so angry with anyone as he has been with Griff in his tent this morning.

“On the morrow, I shall hold a meeting with the serjeants,” He heard Blackheart changing topic. “Be ready, you will be called into the meeting. I will propose you to be made a serjeant, Gorys. Young as you are, I need to name a new paymaster, you are my choice, and after today you’ll be involved in far bigger matters than you’ve known, I need you to swear your oath. And I need you to stop fucking around in the camp.”

“Already done,” Gorys declared.

“Is it now,” Blackheart asked and Gorys could hear the mirth in his voice. He felt his cheeks blush.

“I had the Lyseni boy in my tent last night,” he confessed. “And I think I did wrong, because he is underage. And Griff told me this morning to be more vigilant because of my charge, and I found, today’s events have really proven that there is need for me to be more vigilant and not to offer my favour to anyone in the company.”

“That is a lesson learned, then,” Blackheart remarked and Gorys sighed of relief knowing well that there will be no further scolding, not unless he failed to actually abide by the words he spoke.

“Griff’s lady has purple eyes,” Blackeart changed the topic. “His boy has the mother’s colouring, purple eyes. Do you know who else have purple eyes?”

“Lyseni,” Gorys sighed.

“And why do Lyseni have purple eyes,” Blackheart mused, “Actually, think on our pretty squire boy, what kind of features he has.”

“Valyrian,” Gorys’s answer was swift, while he wondered where the conversation was leading.

“Indeed,” Blackheart nodded. “Now think on who else are known to have those features.”

Gorys wondered about it. Blackheart seemed to give him time to think, and he tried to figure. He thought through all the free cities, but it was Lys where Old Valyrian blood was common, nowhere else really. Some could be found in Volantis, though they weren’t many, and they were said to be related to the famous courtesan, Saera Targaryen. Targaryen.

“The Targaryens,” Gorys remarked.

“You are too bright for your own good,” Blackheart laughed, and Gorys felt proud at the compliment but really, it wasn’t well earned he felt for it wasn’t such a hard answer to figure.

“Is Griff’s lady a Targaryen, then,” he asked.

“Perhaps there is Targaryen blood in her,” Blackheart answered nonchalantly, “It is the most likely explanation. We shall ask her some time, even if not today. Now tell me what you know about Targaryens.”

“That’s a lot,” Gorys chuckled, “They just lost their kingdom, Griff’s silver prince was a Targaryen. Died in battle, and I heard stories that there was a sacking and his children were murdered.”

“Mention nothing of it to Griff,” Blackheart nodded, “He knows but it is best not to get the man even more worked up when he is already at breaking point. I tell you something that only Griff is aware of, it is why we marched to Braavos.”

Gorys looked at Blackheart then. He was being let in on a secret, perhaps he will even learn why Blackheart was spending so much time around Griff who in turn knew so much about Targaryens. Gorys gave that a thought. “Are there Targaryens in Braavos?”

“You really are too bright,” Blackheart laughed aloud. “But I thought to tell you because of what you will hear today.”

They stopped just then, right next to the Sealord’s Palace, Gorys studying the golden domes as he dismounted. They were in front of an inn. Blackheart turned to him. “What you hear from now is for your own ears only, because you have a role in this and because you would know anyways. You keep it all to yourself.”

Gorys nodded, then followed Blackheart into the inn, wondering how this may just be the most eventful day he’s ever had.

Chapter Text

ASHARA

She laid motionless on the bed, her mind calm, her heart aching. She was such a fool, she thought, her mind aware of the warmth of the skin under her cheek. A man’s arm was her pillow on top of the actual pillow, the man’s other hand resting on her waist. There was only one time before in her life when she’s experienced this, the complete sense of calm and security that one could feel being wrapped into the embrace of a bigger, stronger body of a man. Except that other time she’s experienced it without the clothing separating her skin from that of the man who embraced her that one time like this, for now, she’s had layers of clothing, her dress and the clothing of the man in between them. This was not an embrace that came after her giving herself and somehow to her it spoke far more reassurance of promises she’s received than that other time. She remembered that other time, on a sleeping mat in a tent, wrapped under thick wool blanket with a naked body moulded against hers, her skin acutely aware of the hide of the man moulded against her in the dark. She took it that time as the sign of the man being true to his word, wishing to embrace and protect her even after the act was done, she recalled how secure and safe that made her feel, how assured she’s felt that her choice had been the right one. She’s been never so wrong in her life.

The man whose arm she’s rested her head on now had far more right to what she’s given that other time, she thought, and yet there was no such notion in the man. No, once her tears dried, Jon Connington merely told her to lay down a while, try to catch sleep. He looked as one in need of the same, for he’s spent the past night mainly sitting beside the crib watching the sleeping babe and talking little. To and fro and she convinced him of the same. She asked for the embrace, feeling need for some kind of security now that she felt once more the shame of her previous decision in all its full weight on her, expecting it to do very little to ease the pain of her heart. She was wrong at that too, in truth she calmed and settled feeling more secure than that one previous time. She had to realise, she had little understanding in truth of what could bring the security she craved so much. She understood very little of anything, in fact.

How wrong had she been, when she threw the dress into the sea from atop the Palestone Sword, for as she’s cried begging for forgiveness earlier all she could think of was that she should have thrown herself instead. She should have never taken up the cause of the boy, she should have never convinced Howland Reed to aid her, she should have never set sail to Braavos with the boy, she should have left exile Jon Connington to the life he’s began to build for himself in Essos. The man had no need for her meddling in his affairs. The man was now set to loose what little he has achieved on this side of the Narrow Sea after once having lost everything he had already, and she knew, she was the reason for it.

Jon has lied to protect her honour as much as Jon or anyone could protect her honour, and Jon got into trouble for the lie, she knew. In her own eyes, she had no honour left. Ned has left her as a fallen woman, and the whole case of the boy and her coming here never could have changed that. She never really thought of her own reasons why she took up the charge to care for the boy. It was not that she was sworn to serve prince Rhaegar, unlike Jon she had no ties to the prince, and she never even exchanged a word with the boy’s mother Lyanna Stark. No, if she was honest with herself those were not her reasons. The boy needed a mother, someone to feed him before the boy starves.

She had a babe of her own before, her body did what bodies of women do while their womb was growing babes in them, and prepared for the time when the babe would be born and in need of mother’s milk to feed it. Then she’s been told by the maester that her babe lost life, there was no movement, no heartbeat, she’s carried a dead body in her own belly. It had to come out before it poisons her own body, she was told. She was to drink the potions that would start the birth, the same potions the maester would have given her, had her babe simply overstayed its time in her womb. But she’s learned, this was not the same. The maester told her that it will be hard work, but the body had to come out and the dead babe will be little assistance during the process. It had to come out. She struggled for two days with the pains and the process, until she got it out of herself. She didn’t look at it much, it didn’t cry once it was out like babes do when they first experience the world, because the maester was right and the babe had no life in her. It was dead, in the colour of pale grey, it made her throw up whatever acid her empty stomach had in it after the ordeal. The maester examined her and told her not to worry, there seems to be no damage, she will carry living babes grown by her own womb. It made her sick, she wanted no other babes in her womb. She wanted the one she’s fought to be rid from her womb and she wanted it living and breathing and feeding off her own breast.

Ladies don’t feed their babes on their own breasts, but that mattered little. Her breasts were full, ready for the babe to suckle but there was no babe to drink her milk. The maester gave her more potions, to dry the milk, and that was when she knew she began to do things that in truth made little sense even to herself. There was no reason why not to drink the potions, and yet she kept pouring them down the privy hole. When her breasts began to itch for they were full, she figured to massage it out of them and she poured the milk down the privy hole. She wanted her babe, her mind wasn’t willing to accept that the babe was gone, though she could not even name the babe for what name to give to a dead girl? But she had nothing else that remained of the babe she grew in her own womb, so she kept on the pretence, not once considering what she’s been doing, for months she kept pouring the potion down the privy hole and the milk. The maester asked and she lied that she had no milk. Then there were no more potions to pour down the privy hole, just the milk. That was when she began to wonder how long she could put up with not having her babe, when she began to sit on the rampart atop the Palestone Sword, the only place where she could be alone, wondering how long she could go on without her babe.

The boy needed a mother who could feed him before the boy starved. True enough, the boy needed to survive, he was the heir to the Iron Throne, her mind was swift to recognise that. With princess Elia’s boy gone and prince Rhaegar gone and never to sire more boys, this one boy was the heir to the Iron Throne. He had to survive, for what reason Ashara could not tell, for prince Rhaegar lost the Iron Throne when he lost at the Trident. The babe would begin to starve, there was no way that the babe would make the long and tedious journey to the North without dying of starvation. Of course, she could have arranged for Wylla to go with Stark, feed the babe like Wylla would have fed Ashara’s own babe. But the babe was in her arms, not Wylla’s, and she knew, she’s had the milk. Right there in the room of the inn they took, when the boy woke and turned toward her breast, she didn’t think at all about it. The boy was hungry and she’s had what the boy needed. As the boy latched on, she knew now that she made up her mind then. She lost her own babe, but who would tell her that she could not be mother to this one? Was it not what Ned wanted of her, be mother to the boy… but Ned was wrong. Ned understood nothing of what it was to be mother to a babe, he knew nothing of the work it took to push that body out into the world and the pains to be endured, he knew not what it felt like to have milk and have a babe feeding on the breast, he could not understand that a mother would never abandon her babe.

She could have turned her back on it all, but it was true as she told the Ser captain-general, when it was time to decide and turn her back on the boy, she found that the decision was made for she could not turn back. Her choice was to surrender to her loss and follow her own babe, or to be useful and become mother to the boy now motherless and fatherless and at the mercy of the world and men who would deprive him of his name.

It didn’t take her long at all to figure who could help her in this task, thanks to the conversation in the room in the inn in the town below Starfall, when she had to defend Jon’s honour, she knew before she knew her own decision that Jon would help the boy. Jon loved the prince, though she didn’t know at the time the complete truth of it, she knew that Jon loved the prince. Jon would help the boy.

As she saw it, all the planning and the missive to Braavos and the journey here, the waiting in this inn had one problem with it, and that was that Jon now was no longer in charge of his own fate. He was under command as he put it, for in truth he was in service and he’s had a superior to obey. It wasn’t the same as being a lord who would obey his king and his prince and his liege the paramount, for those would not bother to meddle into your affairs much, or even to spend their time with you on the day to day. But Ashara understood, being a knight and nothing else meant that there was a far closer scrutiny, a far bigger dependence on the obedience owed. If Jon wanted to earn his gold in the Golden Company, he was to obey and cause no problems as much as he was to be useful with his sword after all what could a sellsword be if he could not make use of a sword. She understood now, her appearance with the boy and Jon’s plan-making with her to raise the boy far exceeded the extent of obedience without causing problems.

It was as she wondered aloud to the Ser captain-general, she found it curious that the man came to meet her and the boy. There were thousands of men in the service of that one, what was it to him if one had a woman and a boy? After they made their plans, it was exactly what Ashara expected, there should be little thought given to one of thousands of knights having a wife and child. Jon told her, there were such knights, in a town called Volon Therys they kept their wives and children. They could be safe there, she thought, among the many wives and children of knights, they would be nothing more than any of those other families. It was appealing. It didn’t come with king Robert and it didn’t come with a castle either, there were no lords and no issues caused by those lords and their twisted honour. It came with nothing that she learned to despise in Westeros. It sounded peaceful, a place where she could move on, perhaps even forget her own babe finally and she could raise this motherless and fatherless boy. She could be mother to him, and Jon could be father to him, teach the things to him that Jon’s father taught Jon when he was a boy, that her own father taught Artus and Arthur when they were boys.

Now she felt it all taken away from them once more. It wasn’t the fact that Jon told her, when the Ser captain-general walked into the room to find her feeding the babe and left, Jon came to her and told her, they were here because he did not have the gold needed for this. He also told her to lie, to say that the boy was begotten just before he has been named, but she already knew as much as that having to be the lie. It seemed to her that the problem was in fact her own babe, truthfully, the begetting of her own babe. Her shame, as she saw it, the shame she could feel so strongly now was the reason why the plan did not work out in the end. Jon lied to protect her from it, but she could never allow Jon to take the blame for her own decision, her own shame.

She wasn’t even surprised that Jon lied for her, though she could not tell why. The man tried to protect her and the boy, as he would were they whom they claimed themselves to be, she understood. But she could not do the same, because she understood the grave peril that Jon has been put into by her appearance with the boy. As soon as the Ser captain-general appeared, as soon as the man began questioning her, she understood that Jon was in grave trouble. The man tried to make conversation, tried to ease her into it, but she’s expected the questions. As soon as she figured the lie, she knew that it was over, there was no way to pretend otherwise. Of course, she would never tell that man whom she just met who the boy truly was, she would not go that far, Jon has told her not to tell, and she only had Jon to rely on in this mess, Jon and Howland Reed. But as for the rest, there was no way to pretend that it won’t come out, for she understood that it was why the man came to visit her. So, she’s let it all out, knowing well that it meant that her shame will become known. Once known, the man will likely doubt their claim about the boy, or at the least will likely want nothing to do with the fallen woman she was for she understood that the man would’ve never come to visit her had he not cared about Jon enough to protect him from a fallen woman.

Jon told her that he should have asked her. There was truth in that. It was true as she’s said, Arthur expected Jon to ask her back in Kings Landing, before the tourney at Harrenhal. There was fondness between them, Arthur used to say, and true enough she’s been fond of the lord of griffins, his mysterious ways and his pride and his prickly demeanour in front of others. Even his freckles, Ashara used to find the freckles appealing in truth. There were the stories about Jon and the prince, and Arthur once told her, had Jon asked her then at the least some rumours would be put to rest and she’d make a proper man of Connington. She was a stupid girl, a naïve stupid girl back then, but she knew of Artus’ boy, she thought at most it be the same, for she knew that Artus was to wed and sire his own heirs, Artus spoke of it enough times for her to take his word for it. She would have liked if the lord of griffins had asked her, she would have agreed.

There was a soft knock on the door, and she rose, gently putting aside the hand that rested on her waist. Jon was fast asleep, didn’t even stir at the sound of knocking on the door. She was wondering as she stood how much time could have been spent since they broke their fast, whether Howland Reed came to call her for supper. She glanced at the crib; the babe fast asleep as well. She went and opened the door.

She didn’t expect the Ser captain-general to be back so soon. With him was a young boy with red of hair like Jon’s, eyes black and full of wonder at her sight, so much so that she wondered if she looked in disarray, if her braid had gotten lose during her resting. She nodded in greeting to the men, as she opened the door without a word, glancing at the bed and the sleeping Jon Connington. The Ser noticed too, motioning to the young boy with pointing finger put in front of his lips to not make a sound. Not to wake Jon. It made her curious, as the men sat down by the table, and she followed their example.

“I must apologise, first of all,” the Ser told her then, taking her hand on the table into his. She wondered how small her hand was in the palm of the captain-general, his fingers the girth half her wrist for sure. “I caused you considerable distress with my prying. It cannot be easy for a lady to speak of such things, and I apologise. I needed the truth.”

She only nodded, for there was nothing to say about it. She knew that the man came for the truth, at least the man was honest about his intentions.

“Please tell me there have been no more such mistakes,” the man glanced aside toward Jon sleeping on the bed. Jon was fully clothed, of course he was. He hasn’t even made the slightest suggestion to her to be otherwise. She had to ask for his embrace, even, and this man was implying that Jon may have dishonoured her today.

“I would very much like to slap you, Ser,” she said then, surprised at her own sudden anger as she pulled back her hand. “I may be a fallen woman, but I will not have you talk as such to me, or to my beloved, about business not your own.”

The man merely nodded, slight grin on his face. “Let’s get to our business, then,” he said.

“I would ask of you not to hold against Jon…”

The man raised his hand indicating for her to stop speaking, and she literally swallowed down the words.

“We shall sort it,” the man said, his voice was kind, making her wonder if she could believe the words he spoke. “Gorys here is the assistant to the paymaster. He will be paymaster in no time in fact, he handles the gold. So, we shall sort this business.”

“Jon doesn’t have the gold we need,” Ashara said and turned to Gorys, “I shall give you my jewellery Ser, the price for those shall hopefully do much to help our cause. That is, if you are here to help us.”

“Oh, we are here to help,” the captain-general spoke instead of the boy who seemed completely out of his debt at the suggestion even of her jewellery. He was so young, no doubt younger than herself, she thought. “We won’t sell your jewellery, my lady.” At that, her gaze returned to the captain-general, but not before she saw the surprise on the boy’s face, also turning toward his commander.

“Here’s what we shall do,” the Ser captain-general spoke, “And we shall agree on this with Griff and agree quickly for we have a whole lot of other things to sort, and we spent enough time on this. Besides, my lady I may need your help, as well.”

“How could I ever help you,” Ashara asked surprised.

“I shall get to that,” the man nodded, “And I shall add now that my help does not in-depth you to force your help to me.” Ashara nodded, though she did not believe it. Nobody helps another for nothing, she thought bitterly, maybe in septas’ fairy tales told to little girls the men were generous and helped and they were chivalrous and honourable, but that was not the real world. She had a hard lesson dealt to her to learn that.

“How can you help us,” she asked, her focus shifting to what she really cared about: how to fix that they didn’t have the gold to follow the plan they agreed upon just last night.

“Gorys, show the lady your findings,” the man said and the wide-eyed boy handed her a folded piece of parchment. She studied it. She could see, there was a breakdown of costs, prices and wages for servants and the like. There was a short list on top, herself marked on it as ‘Griff’s lady’, and there was a ‘Young Griff’ as well listed there, no doubt referring to the babe. Good, so they at least believed the babe to be Jon’s, she assured herself. The numbers didn’t add up however, the bills and wages were higher than the numbers listed out next to their ‘names’.

“Who’s Malo,” she asked wondering.

“Squire,” the boy explained, “In the company knights are responsible to host the squires and the squires earn no coin, but knights get paid to provide for them.”

She nodded, “Well this proves what we knew already,” she said with a sigh, laying the parchment down on the table in front of her, “We cannot pay for this. Even if we sold my jewellery, we could perhaps begin but we have no means to keep paying this month after month.”

“See Gorys,” the captain-general remarked, “Ladies in Westeros are well educated and have their wits about them. They can make good sense of things, like mine own woman never could.” That was a compliment to her, Ashara thought, but even more so perhaps, it was to educate the boy. She began to wonder about this boy.

“You are yet to tell me how this could be fixed,” Ashara remarked, “Perhaps if I took up some work, I could add to it. I suppose that is the way…”

“We will not have a lady take on work, my lady,” the man interrupted, “Mine own woman has no care for the world not having worked since I laid eyes on her, all she does is spending the gold I earn on her finery. It would be the worst disgrace for one such as you do be forced otherwise. No, Griff will have to earn the gold like a proper man should.”

“How?” She asked.

“Gorys,” the man nodded toward Gorys. The boy seemed out of his depth once more, but he began to explain.

“Well, the knights earn a wage, of course,” the boy spoke, “And if they have a wife, that gives them some more because they are expected to provide for their wife. Four-tenth, that is, and if they have a child that is three-tenth, for every child they have with their wife. And if they have a squire under age that is the same, for they are to host and provide for the squire. That makes up the wage, but I cannot tell further, that is what I see Griff will make.”

“That is what I saw on your parchment, not being enough,” Ashara nodded, “We should cut the number of servants, really we just need a safe place…”

“I have been working on this for some time,” the captain-general spoke, “I thought, here’s one trained to lead since he learned how to walk, when Griff signed up to the company. I need men who know how to lead, and he does, I have seen. And then I thought, perhaps he is a lost cause for you ought to know, your man has bad habits.”

“Drinking and whoring,” Ashara nodded without hesitation, “He has told me of what he has been up to, Ser.”

“All of it?” The man seemed surprised.

“If you mean,” Ashara lowered her voice to a whisper, “that the whores were men, what of it? I am a Dornish woman Ser, not the first time I have heard of such things.”

The man had that cheeky face now, making her wonder if the man understood her words for what they were, or was having fun at her expense. But the man let it slide, and so she did the same.

“I wanted to make Griff a serjeant and I wanted to give him charge of a contingent,” the man explained, “I have contingents in need of leaders who have the balls to install some discipline in the men, and I thought him to be one just like it. Then just today I have been wondering if I am to cut my losses and let this fool of a man loose, my Lady, for he was a damned fool in his dealing with you. But there is a babe to feed and he has no chance to provide for you and the babe if I cut him loose. But I cannot have a drinking and whoring serjeant in my company, not while I lead it, it would not set the right example to the men. That is the truth of this, so now you know my problem.”

“I remember,” Ashara remarked, “My brother always spoke highly of Jon. Arthur described him as a hard man, but also an honourable man and a capable man. I know that he was above such things in the past. In a court where people thrive on rumours there was never word about Jon drinking and whoring. Many others, but not him. I may have made questionable decisions when it came to others, but I know Jon to be a better man. Best not take his shortcomings as part of his nature, for they are not, of that I assure you Ser.” She understood the problem, Jon’s habits since he’s joined the company were now in his way of making something out of himself, for this captain-general seemed to have a good head on his shoulders and made his decisions wisely. It was true, a leader should not do such things, Ashara thought, thinking of Robert Baratheon. She also understood her task, which was to now convince the man that Jon’s behaviour was not something that Jon could not put an end to, if he so wished. Jon promised her, such things he should stop doing, if he wants to convince them. Now it seemed, that was exactly what this man needed to hear. The man nodded, seemingly thinking on her words.

“I have taken it as proof of our Griff having a hard time with what has befallen him, my Lady, and that is understandable enough for he is young as he is proud and he has never tasted failure before he fell in the most thorough of ways. The question has always been whether he can rise above it,” the man explained, “I suppose we shall take a leap of faith. Our Griff has lost his way, that much we all know. Now it seems to me that we know what made our boy lost his way, as well. Let’s see if he can man up now if he’s some of what he’s lost given back to him. For the truth is, either he’s promoted now and this problem becomes a matter of our Gorys here making the arrangements, or Griff’s best chance is sending you home with Lord Reed and working on changing his ways to earn that promotion. I think not that his pride could take it for he's a damned proud fool. Perhaps if he’s given, then he can man up to the task. There is no other way.”

“He will have more work,” Ashara sighed.

“Nothing he’s not accustomed to,” the man explained, “Our Griff has been doing bits and pieces of what this requires, he picked up the men who needed picking up, he trained the boys, he has proven himself capable in command… he just did other things as well that kept me from giving him the charge. I want that to change, my Lady. If I give this, I want no disappointment later for that would make things even worse than they are now.”

“He promised me,” Ashara whispered, without even thinking, feeling the need to convince the man, “he told me what he’s done and he promised me that it should stop. I told you Ser, the Jon I know has never been prone to such things. He’s lost a lot…”

“Oh, I know,” the man nodded, “Let’s see if he keeps his promise to you, my Lady. I shall trust that he does.”

“And if he is promoted,” Ashara pushed, “Will he then be able to afford what we need?”

“Gorys,” the man nodded toward the boy once more. The boy turned the parchment in front of her toward himself, for a moment thinking about it.

“A serjeant earns double,” the boy spoke, “Double of what the knight earns, not double of it all. If he has charge of men, that is five-tenth on top. I think it could be enough?”

“I know it enough,” the man nodded with that warm smile of his toward Ashara, “I know because I know what I make, I know what some of the serjeants make. Let’s consider the matter sorted. The serjeants meet on the morrow, we shall discuss promotions for our Gorys here has earned the promotion as well, and then it shall be sorted.”

Ashara sighed of relief, forcing herself not to stand and run around the table to jump into this man’s arms in her happiness, knowing well of the wide happy smile on her lips. Jon will like it, she thought, once he wakes, hopefully he won’t mind having been given charge of men and a promotion. What a different world this was, in Westeros there would be no such issue as to whether a lord behaved properly to receive his title and whether his behaviour was inspiring enough to his men. In Westeros the lord would be given for he owns the land. Here, they owned nothing. They had to make the gold they need to spend, what a different world this was, and yet still the same, the man was to provide. Ashara felt the weight of the charge on Jon, who was agreed to provide to Rhaegar’s son, not even his own brood. She respected Jon all the more for it.

“You told me that you need my help,” she remarked to the captain-general, “Was this you needed my help with?”

“Oh no,” the man chuckled, “That is a whole other matter. Best wake our sleeping beauty so we can discuss it, I would not want to discourse with his wife behind his back about such matters.”

She nodded and stood, walking toward the bed she sat down besides the sleeping Jon Connington. He seemed so peaceful to her, so out of place. The men by the table were both watching her now. She leaned down, brushing stray red streaks of hair out of the man’s face she placed a kiss on his forehead, a long kiss. Not for Jon, but for them, though now that she thought about it, Jon has earned her care, even fondness for what he was charged to do. “Jon, wake up,” she whispered. A few more caresses on his face and the man stirred. “The captain-general is here and wants a word with us. Wake up.” His eyes opened, straight looking at the men at the table, he nodded and sat. Ashara left him, returning to the table and soon he followed. As he sat, he took the parchment laid out on the table and read it.

“Well, this is clear enough,” Jon tossed the parchment back on the table.

“Already sorted,” the captain-general spoke, “I told you before that I need you to man up. Your lady and I agree that you shall man up. I decided that you shall take on a contingent and that shall sort the rest of this matter. Gorys will make the arrangements in Volon Therys. Let’s talk about Ser Willem Darry.”

“What business does Ashara have with Ser Willem,” Jon’s eyes grew wide. Whatever he thought about his promotion, he seemed to either hide it or not even think it long enough for it to be shown on his face – perhaps he even thought nothing of it, Ashara thought.

“She is a lady and a mother,” the captain-general spoke, “She is much of what those children lost. Your old knight may be doing all he can but he will never provide to those children what your lady could provide to them, can you see where I am going with this?”

“I can,” Jon’s voice gave away his reluctance before he spoke it, “And I like it not. They are Targaryens, they will be hunted.”

“I am not very clear on what we are discussing,” Ashara interrupted. Looking at the boy paymaster named Gorys, he was even less clear that she felt.

“We are discussing Viserys Targaryen,” Jon explained.

“We are,” the captain-general nodded, “I have spent the past two days wondering what am I to do with Viserys Targaryen. The boy is in Braavos, with a knight named Ser Willem Darry.”

“I remember Ser Willem,” Ashara nodded, “He has a good heart and he is a royalist. He will protect the prince.”

“Forgive me for saying, my lady,” the captain-general sat back in the chair as he spoke, “The knight I met is old and very much broken under the weight of protecting that boy. It would be better if the boy were made to disappear, and the babe as well. Perhaps the old knight as well, and by disappear I mean that we would hide them away. Then there is no worry that someone gets to them in the name of the stag.”

“I think not,” Jon sat back as well, his fierce eyes on the captain-general. “We cannot take in the Targaryens. We cannot pretend to be anything to them.”

“And why not,” the captain-general argued, “You will have a household and a wife who could be mother to them. Then once they are grown, the company can sort the rest. It can be our way back home, Griff. YOUR way back home as well, to reclaim all that you lost, for your own boy to inherit.”

She tried to make sense of where this conversation was going. The captain-general proposed that they take in and raise Viserys. And the baby girl that Jon told her about, as well. Another babe without a mother, a girl. Viserys she could barely remember, but she could recall him as a cocky little child, raised by Aerys on stories of how he was the real dragon, he was the prince who mattered in truth, and the boy believed it because that was the only thing he’s known. Now he thought himself a king, Jon told her, the old Queen has crowned the boy with her own crown on Dragonstone after the sacking of Kings Landing. No doubt because they didn’t know about Rhaegar’s boy, which was just exactly as it should be for the boy to survive.

“Viserys is seven,” she’s heard Jon say before she would’ve begun to speak. “See sense, Myles. We cannot claim him to be our own, he’s too old for that and you’ve met him. You could never convince that boy to lie himself a Griffin. You heard him, he has no fondness for me either, he would accept it even less.”

The captain-general raised his eyes on her then. “It is true,” she nodded, “Viserys is too old. I am but twenty, Ser. I could not pretend to be his mother.”

“There’s a spymaster in the Red Keep,” Jon remarked, “If he’s still there, an Essosi. That damned eunuch warned the king of Rhaegar’s plans at Harrenhal before, that was what Rhaegar believed.”

“Is this about the eunuch that Aerys took in,” the captain-general asked, “He’s a Lyseni though last he lived in Pentos, before he left for Westeros after Duskendale.”

Ashara was surprised, truly surprised. She didn’t even know Varys to have been from Lys. The captain-general seemed to really know things.

“I told you, Myles,” Jon leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, “If word on the street is that Viserys is in Braavos, Kings Landing will know of it soon enough. He’s not safe here that is true but taking him in will only risk my own family. I cannot agree to that.”

“How would they know,” the boy asked then. “Forgive me, not my place to speak but I understand that we are discussing hiding away the boy king so if we do that, how would anyone know that we did that?”

“The same way I learned of him being here,” the captain-general sighed, “At least I understand that is what causes Griff to be wary.”

“And rightfully so,” Jon argued, “I told you, the damned eunuch told the King of Rhaegar’s plan with the tourney, even Rhaegar believed that and truth be told, he thought the eunuch of little importance. But I think the eunuch is much more than he lets on. Sure enough, he seems to be nothing more but a fat eunuch boy, but he is much more than that I am sure of it.”

“He is not a boy,” Ashara remarked, “He is older than me, even than you.”

“Who could tell,” Jon sighed, “We know very little of him. I think even Aerys knew very little of him.”

“And thus, my problem is still unresolved,” the captain-general declared, “We still are none the wiser about what to do with the boy king.”

“Nothing,” Jon shrugged. “He is a cocky little boy who if he grows into a cocky little man will be hard to work with, he already thinks that we all owe him our fealty.”

“We do owe him fealty,” Ashara remarked, “He is our prince, at least yours and mine, Jon.”

“And ours,” the captain-general nodded, “There are no Blackfyres, the closest blood is Targaryen no matter how some would find that hard to swallow. If the men want back home, they just have to swallow and fight for Targaryen.”

“For a seven-year-old king?” The boy asked.

“That is the problem, Gorys,” the captain-general replied, “Boy needs to grow into a man first. He is quite useless to us as a boy. He needs to become a man and one worth to follow, else it would be hard to convince the serjeants to lift a finger for him. If he gets cocky with us, the Company will never choose to fight for his Targaryen arse.”

Ashara raised an eyebrow at the manner of speech, but let it slide. She’s been made part of a discussion among men, she understood that much. She has been made part of the scheming of men, scheming that concerned the Seven Kingdoms and as she could tell, a possible invasion in the name of Targaryen.

“What if the knight and the boy king move to Volon Therys,” the boy asked then.

“I think not,” Jon declared.

“That is not for you to decide,” the captain-general laughed, “After all, we could better protect them in Volon Therys with our own. The problem is, doing that is as good as declaring for Viserys Targaryen, nine years before he becomes a man grown.”

“Exactly,” Jon remarked, “You will draw attention on the Company, and if I may add, you will involve my name for I am a known royalist and my family will be there, too. Moving Viserys to Volon Therys will endanger mine own, so again, I think not else I need to find a different arrangement for my own family.”

“Is it really that bad,” the boy asked.

“Worse,” Jon explained, “For all I know, the stag is already eager to get to Viserys. Why else sack Dragonstone? He wanted all of them gone, all the Targaryens. This one escaped, and a king has means beyond all of us to find a boy if he wants them dead.”

“That, I agree with,” the captain-general nodded. “Fine, no Volon Therys for Viserys then. Once more I am inclined to just let him be with his knight protector for I cannot figure what I could do to change things. If only the boy had been kept hidden, it would be different.”

“I doubt it,” Jon shrugged, “The boy left Dragonstone, where else could he have gone but Essos and of the nine cities half are out of question. He won’t go to Slavers’ Bay or Qohor, he’s fairly easy to find, even if he had remained hidden.”

“Fine,” the captain-general stood, “You convinced me. We shall help the Ser with some gold, let him see that the company could be friend, and we shall explain as we can the perils awaiting them. He can then do whatever he decides about it, perhaps move to Pentos with the boy and the babe. Or…” He looked up, his eyes on Ashara, then Jon.

“Or what,” Jon asked.

“Let us go to the Sealord’s Palace,” the captain-general stood. “I have some questions. Your lady may enjoy seeing some of Braavos.”

“I cannot leave little Jon,” Ashara argued.

“Perhaps the crannogmen can help,” the captain-general remarked, “Watch for the babe for an hour or two?”

“They went to seeing some of Braavos,” Jon chuckled, “I told them to go before the bearded one get on my nerve so much that I cut him down.”

The captain-general laughed, “You are getting the lesson of how to swallow your pride sometime Griff. It is a valuable lesson, you ought to learn it.”

Jon rolled his eyes at hearing that, but Ashara gave it a good thought. She’s heard the argument today, short as it was, between Quagg and Jon. She felt sorry for that as well, but it was true. If they meant to keep up the pretence that the babe was theirs, Jon was in for much more judgement that much was true, for fathering a boy on a woman not his wife. There was nothing to it, so she’s reached and squeezed Jon’s hand, for lack of better support to be given.

“What do you need answers for,” she asked the captain-general who once more sat back in the chair opposite her. The boy followed suit. This boy was obedient, Ashara thought, wondering if every man in the Golden Company were this obedient. If Jon would be the same. If yes, then this captain-general wielded considerable power, she thought.

“I wanted to know if the word on the street includes the babe they have with them,” the man explained, “If it is that Viserys Targaryen is here with Ser Willem Darry with nothing about the babe, then that changes things and my request still stands.”

“What request,” Jon’s eyes were firmly on his commander, “You want us to take in the little princess?”

“Why not,” the captain-general shrugged before looking at Ashara, “There’s a little baby girl there. You are a lady and a mother; you could take her in and raise her as befits her station.”

“This is insane,” Jon scoffed.

“No, it makes sense,” the captain-general argued, “Forgive me Griff, but your lady has the eyes of Targaryens. She can pass on that babe as her own, which in turn would protect the little princess. Let Viserys grow into a man by the side of Ser Willem, if he can make it, we shall protect the princess. I would assume Ser Willem be thankful for it, perhaps thankful enough to lend you the wetnurse for you need one. You cannot keep your lady feeding your boy like that. Never heard of such a thing.”

“It was my choice,” Ashara explained, not willing to allow this latest slight on Jon’s honour, “Jon has nothing to do with that, it was my choice. If I wanted otherwise, we would have brought a wetnurse, I could have brought the one from Starfall or even Greywater Watch, Lord Reed tried to convince me thus.”

“In truth,” the captain-general explained, “It is the way in this land. Mothers feed their own babes; it is westerosi highborn who seem to chafe at the task. Except you, my lady and that tells me that you are a fierce mother of your boy.”

Perhaps, Ashara thought. She would have been a fierce mother of her own babe, perhaps she’s just as fierce about the boy, she could not tell.

“Explain this to me,” Jon argued, “How could Ashara claim her own that princess when we have our own boy?”

“They seem to be the same age,” the captain-general remarked, “They must at least have similar eyes as well. You have seen that babe, you can tell. If they have eyes similar enough then they could be passed on as twins.”

Ashara raised her eyebrow toward Jon, wondering about what he’s heard. The captain-general had quite unusual ideas about what to do with the Targaryens, but then again, the man’s thinking was completely in line with their own. This is exactly how she figured to claim the boy, it is how they concluded to claim him as their own.

“She will have silver hair,” Jon argued once more, “My boy has his mother’s colouring.”

“Twins need not look the same,” the captain-general countered, “I have seen it enough. At times they are boy and girl and they are mirror image of each other it is true. At times they are both boys or girls and could not look more different. Laswell Peake has twins, two girls and I tell you, they are vastly different both in looks and in nature. Cheeky little things that they are, nothing on them would tell that they shared the womb. Who says that a boy and girl could not look a little different? As long as the eyes are similar, why could they not have the hair different?”

Ashara wondered about it. Daynes often came with purple eyes like hers, and mainly they came as goldenheads like Artus. Arthur shared her own hair colour, cousin Gerold however, he was a silverhaired young boy with purple eyes, just like Targaryens.

“Go and find out, Ser,” she said then, “It is no worth discussing if the princess is known to be here. I agree with Jon, I will not risk my own boy for the sake of protecting a Targaryen, we have given enough for Targaryens.”

Jon gave her a questioning look, but she ignored it.

“That you have,” the captain-general nodded, as he stood once more, followed by the boy, Gorys. “Was it not for Targaryens, you two would be happily wed making little griffins in this one’s castle, I wager. And yet, we all keep on giving for Targaryens, it is what it is. My ancestors gave up their home because of following the dragons.” Ashara chuckled at that, at this man’s idea of what comes first in wedlock. Though it wasn’t far from the truth, in terms of that people wed to have their heirs. Jon had no heirs. Had things gone differently, had Jon ever asked her, they would be trying to have heirs as far as she could tell.

“Different dragons,” Jon remarked.

“And what of it,” the man shrugged, “Black or red, a dragon is a dragon, I told you. It seems to me that in the end it does not matter what colour they are. There are no more black dragons, Griff. We all just have to make do with Targaryens now. If we manage to keep them alive, that is.”

With that, the man moved toward the door. The boy, Gorys seemed hesitant to follow, Ashara could see as she stood from the table. Surely the babe would be awake by now, surely eager to be fed. He’s had a good appetite and the good behaviour of not crying out when he woke. The boy’s eyes were on the crib.

“Come,” she said as she walked past the boy, her hand touching the boy’s arm indicating he was whom she spoke to, “I can see that you are a curious one.”

“Want to see Griff’s boy,” the boy explained, his excitement evident in his voice.

She was right, little Jon was awake, his wide purple eyes on her, his little arms he wiggled out of the swaddle now reaching for something unseen in the air, like babes often do. She took the babe in her arm, turning toward the boy, Gorys with her shoulder she laid the babe on to rest his head. Her hand immediately went to caress the babe’s little head covered in hair the same colour as her own. Gorys just stared at the babe.

“Those eyes,” Gorys remarked, “Once he is grown, your son will be the bane of hearts Griff.”

Ashara chuckled at the thought, this boy will be hopefully the bane of many, but not because of his eyes.

“He’s no Lyseni, Gorys,” she’s heard Jon say amidst a laugh.

“Let us not discourse Lyseni,” the captain-general said, “Come, Gorys, it is late.”

Gorys nodded, he reached and gave the babe’s head a little caress. He seemed enamoured by the babe already.

“Trouble with the squire, I take it,” Jon remarked.

“More like, the squire had troubles, most likely because of his looks that Gorys is swooning over still,” she’s heard the captain-general explain, saw the boy Gorys’ cheeks blush red at those words as well, “I am glad to have been born ugly for I never had knights coming onto me against my will when I was a squire boy. Life must be hard for the pretty ones.”

Ashara took a deep breath at that. She understood, there was a pretty boy in the camp, likely having been harmed.

“What have you done with them,” Jon asked.

“One got shot down trying to escape my justice,” the man explained, “the other will be drawn naked by the command tent until I figure how to hang him without shaming the boy. Come Gorys, you can dote on that babe later.”

The two of them left, and Ashara settled on the bed, untying the front of her dress she began feeding the babe.

“At least he is right at that,” Jon remarked, watching from the table, “You need a wetnurse. How could I say that I love you if I let you go on with this?”

“You heard it,” she said nonchalantly, “In Essos this is normal. We are in Essos, Jon. I find nothing wrong with it.”

“No, you became the wetnurse for the boy, I wager,” Jon remarked and she looked up, but he only gave him a smile and a nod.

“We should start treating him as our own,” she whispered.

“Are we not doing that?” he asked, “We are going through great deal of troubles because we are treating him as our own.” He stood and came to sit by her side on the bed.

“We are,” she nodded, “You are, in truth, your honour is tarnished now. Still, we should stop talking about him as if he was not our own.”

“He is NOT our own, Ashara,” Jon remarked, “There will come a time when he will be old enough to know, and then we shall tell him who he is. Is that not what you wanted?”

“It is,” she said, “And until then, I want him to have a mother and a father and a childhood that is happy like mine was with Arthur.”

“Is that why you would take in the princess,” Jon asked, “You would, I have no doubt, I saw it on you.”

“He thinks the way we think, your commander,” she explained, “And he is right, for if he is not than what we do is wrong, as well. He made some sense.”

“Very little,” Jon grunted. “Our charge is the boy, that is what we agreed upon. Now we will have two babes if he can help it.”

“We will have the heir to the Iron Throne, Jon,” she whispered, “And we will have the only Targaryen princess there is.”

“Are you thinking of wedding them already,” he laughed aloud as he asked it.

“I had no such thoughts, I promise,” she smiled. “Though, who knows, they are Targaryens. Who knows what they will do.”

“I would refrain from going that far,” Jon said then, “First they need to grow up, and that takes many years Ashara. That girl will be hunted, Viserys is hunted. I really think that it would be best to let them be.”

“But she may not be hunted, you heard it,” she pleaded, “and if so, why risk leaving her with Ser Willem? If we could take her to safety just like we take little Jon to safety, why not do it? She is only a babe, Jon, she is like little Jon…”

“The woman speaks in you,” he sighed. “Fine, we can talk about it like you told Toyne, if her presence remained hidden, then we can talk about it. If we can even afford to raise a princess for I am shamed enough as it is for my lack of means.”

“The pride speaks in you,” she countered, giving him a smile. “Your commander sorted it.”

“Aye, promotes me for the price of harbouring a Targaryen,” he grunted.

“We are already harbouring a Targaryen,” she whispered.

“Thought I heard you say that we ought to speak of him as our own,” he chuckled.

“You are unbearable,” she laughed. “I already hate arguing with you.”

“I second that,” he stood, “After all, I either give in now or I let you talk a hole into my stomach about it until I do. I know you that much.”

“Welcome to wedlock, Connington,” she laughed.

“Not yet,” he smiled at her, “I am still none the wiser whether there is a sept in this city.”

“One step at a time,” she remarked.

“Aye,” he nodded. “I shall take my next step towards the stalls by the Moon Pool and get you some sweets.”

“You are going to make me fat,” she laughed, “Then you shall have a fat and ugly wife.”

“Judging by the news about the squire boy, I probably would not mind that either,” he said solemnly. “But why not, you like them enough.”

“I do,” she nodded, “Before you go, tell me why you are so weary of Varys.”

“Because every time I dealt with the man, he made my skin crawl,” he said, “Used to look at me as if he had all my secrets figured out.”

“He probably heard the rumours about you and the prince,” she noted aloud.

“Listen to me,” Jon crouched down in front of her, his hands on her knees. “Trust me when I tell you, men can be much more than they let on. Take Toyne as example, how do you think he knows so much? He employs a spymaster that is why he wanted to the Sealord’s Palace; his spymaster is there. Their spies are everywhere, in Kings Landing just as well as in the Company and everywhere else. Just the other day his spymaster told me that my cousin had a son borne to him, knew even the name of Ronald’s new son. If Toyne wants to know something, he goes to his spymaster, and his spymaster will know the answers he seeks.”

“You think Varys to be…”

“A spymaster,” Jon nodded. “I think he spies, yes. I believe so because Rhaegar used to think like you, and still even he believed Varys to have discovered his plot against his father.”

“Someone talked,” she remarked.

“Perhaps,” Jon shrugged it off, “But you and I need to be more vigilant. Robert must be looking for the Targaryens by now and if I am right, he will employ that damned eunuch. They will know about Viserys. Who knows, perhaps even now we have spies watching us, expecting me to look for the Targaryens like they do.”

“Not right now, surely,” she laughed, “You take it too far, Jon.”

“Not right in this moment, no,” Jon nodded, “But you can never know the intentions of others. Even if there are no spies, soon enough word will reach Kings Landing about you and I, and then they will wonder.”

“There is nothing to wonder,” she argued, “No doubt if they hear of us, they shall hear the story we’ve told and should content with that. Why would they bother with us, far away having our own way, why would they bother themselves with a couple of star-crossed lovers on the other side of the Narrow Sea? Is that not why we made this plan?”

“It is,” Jon stood once more, “All I am saying is, we should be vigilant. Not taking in every motherless Targaryen, if you please. But I know how stubborn you are, if it comes to that decision, I shall let you make it.”

“That is generous,” she scoffed.

“No, it is just sensible,” Jon countered, “For my own sake. In any case it is you who shall raise them. The company spends little time in one place, even in Volon Therys.”

She looked up, straight into his eyes.

“It is a sellsword company, Ashara,” he explained, “There is a lot of marching around to honour contracts.” She nodded. She didn’t give this any thought before, either. She watched him leave, wondering about it.

It was foolish from her, she realised that immediately. She imagined this all in so much in the fashion like it would have been if, like the captain-general so mirthfully described, they were wed in Westeros. She had to give this some thought, for true enough, Jon was now firmly tied to the Golden Company, and surely enough, they cannot be fighting for their contracts if they are always in the one place where they kept their families. Jon will be away from little Jon and her an awful lot of time, she realised.

The babe finished, she tied her dress and put him on her shoulder. She needed to clean the babe but she wanted to have a look at that parchment once more and so she made her way to the table. There it was listed out, maids and cook and housekeeper, all kinds of servants to run a household. And all this will have to be paid for by Jon, who in turn has to take on a promotion, lead his own men. Ashara let out a deep sigh. She really got Jon Connington into grave troubles with her appearance. She wondered when Jon will begin to complain. Or if Jon merely wrote it off as, he will be away for most of the time anyway. For some reason, that thought didn’t sit well with her.

She returned to the bed and began the process of unwrapping the boy to change his linen, all the while trying not to think about whether she just made herself the loneliest woman in the world, being left in a house with servants and a boy to raise and nobody to share her burdens. And even more so if there were to be two babes to care for… She would take in the girl, she had no doubt for as she told Jon, if the girl was not known then she could be made disappear like the captain-general suggested, and then the girl would be safe. They were children, they deserved to be kept safe no matter whose blood ran through their veins. This was to become her life then, she thought. She will be raising the children of other women, spending her youth alone in a house with servants around her, raising the children of other women. She wondered if there was chance to have children of her own. The maester assured her, there was no damage to her womb. For some reason she could not define, she didn’t think that the answer depended on whether her womb was damaged or not. No, it depended on Jon, who will be away marching in the Golden Company, and as she could see on the parchment, whenever he will not be marching, he will have to just contend with sharing a bed with her. Question was, in what ways will he be sharing that bed with her. Once more she arrived at the question she thought of before, but now, she had to consider the possibility that most likely, she will never have children of her own. The thought of it felt dreadful. Perhaps she should speak to Jon about it, but then, perhaps she would be told that she shall never have children of her own. She swallowed hard at the thought. No, she will not be talking to Jon about that, she could not bear hearing that, if it was as she feared. She would rather just wait and hope. True, Jon had not even the slightest inclination of coming onto her when he laid down to rest with her by his side today. But they also were not yet wed, and Jon was an honourable man. A man who laid with other men. Gods, Ashara thought, let it be like Artus claimed it to be, the way Oberyn Martell is with his lovers having taste for both. Please, let it be like that, so she could have children of her own, grown in her own womb. Let her be a mother in every sense, then she will bear all that loneliness of being alone in a house full of servants and Targaryen children, if only she had children of her own.

Chapter Text

BLACKHEART

The day was not even half-done, and he felt as if he’s not slept in three days. The whole business in Braavos proved to be a headache, far more troublesome than he’s expected it to be, and every time he thought that he found a solution to one of his problems, he was met with more headache. It grew tiring, so he decided, today was a day as good as any to put an end to the problems and sort them all as much as they could be sorted while here in Braavos. He had to make decisions, and he’s made them, for better or worse, for he was ready to put it all behind and march south.

Take Ser Willem Darry, for example. No doubt the man was a fine knight once in Westeros, Master at Arms at the Red Keep for Aerys Targaryen, Myles heard plenty of stories from Griff to know that Ser Willem Darry was no ordinary knight. He thought Griff the use of sword and lance, and while Myles had no idea about Griff’s skills with lance – being said to have been unhorsed by Ser Barristan Selmy said nothing of a man’s skill in his eyes – Griff was a damn fine swordsman, with a good sharp mind for it and speed that not many could match. He’s seen Griff train plenty a time with the boys but also with the knights, enough to know that there would be few who could best the man. His speed in truth was unparalleled in the company and though Myles could find reason for criticism, he admired the speed. Therefore, he would not criticise, for why criticise a man who if they were to meet on the battlefield could cut him down? Myles knew a great deal about swordsmanship and enough to know when he faced one better than himself, rare that was still despite him no longer being two-and-twenty young like Griff. That Darry trained the young man elevated Darry in Myles’ eyes, but the meeting with Darry only served to crush any high hopes he may have had for the old knight. It was as he told the lady Ashara, the knight seemed truly broken under the weight of caring for young Viserys. Or more likely under the weight of having lost all those boys he’s spent years training or simply watching on the yard – all the young white swords, including his own younger brother Ser Jonothor Darry, fell either at the Trident or later on to Ned Stark wherever that happened. Darry’s finest charge, prince Rhaegar Targaryen fell to a hammer on the Trident, as well, and it could not have been easy to leave Kings Landing and the prince’s children knowing well the peril they were in. Later it could not have been any easier to accept that he’s to make something of a new life in Essos in his old age, in hiding with a boy of seven and a new-born babe. That Darry will never train Viserys Targaryen the use of a sword, of that Myles had no doubt. They will be lucky if Darry makes it until the prince’s sixteenth nameday to see Viserys to manhood, for there was very little chance of that to happen.

He sat this morning with the spymaster, it was the first thing he did. He sent Gorys with Griff to see to Griff’s lady, so he could have some privacy with the spymaster. There was lot to discuss, and judging by how Gorys’ eyes lit up at the suggestion it was just as well. The boy was smitten, that much was clear. The boy thought Griff’s story to be worthy of songs about the love of a beautiful woman who followed her man across the Narrow Sea when her man became disgraced for what Gorys thought a matter of honour and being an honourable man. Gorys was eighteen and he never loved a woman. Myles didn’t think it a fairy tale. That is why he asked after the Lady, but there was nothing the spymaster could give him to prove his suspicions that once more rose anew. He’s set aside his suspicions when he’s first met the lady, because he could add it all up – she loved Griff, this fool of a man who was so smitten over Rhaegar Targaryen that while he courted her, he didn’t even realise what he was doing, most likely. No doubt young Ashara Dayne grew discontent with waiting for she chose another man, only to fall into another man’s trap. According to that story, Griff found his balls and asked her after that at the least, and that led them here. It all added up, if not for the question of what could have made Griff man up and ask her after Lord Stark dishonoured her, if he did not ask her before, but Griff seemed smitten enough with her for it all to be believable. Until Myles visited them the second time and he once more realised that Westerosi really aren’t cunning folk. They can’t understand that sometimes questions are not asked because they need the right answer, sometimes they are asked because they require the wrong answer, else it all falls apart.

Griff never took a woman, all those whores and never a woman, always young men, blonde or even silver haired, preferably with purple eyes. As close as possible to Rhaegar Targaryen. Myles understood that before the appearance of Ashara Dayne as Griff’s pretence. You don’t have to see their faces when you fuck them, find one close enough a match and you can pretend. The fact that he asked and the lady protested against any notion of dishonourable behaviour between the two of them – protested against his asking, to be correct – once more arose suspicions that have been put to rest earlier that day. The babe had the mother’s colouring, his existence proved nothing in the matter either. The spymaster could not tell anything amiss; the lady was dead in Westeros; word has reached the capitol that she threw herself into the sea off a tower at Starfall. Just as they claimed.

In truth, it mattered little whether Griff fathered the boy, firstly because the fool seemed to be hellbent that the boy was his own, and secondly, because the lady has finally agreed to his plan. After he finished with his business, he joined them in the inn, and the lady agreed to his plan to take the princess and raise her as their own, until she was old enough to understand who she was. So now it was in Myles’ interest to have the two of them duly wed, as well, but the issue wasn’t letting him be. There was something amiss, he couldn’t put his finger on it but there was to be a reason why Griff would claim a child out of wedlock. The man was a bloody fool when it came to his pride, not once denying his silver prince and not once allowing anyone to question his honour, and yet, his honour was now tarnished. Myles knew, there had to be something that drove Griff to such a sacrifice.

Myles decided on a course of action to figure it out, as much for his own amusement as for the sake of his investment that Daenerys Targaryen was to become, and at the same time he’s going to rid himself of another cause of headache, two in fact. Once he finished with the spymaster, who in truth had little news for him from Westeros, he made his way to Ragnar’s Harbour. The place was as filthy and poor as ever. Hiring a ship to Volantis proved to be a far harder task than he’s expected, the ships in harbour were mainly bound to Westeros except a barge that seemed to fall apart as soon as it reaches open water, claimed to be for Lys. He rode across to the Purple Harbour, knowing well that the price won’t be to his liking, and still found no vessel bound for Volantis in the next days. Shame, that was, he had to come up with a different plan, he negotiated passage to Pentos, he was to be back on the morrow with the details for the ship was to load and set sail on the day. At least that would mean that Griff’s lady wouldn’t have to cross the mountains with the company, for marching through the Andalos was no easy task, it was Myles’ least favourite as well.

Passage to Pentos then would mean that he would have to stop with the company outside Pentos, and meet up with them once more. There they can hire a litter, take their horses from the company as well, and take the road toward the ruins of Ghoyan Drohe on the banks of the Little Rhoyne. There were always barges sailing up and down the Rhoyne, it shouldn’t be a problem to hire passage to the south from there. Griff even made this trip once before just a few months past, with a group of men he’s sent upriver to deal with several river pirates, Griff has sailed the Royne north then back south after a job well done. Now that favour that he used to test Griff’s capabilities may prove useful indeed, for they shall cross the Sorrows. Griff will be no stranger to what will be required.

As for the whole journey, that is what made Myles resolute that this can solve all his problems. He had no doubt that the children and the Lady Ashara shall travel by ship and definitely not with the company. Recent events in the camp about the pretty Lyseni only confirmed this. But that separation also gave him the opportunity to solve two of his other problems. One was little Denys Strong, who was being smothered by his witty and capable yet overly protective older brother Duncan out of sheer love. The boy needed to get out from under his brother’s watch else he will have to leave the company, at least until he grows old enough not to rely on the brother. That in turn would turn Duncan useless, Myles knew, and in truth Duncan was the most promising of all of them young boys they currently had in the company. He decided that he shall send little Denys with Griff on the journey. It shall be fun, for Malo, Griff’s newly appointed squire should be there, the boy would have company. They can count the turtles in the Rhoyne together if they so wished, but Myles planned to task Griff with training the boys, the Gods knew both of them gravely needed it. There wasn’t much else to do on a barge sailing down the Rhoyne, and Myles had an inclination that Griff will not spend all his time in his lady’s company.

That was the most amusing part of the plan, for Myles had another headache, the pretty Lyseni boy. The boy also had to get out of camp so Myles could finally sentence and hang the man who abused him without that piece of meat now hanging drawn besides his tent dying out of thirst and starvation, and without shaming the boy and declaring in the camp what happened to him. Out of sight, out of mind, the judgement could be pronounced without attention on the boy who for the time being became Brendel Byrne’s charge. Brendel reported the boy dutiful, attentive and of few words and fewer issues in the little time the boy spent as his charge, and it would be sad to take from the boy his chance in the company over a matter that the boy had little control over. Of course, one could argue that the boy brought it upon himself, the boy gave his favours in the camp. Still, in Myles’ view the foolishness of a boy of fourteen was no reason why any man could assume the right to demand favours from him, and it’s been years since the last rapists in the camp. Myles was truly disappointed at what happened.

This was also what amused him. Considering his misgivings about Griff’s newly revealed devotion to the Lady Ashara Dayne, it will be interesting to see what comes from this journey and having the pretty Targaryen-lookalike boy under Griff’s care. Myles wanted to know whose favours Griff will prefer in the end, after all the boy has already offered his to Griff on the training yard. Though that was before the situation with the two knights abusing the boy, but there wasn’t anything more that could be done about that, it was done.

Myles didn’t expect either the boy or Griff to reveal what came of his little scheme, and even less so the lady herself. That and the notion of sailing through the Sorrows provided the reason to also send men with them, so he can learn what comes of the whole situation. His choice fell on two of his own men, both young and bright and eager and capable fighters, both having his attention for their showing promise, Marq Mandrake and Tristan Rivers. Once arrived in Volon Therys, he planned to speak with them both and see what came of his suspicions, as much as regarding whether Griff lived up to the Lady Ashara’s promise.

The plan was made, in his mind at the least, there were only few bits and pieces he had to yet figure out. One was the case of Ser Willem Darry, the other was Lord Howland Reed, and both shall be sorted today, and before the day is done Griff shall be duly wed, as well. Of the two, he decided to deal with Darry first, and that was why the three of them, Gorys, Griff and he were riding across the city, towards Silty Town.

The entry into the house was easy enough. This time, Griff only had to speak his name to the boy by the door, and the door opened wide right away. It was all done the same way, the boy left their horses in the front garden by the lemon trees and led them into the house and straight through, to the back room that was the solar as much as such houses had a solar. They barely arrived when Myles could hear the approaching boots of Ser Willem Darry.

“You are back,” Ser Willem remarked to Griff with joy in his eyes.

“Have not much time,” Griff answered as Ser Willem motioned for them all to sit. Myles nodded to Gorys and they all sat down, Gorys besides Griff opposite the Ser for Myles took up the large armchair that seemed to promise him some comfort.

“May I speak,” he began.

“Captain-general,” Ser Willem acknowledged him with a nod.

“Ser, Griff speaks true for we have much to accomplish today so there shall be no small talk,” he continued, “I am certain that you understand the perils that the young king’s presence known in Braavos may bring upon you.”

“What is done, is done,” the old knight said with a sigh. “In the end I have not had the heart to dismiss the servants.”

“That is just as well,” Myles nodded, “What is done, is done, as you say. Gorys here is assistant to our paymaster, we thought to bring you some gold, make sure the young king has no want.” He nodded toward Gorys who handed the bag of gold coins to the old knight. He opened it, his eyes grew wide at it.

“That is much more than anyone could expect…”

“He is the king, Ser,” Myles remarked, “The TRUE king, if you get my meaning. I would have done more, but as it is, I cannot figure how I could. He is young, what he needs is a caring household and not being amongst soldiers on the march. That is our life, spent on the march from contract to contract. The king is too young, and we cannot remain in one place.”

The Ser nodded; these words seemed to mean nothing to him in truth. Myles leaned forward in the chair to rest his weight on his elbows on his knees, give emphasis to his next words.

“I had other ideas, I confess,” he spoke, “We had many discussions how we could provide you with more safety. We thought to move you where our own families reside, Ser, but nothing would draw more attention to our own children, and nothing would declare clearer our intentions regarding support for the young king. It is too soon for that; I hope you see why.”

“He is a boy of seven,” the Ser nodded, “It will be a long time before he could attempt to reclaim what was lost.”

“Exactly,” Myles nodded, “So I had other thoughts as well, I confess. I asked Griff and his Lady if they could take the boy and raise him as their own in the eyes of the world.”

“You have a lady,” the Ser’s attention turned to Griff.

“Lady Ashara,” Griff said, “She is here in Braavos, we shall be wed tonight.”

“Oh, I see,” the Ser’s eyes lit up, “Well, better late than never, I say. You used to favour the company of the Lady Ashara, I remember well, and she is a bright young woman.”

“Young indeed,” Myles remarked, “Too young to claim the boy king as her own. After all they have a small baby boy and she is but twenty. But this leads to another matter, Ser, that of the princess. Griff and his lady agreed with me that they could take charge of the princess, same age as their own boy.”

“You have a boy,” The Ser’s eyes grew even wider in his shock and Griff nodded, “You have not gone about that very honourably then... Well, better late than never, as I said. But why separate the princess from her own brother?”

“For one,” Myles began to explain, “because Viserys’ presence is known, and soon word will reach Kings Landing, no doubt. You may find the dangers increase here. For two, if any danger would befall on you and Viserys, keeping the princess here would endanger her as well, despite how her presence has remained hidden thus far. And finally, I have met the lady Ashara, she is a well-educated and fine lady the like of whom I had no fortune to meet before. She could provide the home and education a princess deserves; she could be mother to her. You see, she would trade the dangers awaiting you here for a loving household and proper education. I am certain that you trust our Griff enough to know that the princess would be well looked after in his and the lady’s care.”

“Separated from her brother,” the Ser remarked, somewhat in disbelief.

“For her own sake, Ser,” Myles nodded. “Of course, we shall do all we can for the young king, while we would leave him in your care. I have heard many stories about you Ser, our Griff has told many a tale. The boy is in the best of hands in your care but this is no place for a little girl and even less for a princess, not compared to what lady Ashara could provide.”

“But she would get separated from her brother,” the Ser repeated with more emphasis this time.

“Do you leave the house sometime, Ser Willem?” Griff asked then. Myles raised an eyebrow, trying to not show his anger rising. He was about to try and convince the old knight, talk some sense into his stubborn old head, but now Griff was talking into it.

“Not so often,” the Ser replied, “I thought of showing some of the city to prince Viserys sometime, but after your last visit, I have changed my mind.”

“That is for the best,” Myles remarked. The last thing they needed was Viserys Targaryen seen on the streets in Braavos.

“Come to the sept tonight,” Griff said then to Ser Willem, “Mind you, there will not be any grand affair, we just go and say the words. But Ashara… my lady would much love to see you, Ser Willem, she has fond memories of you.”

“You could not have done better, it is true,” the Ser nodded, “But you could have gone about it better, Jon. If Ser Arthur was here, he would give you no quarter for you deserve none.”

“If you only knew,” Griff laughed, “Ser Arthur would be most glad for he tried his damnest to arrange it with me before. Things just turned out differently than we intended. Come to the sept for the evening prayer, Ser Willem.”

“Bring the babe as well,” Myles remarked, realising the value in the suggestion then. “And the wetnurse, for we are yet to find a wetnurse.”

“I have not agreed,” Ser Willem argued.

“No, you have not,” Griff nodded, “But as Ashara and I agreed to this proposal, perhaps seeing her could convince you, for the princess’ benefit. And if not, then you shall still see my lady once more before we travel south for I doubt any chance after.”

Ser Willem nodded, “I know not a sept in this city.”

“I shall send for you, Ser,” Myles assured the old knight, not wanting the excuse to get in the way. “A couple of the water dancers with our Gorys for safe escort, I just ask that you keep your hand off your sword. They deem it a challenge to duel if they find a man’s hand on their sword after sundown.”

Ser Willem nodded, “I may as well go, I would much love to see lady Ashara. I knew she will make a man of you one day!”

Gorys chuckled at the remark, but Myles could see that Griff didn’t take it overly well. It was time to leave now, while the old knight still lingered on how much he wished to see the lady Ashara Dayne. He stood. “Think on it, Ser Willem,” he said, “And know this, the company comes north once a year at the least, you and the prince shall have no lack, you have the support of the Golden Company. The water dancers will be around in our absence to keep the prince safe. We shall provide the means, make sure the house is well serviced as befits the station of our young king.”

Ser Willem slowly stood. “He is Targaryen, you know,” he remarked then. “He is a red dragon.”

“Black or red, a dragon is a dragon Ser Willem,” Myles shrugged, “There are no black dragons left and there are only two red dragons left. It seems to me that we all ought to do what we can to protect the two dragons we have. Protect them, educate them, prepare them, Ser Willem, that is our task now.”

“And once they are grown…”

“Then there shall be fire and blood,” Griff declared sternly, “And I hope they will make Robert pay for Rhaegar and the children, thrice over, an eye for an eye.”

Myles’ couldn’t hide his surprise at that. Griff never before spoke of such notions, if anything, he used to deny any such notions in him. Never before did he speak of overthrowing the stag. Something to take note of, Myles thought.

“Evening prayer, Ser Willem,” Griff turned back toward the knight at the door, “It would make Ashara so very happy. If you please.”

With that they left the old knight to his thoughts.

“He wasn’t very willing,” Gorys remarked as they mounted their horses.

“Of course he wasn’t,” Griff growled, “It is a shit idea.”

“It is her best chance,” Myles argued, “Here they will only be prisoners, until someone figures to just deal with them. With your lady, she has a chance at actually growing up, and doing so like children should, like a princess should.”

“If you say so,” Griff shrugged.

“You agreed,” Gorys reminded Griff.

“I have not,” Griff scoffed.

“But you said…” Gorys looked puzzled.

“I lied,” Griff grunted, “Ashara agreed, not I.”

“See, Gorys, never wed,” Myles laughed, and laughed even harder at Griff’s fiery gaze at him, full of anger. “Never wed for once you tie yourself to a woman, she will make all the decisions, she will spend all your gold, and you shall be lucky to find a pretty boy somewhere on the other end of the map to console yourself time to time.”

The return from Silty Town was silent for neither of them seemed willing to speak. Griff seemed positively fuming and Gorys seemed positively excited to see a wedding later the day, and Myles thought it just as well that they had some silence for he’s been wondering whether the old knight will come around, truly worrying that he would not. If not, he thought, he shall pay the old knight another visit perhaps, but truly the best would be if the old knight came around. The ship sails on the morrow, and he was eager to get on the march as well. This march north brought nothing but troubles and headache. He would have arranged for some mirth, but the evening has been taken up by Griff’s nuptials. Perhaps after that they could go and at least have a couple hours to themselves. Perhaps they shall take Lord Reed with them, show him some more of what Braavos had on offer, seeing that the Lord stood outside the inn as if he was waiting for their arrival.

“I hear there will be a wedding tonight,” he told Griff as they dismounted and Griff nodded.

“A word?” Myles’ eyebrow shot up high at Reed’s ask toward Griff. Something was amiss, and they didn’t even get to the last major hurdle in this grand plan – Telling Howland Reed of the princess Daenerys in some form.

That they had to tell, was clear enough. Griff told him this morning in the camp just as they were setting out back into this accursed city that he’s been playing cards with the crannogmen last night, and they were intent on joining them when they travel south. Nobody could order otherwise that much was clear, though standing and waiting for the conversation between Reed and Griff to end, Myles wondered if it was a good idea. The lizard was banner to the wolf, after all. The conversation seemed short, in hushed voices that he couldn’t understand. It seemed amicable enough, as if Reed was asking questions and Griff providing the answers. Nothing seemed amiss, and Myles allowed himself to hope that it will all go just fine.

“He knows,” was all that Griff offered once the two men returned to them, stunning Myles still onto the cobblestone pavement.

“Knows what,” he asked.

“You plan to take a Targaryen, a babe,” Reed answered, “Lady Ashara explained to me. You are planning to take a girl to raise alongside the young Connington.”

“And?” Myles asked.

“And nothing,” Howland Reed answered, “I find it a noble deed. I find the lady’s praise of Lord Connington all well-earned for his agreement to such a noble deed. That child lost all her family and she shall have a good home with the Lady. That is all.”

“What needed such a conversation then,” Myles questioned.

“They worry about Ashara,” Griff explained with a weary face, “That is all. Surely you understand that whatever you say, you brought danger upon my family. You must see that, Myles.”

Myles nodded his understanding, albeit he didn’t like it. He really didn’t see much danger to their agreement, not if they act, and act fast. That was why they were to sail on the morrow and leave this city for good. At the least, this meant that there was nothing more to be done, the plans were set, but Myles felt uneasy with it. The lizard was too agreeable for his taste. A banner of the wolf, this lizard, with power to close off the north to any army attempting at it from the South, Myles remembered his studies well. The lizard seemed far more than he let on, Myles thought, for no way a man raised to wield that power would be so pliable and perhaps even naïve at hearing about a Targaryen princess, not after his own liege having marched south to overthrow the dragons. It stunk and Myles could not put a finger on it, why it stunk so badly.

Perhaps he shall figure it out, if the crannogmen indeed meant to travel to Volantis with them, all the better. As long as the lizard was in his grasp, he could figure it out if this lizard needed trampling. He shall have a word with his men about that, about what to watch out for and what there was to be done, for Myles had no reservations about trampling a lizard if the lizard crawled out of line. For now, he just went and booked the remaining two rooms on his floor reserved to whenever he’s had guests in Braavos, and then took Griff and Gorys back to camp. They had little time to make themselves presentable, there was a wedding to be had tonight.

*****

Thank the Gods for Malo, Myles kept musing as he rode beside Griff and Gorys once more, through the gate of the city for the second time on this day, for Griff at least looked like something resembling a lord. As much as that was possible, for there was no finery to wear for either of them, but it seemed to Myles that Griff stuck to far more from his past than his silver prince, for as it turned out, the man carried around with him bits and pieces of his former self. He’s had a doublet with his sigil, white and red and with the twin griffins of Connington charging on the front, and thank the Gods for Malo for the garment now looked the part. Myles could understand the sentiment – he’s never seen the Stormlands, and yet he still owned a doublet of black and gold with the winged heart on his chest. He glanced down on his own chest, laid a hand on that winged heart. His woman made it to the fashion of the one faded banner the girl delivered not two years ago, after the last Toyne in Westeros fell to Ser Barristan’s sword. The girl… how somethings just came together, Myles thought, the girl was a septa, Griff will have need of a teacher of faith for his boy and even more so for that princess and the girl was a septa. At least now he had this problem solved for he didn’t need to look for a septa.

They made do, they had to. Myles felt acutely the shortcomings of men of the Company when it came to Westerosi customs. Before he rode in the city this morning, he had given Duncan and Malo the cloak used for such occasions, for Griff was not the first man to wed a woman into the company, they had things like this for such occasions. Thank the Gods as well for his father teaching him to always carry all his earthly worth with himself, Myles had that damned cloak with him at all times ever since he has inherited the cloth of gold piece with his office. Years ago, it was the cloak that Laswell Peake wrapped around the shoulder of the Volantene servant girl that he’s managed to impregnate, then choosing to make an honest woman of her, and Peake was not the only one by far. Now the cloak will serve once more, for once it shall be wrapped around the tender shoulders of a true Westerosi lady and take her under the protection of the Golden Company, for as Myles thought, that was the role of the cloak. Here there were no lords, there were only knights of the Company, and the protection offered by one meant protection given by all of them, in Myles’ eyes. All except the thieves and the rapists but Myles was resolved to root those out once and for all. The cloak was neatly packed in his saddlebag once more, awaiting for its turn, and he hasn’t even told Griff about it yet for the man seemed so deeply lost in his thoughts that Myles had not the heart to disturb him with such little matters.

His plans for the occasion didn’t originally include the boy, Gorys, but someone had to go and fetch Ser Willem Darry, just as well for perhaps the appearance of the escort will be the final push for the old knight to actually appear. The task won Gorys the way to attend a wedding, and the boy was still beaming about it. None of the others were to attend, none of those who will take part in Myles’ travel plans, though he’s set them all to pack already. Marq Mandrake and Tristan Rivers have been given their instructions, Duncan had been told of his brother’s new charge, sweetened by the revelation that Denys was to escort babies to Volantis, though Myles swore Duncan to secrecy about it. The boy was still sour as a lemon at the prospect of having to let go of his little brother for a while. Brendel Byrne was charged to get the Lyseni to pack up and prepare, for Myles didn’t get to the Lyseni himself, and Malo was already packing up Griff’s tent ready for Duncan to take charge of most of the man’s belongings, and all their horses, according to Myles’ instructions. That shall keep the boy busy at the least and keep his mind off his little brother. Most of them knights and squires could have no idea just how much planning and how many instructions could go into such a simple thing as sending off a few knights with a charge, Myles thought as they arrived in front of the Sealord’s Palace. He’s sent off Gorys with four of Sirio’s water dancers to fetch Ser Willem Darry, and then made his way to the inn with a thoughtful and silent Griff.

He didn’t forget to knock and wait this time, best not storming in once more, but what he found when he opened the door was surely nothing like his expectations, whatever his expectations were. He wondered if he’s really ever seen a fine Westerosi lady before, in truth, for Griff’s intended was truly a fine and beautiful lady, and even more so now, not to mention, desirable in that blood stirring way that could make a man forget his honour. So much so, that somewhere inside Myles could even reason and understand how Griff or even Ned Stark forgot their honour when it came to this woman as he took in her sight.

She wore a dark purple gown of finery, that was cut deep in the front just the right way, tight on her waist just enough to make a man’s blood boil, Myles thought. Best if Griff never shows off this woman, with her bright purple eyes and her long brown hair flowing down to her waist and her innocent face. That intricate gold necklace she wore, dipped in all kinds of gemstones draw attention even more to what Myles reminded himself he should not be thinking about, the chest of a woman not his own. By the Gods, Griff was a damned fool if he was not to get onto this woman after saying the words with her. Forget Rhaegar Targaryen, she was flesh and blood with porcelain skin and inviting full bosom and blushing cheeks and lips begging to be kissed.

“Thought I shall look the part,” she said hesitantly as Griff also emerged. That she looked the part, of that there was no doubt, any man unwilling to take her to a sept right away would be an utter fool, Myles thought. Griff will be an utter and complete fool if he even as much as glances at the Lyseni boy after seeing her like this… Griff who stood by the door with a considerably stunned face.

“I have no better here,” she explained, no doubt wondering why neither of them said a word. Myles felt himself an idiot once more, and once more turned into such by Griff’s woman. Perhaps he shall never see Westeros, for if all the women were like this, that won’t be much good to him, he mused. “I hope this will suit?” she asked. Damn the woman would have deserved the most lavish of weddings with a feast and dance and pie and all the kinds of things lords and ladies did to celebrate their weddings that Myles in truth knew little about, but still, she deserved it all. She deserved to be the envy of all the men who would take her to her bedding, albeit Myles never understood that particular ceremony. They’d be stripped by strangers and put to bed, for what reason? Lords and ladies were supposed to be untouched before they wed and Myles found it laughable to scare them further in such ways. But what man would have minded taking part in the same if the bride was this comely? And why was he musing over such things at her sight?

Griff had the balls to at least go to her. A grin forming on Myles’ lips glancing at Lord Reed by the door who seemed completely oblivious to the same effect that she had on him. Maybe Reed shared Griff’s fancies, Myles mused. He couldn’t understand the whispers but Griff placed a kiss on her forehead and so it was time to shake off the spell she’s laid on him for there was work to be done, Myles decided. Time to stop acting like a boy who’s never seen a beautiful woman before, he reminded himself.

“Travel plans are made,” he said, as he made his way to the table, “Best we discuss them now.” That had the desired effect, they all settled around the table.

“I wanted to book passage to Volantis by sea this morn, seeing that would be most comfortable, but there’s none to be had, none said for another week even.”

“The purple harbour,” Griff remarked.

“I tried,” Myles nodded, “It is where I found a ship bound to Pentos on the morrow. Shall ride back first thing on the morrow, confirm the number of passengers and such. Pentos it is for but at the least it means that the march through the Andalos is avoided.”

“Once you alight in Pentos, there’s an inn by the harbour right by the tower there, red brick tall building you cannot miss, ask for Blackheart’s rooms. If we arrive first, I shall leave message but I doubt we arrive first. Gorys will be with you on the ship, he has the means to pay for whatever you may need.”

“Once we arrive, we shall bring your horses, Gorys can hire a litter as well, and you’ll take the road to Ghoyan Drohe on the Little Rhoyne…”

“Tell me we are not to sail down the Rhoyne,” Griff interrupted.

“I shall give you suitable escort,” Myles raised his hand indicating that he was not to be interrupted. “Our Gorys shall hire a suitable barge and yes, the plan is to sail down the Rhoyne for the only other way would be to ride with the Company and that is no way for women or babes to travel. The only way to avoid is a ship in harbour bound to Volantis, but I doubt there to be such in Pentos. The city mainly trades with Westeros, and that is also reason why to stay low while there.” Myles glanced at Howland Reed saying that, “At the end of the journey will be either Valysar or Volon Therys, depending on the barge.”

“Lord Reed will see more of Essos then,” Griff remarked. “What company do you have in mind? I need a pair of swords to safely sail through the Chroyane.”

“The company is varied,” Myles glanced at the lady as he spoke, “First of all you shall have Malo with you. I need to send little Denys Strong for I need to separate him from his brother a little, and our Lyseni boy needs to be out of camp so I can sentence the man who did him harm without shaming the boy. Pair of fourteen-year-old squires they are, but they are good boys, if not a bit reckless, they shall cause no harm. For swords you shall have Marq and Tristan Rivers, both capable and level headed, already preparing.”

Griff seemed deep in thought at that, but the man only nodded.

“Lord Reed, you and your man carry any weapons?” Myles asked.

“Need not to worry about us,” Reed nodded, “We brought our tridents and daggers, we shall be fine. We can lend our tridents to defense if needs be.”

Myles nodded. At least the crannogmen will prove themselves useful, and as much as he could tell, perhaps even in their element sailing a river such as the Rhoyne. He knew veery little about crannogmen, in truth. The bells rang in the city, they rang to mark the passage of time. For those of the faith of the seven, they rang announcing the hour of the evening prayer. They all stood at once, ready to leave. The little babe, Griff’s son was to be left with the bearded crannogman, already well aware of his charge, and they made their way toward the sept.

There were a lot of people on the streets at this hour. The sun was making its way to disappear below the horizon, and people were either rushing by to finish whatever business was left finishing before night time, or preparing for whatever mirth they planned for the hours ahead. The way to the sept was short, past the Moon Pool and the Iron Bank beside it, down south toward the Canal of Heroes taking the first bridge, the small sept that Myles chose to deal with for this occasion stood just on the first island, convenient walk for a lady and not used by many from the lower parts of the city for prayer. The wealthier were arriving, further marking them nothing more but a few folk arriving for evening prayer. The Septon stood by the door, Myles exchanged a few words with him. The man was surprised enough to be asked for a wedding, but eyeing up the couple – Lady Ashara’s hand locked in Griff’s arm – he nodded. Myles motioned for them to wait outside. He wanted to see if Ser Willem made the right choice and so his eyes lingered on the bridge. The walk from Silty Town would prove far longer, he knew, the area being but far in the south. Perhaps even too much of a walk for the old knight, though Myles recognised some strength still in the man. He shall make the walk, Myles assured himself.

They listened to the sounds of prayer coming from the sept as they waited. It took long, the hour of prayer was nearing its end, Myles’ mind explaining all kinds of probabilities, how he’s only sent Gorys when they arrived and perhaps he should have sent the boy ahead, how the walk was surely to be slow from Silty Town to here. In truth he began to resolve himself that Ser Willem will be clinging to his charge, the Ser will recognise that attending this occasion shall only weaken his resolve and will choose to stay away. Though, he held on to the hope that had Ser Willem made that decision, at least Gorys would appear soon enough with the water dancers, not having to linger and walk slow with the old knight – and hopefully an entourage including a small babe. A man can hope that things work out after all, he assured himself.

In the end, his worries were for naught. As it turned out, Griff knew a thing or two how to convince a man of something, not going at it the way Myles would’ve done, by breaking down the door straight through hammering in his opinions. Perhaps there was a lesson in that, as well, though he reserved himself to learning such a lesson once Ser Willem Darry hands over the babe. For now, it was enough that Ser Willem appeared, in conversation with kind and mild mannered Gorys, once more proving his worth to Myles in more ways than one. No doubt Gorys has filled Ser Willem’s head with stories of the Company, and no doubt he had his wits about him enough not to include stories about how the men, including Griff, were wont to spend spare time. Ser Willem seemed in good spirits, the chance to leave his house seemed to do very well for him. With him was a woman and a babe, no doubt the princess, and a man closely around the woman, as well. Ser Willem seemed not to have brought his septa to the sept, which in Myles’ eyes was a good sign of Ser Willem’s willingness to leave the babe with the wetnurse in their care, though he wondered about the young man. The man seemed close to the wetnurse, so he decided must be the stableboy Ser Willem told them of, wed to the wetnurse. Understandably, if they made it to Essos together, they would not want to separate. It was all very promising.

Lady Ashara rushed forward, gave a stunned Ser Willem a hug before she turned toward the babe. Just then the prayer ended, Ser Willem indeed made it just in time. The people began leaving the sept. Soon the septon appeared, and they were to begin with their business.

It didn’t take long before they all stood in the sept, Gorys having found his way next to Myles, still grinning at the whole matter at hand. Myles thrust the folded cloak into Gorys hands, giving the boy even more reason to be merry, for he was now to have a role in the proceedings as well. There was no crowd, no elaborateness to it and still, the solemnity of what was to happen paired with the statues and carvings and altars in front of them, the lights of countless candles have also had their effect on Myles. He’s never wed his own woman, he’s had reason not to, but truth be told, a man was to be wed if he was to be a man, Myles thought to himself. There was no greater responsibility, no higher duty for a man in truth, he reminded himself. He wasn’t even a religious man despite raised rigorously in the Faith of the Seven, he rarely set foot in a sept.

The Septon was keeping them wait, discoursing with the lady somewhere, and Myles hoped the Septon to at least know enough to ask for names for he realised that he forgot to give their names for the ceremony. As the Septon appeared in front of the altars, Griff seemed even more solemn taking the few steps and arriving at his place beside the Septon. Myles looked around once more. There were so few to witness this, perhaps he should have brought some more people, perhaps should have waited until they reached Volon Therys and have it done there with far greater fanfare, with a feast and a pie to follow. He knew why he didn’t, he wanted them to be wed before anyone else learned of the lady so that nobody else questioned her honour, at least not aloud like he’s done. Even if Myles would’ve preferred to wait, Griff would’ve never agreed to wait, he knew. After all the man was his own man, he was resolved to this ever since he’s reunited with the lady, Myles’ own role in this was to help the arrangement, in truth nothing more than choosing the sept. Providing the cloak.

There was Lord Reed and Ser Willem, and the wetnurse and her beloved and in her arms the babe, there was Gorys and himself. It was a small affair, but enough to provide with witnesses should there be need, and Myles found himself thankful for Lord Reed’s presence once more for the word of servants and sellswords were nothing compared to that of Lord Reed if it came to having witnessed this ceremony.

The Lady Ashara walked forth by herself, and Myles wondered if he should’ve offered to give her away, not that he thought it to be his role at all. But there was no grand entrance for her, no crowd to admire her dress and no father to escort her, and Myles found himself sorry for that, until she walked past him and he recognised the power in her small frame. She took the few steps by herself; she needed no escort.

There the two of them stood now facing each other in front of the altar of the mother and this braavosi Septon who Myles shall give a few coins once it’s all over if he manages not to mess it up, he thought.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” The Septon’s voice boomed in the empty sept in his slightly broken version of common tongue. Griff looked up, confusion in his eyes. Myles gave Gorys an elbow kick, though he could only blame himself, his musings made him forget the cloak yet again. Gorys stepped forth handing it now to Griff. The lady turned, and Griff unwrapped the cloak of cloth of gold with its richly sewn trimmings and its fabric reflecting the light of the many candles, he wrapped it around the shoulders of his lady, gently pulling her hair from underneath the fabric, letting it flow down to her waist.

“We stand here in the sight of Gods and men to witness the union of man and wife; one heart, one flesh, one soul, now and forever.”

Griff reached out his hands, the lady laid hers into his palms. The Septon took his wide embroidered ribbon from around his neck and wrapped it around their joined hands. “Let it be known that Jon of the House Connington and Ashara of the House Dayne are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be they who seek to tear them asunder!” The Septon grew passionate, perhaps even aware of the gravity of those names he spoke, Myles thought. Perhaps he didn’t officiate many weddings in his faith and he was glad for the opportunity. That was very well, so far it was all very well done. Myles felt relieved.

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.”

Myles allowed himself a smile. It was being very well done, indeed.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…” they called upon the Gods one by one to witness their vows, “I am his and he is mine”; “I am hers and she is mine” and now Myles allowed himself a wide smile. He felt truly glad to have witnessed this. “…from this day, until the end of my days.”

And now, the interesting part, Myles allowed himself a cheeky thought, but Griff proceeded without a moment of hesitation.

“With this kiss I pledge my love,” he declared, then kissed his bride on the lips.

Then it was done. Myles heard the clapping begin, started by a teary-eyed Ser Willem it seemed to roar in the empty sept. Then Lord Reed joined in, and Gorys as well beside him, so he raised his hands to do the same. It was done, and he assured himself, taking in the sight of Griff’s lady wife, lips in a bright smile, standing beautiful in front of the Septon in her purple dress matching her eyes and the golden cloak flowing from around her shoulder, declaring Griff’s as well as the Company’s protection over her. It was very well done indeed.

Chapter Text

HOWLAND

“You seem to have a dislike for sailing,” he remarked as he stopped by the boy on the front deck. The boy’s eyes studied the shoreline, not even sparing a glance at him. Purple eyes, like Targaryens, Howland thought. He’s never actually seen a Targaryen close enough to see their purple eyes, meeting the lady has been the very first time that he’s seen someone with purple eyes. This boy, he looked as close to a Targaryen as Howland could imagine Targaryens. It was a curious thing to learn about – in Lys, where the boy was said to be from, such features were common, he reminded himself, just as they are said to be the product of breeding bedslave to accomplish more beautiful bedslaves. This boy, as Howland could tell, may have just been one such product, judging by his looks. Perhaps a runaway.

“I come from an island,” the boy declared, confirming his thoughts, confirming his statement for what it was: pointless start to a conversation.

“Well then,” Howland said softly, “Perhaps being so prickly comes with being Lord Jon’s squire.”

“I am not his squire,” the boy protested, “Malo is his squire. I am nobody’s squire.”

“You are a squire,” Howland remarked.

“That I am,” the boy said, “So they say.”

Howland wondered how to make conversation with the boy. Ever since they set sail, he wondered about it in truth. The morning after the wedding – and their merrymaking courtesy of the inn keep who feasted them to a rather nice roast and several flagons of his better wine – this boy showed up with the lively, always-smiling smaller boy, Griff’s rather dutiful young squire and two more knights. But Howland’s interest has been sparked by this boy because the rest of them seemed forthcoming enough, especially the other boy of fourteen, eager to see a lady, to see twin babies, to sail on a Braavosi ship, to see Pentos, see giant turtles in the Rhoyne… this one was cold as a dead fish compared to Denys Strong. An underdog, Howland thought, someone who made it through so far in life having learned how to guard himself from others. Although, the side of the boy’s face was scarring in a rainbow of colours and Howland has heard about what happened to the boy in the camp. The Golden Company was said to be the most honourable of the sellswords companies, and yet some of them saw it their right to take advantage of a boy who in Howland’s eyes was one of their own. Under their protection, for the knight is responsible for the squire. Howland has never seen war before the rebellion, but he’s seen enough of it to know, it was common, in every army it happened, just like the looting and the raping of the smallfolk in the way of the march.

“She is smaller,” the boy said then, disturbing his thoughts. He needed a long moment to understand what the boy could be referring to, WHO the boy could be referring to. Truth be told, the Targaryen girl was smaller than the boy they delivered to Connington.

“Perhaps the lady should be told,” the boy said then.

“I think she knows that her girl needs more care,” Howland remarked, “She is their mother. She knows them better than anyone.”

“But does she know,” the boy looked at him. A smile formed on his lips, a curious smile. “You know why Maelys the first was the Monstrous?”

Howland wondered about it. Not about Maelys the Monstrous, he’s heard all the stories there were to be heard. “He was said to be a cruel man.”

“He devoured his own twin,” the boy explained, wide eyed with an unreadable smile on his lips, “In the womb he devoured his own twin, to become bigger and stronger, it is said. He had his twin’s head on his neck, it is said. I have seen the skulls. His is the biggest skull, and there is one, no bigger than my own fist, that was of his twin. That is why he was Monstrous, it is said.”

“Interesting,” Howland nodded, “You seem to know well the history of the Golden Company.” Interesting it was, indeed, the boy being but a Lyseni new recruit of fourteen, it was said.

“Blackheart said,” the boy explained, “Learn the stories, learn what makes the Golden Company.”

Howland nodded. “And you did your task.”

“Men talk,” the boy shrugged, “Methinks the lady should be told. Her boy seems to have done harm to her girl; would you not say so? The girl is smaller.”

“In truth,” Howland said thoughtfully, “I think it may be just normal. The womb seldom grows two babes, and when it does, it is twice the work. Perhaps then it is understandable, if it struggles.”

“Perhaps,” the boy nodded, “Or perhaps the boy is like Maelys.”

“Now that is hardly an explanation from such an observation,” Howland chuckled.

“Perhaps,” the boy nodded again. “I wonder, when Maelys was born, was his head the same size like that of his brother’s? Did he look like he had two heads?”

Howland laughed at the question. “Interesting theory,” he nodded to the boy, “And perhaps he did look like that. You see how small heads babes have. Yes, I think you are right, he must have looked like he had two heads.”

“In Lys they would have cut his throat,” the boy said sternly, “The magisters, the proprietors of the pillow houses, they would have cut his throat.”

“That depends,” Howland remarked, “He had an illustrious name, not born into those pillow houses.”

“That he had,” the boy nodded, the smile fading from his lips. “It is so, the name means everything. A good name can save you from other shortcomings it seems, and men inherit the name, and women just… I know not, really. I have no illustrious name.”

“Is Maar not an illustrious name in Lys?”

The boy chuckled, but clearly not out of mirth. “It means, ‘sea’. I chose it because I like the sea. I missed it.”

“So, you like sailing after all,” Howland nodded, “And what else? Do you like it in the camp?”

“They say it is hard work,” the boy shrugged, “Some of the boys say so. I say they know nothing about hard work. There is an awful lot of dishwashing though. And running around with messages. And sometimes potato peeling, that is on rotation. That is one tedious task, it is true. But not hard.”

“What made you join the company?”

The boy gave him a look, dark and unreadable. “Who would say no to be a man of the Golden Company?”

“You wanted to be a sellsword,” Howland nodded.

“Better than being a thief,” the boy nodded, “Or other things. But truly, if one wants to be a sellsword, what other companies are worth to consider? The Golden Company is the biggest of them, it is said to be the best of them. They can beat the others; would you not say so?”

Howland nodded.

“Then it seems to me,” the boy continued, “If one wants to be on the winning side, then they join the Golden Company.”

“True enough,” Howland agreed, “But the Golden Company are Westerosi. The others are not.”

They boy chuckled once more at hearing that, and still no sign of mirth on his face, his eyes remained quite cold in truth. “How do they say it,” he recalled, “Beneath the gold the bitter steel.”

“Yes, they say so,” Howland nodded.

“What do you think it means?”

Howland gave it a thought for a moment, “Perhaps it means that they are capable. Or perhaps, they wanted a war cry that included the words ‘gold’ and ‘bitter steel’, and could not figure any better.”

“Yes, many men agree with you,” the boy nodded, “I asked around for I wanted to know what it means. They say what you say, some even say that is simply Bittersteel’s gilded skull on the banner head, beneath the gold the bitter steel that remains of Bittersteel. I think you all are very wrong.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” the boy explained, as passionately as Howland has never seen him before. In truth, this was the first time he saw the boy showing any genuine emotion so unveiled. It came as a curious surprise to Howland. “It means something completely different, it should. Why else would Blackheart say to learn the stories? What do the stories say? Bittersteel founded the Golden Company, a force to crown a black dragon formed by a group of exiles, united by the dream of Bittersteel. The Daemon who followed him had Bittersteel’s skull dipped in gold to carry it with himself to Westeros, would you not say so? Why else carry a skull on your banner if not for the skull to be first in the fight? That is the Golden Company, but they forgot.”

“There are no more Blackfryres,” Howland remarked, wondering about the boy’s explanation. As much how smartly it sounded as how the boy seemed to care about what he’s explained.

“So they say,” the boy shrugged then, “they say Maelys was the last, as if all their children were boys. But that is not true, they merely speak nothing of it. A Westerosi like you cannot tell apart which of them has Blackfyre blood, but there are rumours in the camp. Or have you not wondered how Blackheart became captain-general so young? Or perhaps it is as you would assume and the Daemons all devoured their sisters in the womb and their heads too, but Maelys had a brother to devour and it proved to signal the coming doom of Blackfyre at his hands.”

“That story seems to interest you,” Howland remarked.

“Not at all,” the boy declared defensively. “I find it interesting, but not because of the head on his neck.”

“Why then?”

“Beneath the gold the bitter steel,” the boy declared, “And yet when Maelys killed their commander, they turned and fought for Maelys. They fought to win Daemon’s crown for Maelys the kinslayer. One has to wonder; did they believe it to be the dream of Bittersteel? Or did they already forget what the dream was? Their gold tent and their gold skulls and their gold arm bangles and Bittersteel’s gold skull on their banner, so much gold that they buried the dream underneath and forgot all about it. Interesting. Is Griff the father of those babes?”

Howland gave the boy a smile at the sudden change of topic. Griff told him not to be forthcoming with the story. Griff was weary of the company, the men and the boys both, as much as Howland could tell.

“He is, I take it then,” the boy declared, “That is well enough. Perhaps without the blood of dragon it was like you said. The boy caused no harm to the girl and it was like you said.”

“I would rather think the opposite,” Howland said kindly, “I would think, since the girl was frail, the boy tried to protect her. I would think he helped her, so they both can make it.”

“I like that,” the boy nodded solemnly, “It is what brothers must do, after all, is it not? They must protect their sisters.” As he said those last words, the boy’s pale purple eyes returned to the shoreline in the distance. Howland wondered about it, the solemnity with which the boy said those last few words. The boy must have a sister, somewhere, he concluded. Hopefully not in a lyseni pillowhouse, Howland thought. Or perhaps, that was why the boy looked at him so curiously when he asked, as if the boy felt offended by his prying why he joined the Golden Company. Perhaps he was protecting a sister, trying to earn the gold to free her. A noble deed, if it was so.

“Have you been to Volantis before?” he asked the boy.

“Never,” the boy declared, “I am quite ready to see it, in truth. Gorys Edoryen comes from Volantis, and he is a good man. Tell nothing on my saying that, if you please, for he has the hots for me and I am done with him. Have you been to Pentos?”

“Never,” Howland laughed, “It is my first time in Essos, everything is new and sparking my curiosity to see more of it, the more I see. Though I must admit, your city of Lys does not sound to be one where I would find my interests.”

“Not interested in bedslaves, I take it,” the boy remarked nonchalantly. “You Westerosi are interesting. I could argue with you lengthily on why you are missing out.”

“Perhaps,” Howland laughed, “But why risk bastards when one can stay true and save themselves, as is our faith?”

“Your faith of the seven,” the boy nodded, “Moon tea is a wonderful thing. Have you heard about Yndros of the Twilight? Yndros is male by day, but he is female by night. The acolytes are said to change when they rut, and I cannot say if it is so. I never changed to female when I rutted but I never worshipped Yndros either but what I cannot see I cannot name true. I think faith is myth and you save yourself for nothing but to waste away young years.”

“The bigger question in this is,” Howland remarked, “Why does a boy of fourteen think so?”

“You think backwards,” the boy chuckled, “You Westerosi, yet I have no doubt that there are plenty of Westerosi sneaking under woman’s skirts before their fourteenth year. Think on your wet dreams you had as a boy, and do not blush. Everyone has them.”

“Not everyone acts on them,” Howland remarked.

“Not everyone is raised in Lys,” the boy countered, “Lys the Lovely. Where the beautiful bedslaves drink moon tea daily, so you could never father a bastard unless they want you to. Then once their work began to show its toll with the lines forming in the corners of their mouths and their tits saggy, they are paired with beautiful men, to breed. Pair beauty with beauty, for the next generation to be even more beautiful.” Howland wondered again for a moment about the boy’s beauty at hearing that.

“Strange, that,” he said, “From the mouth of someone whose beauty seems quite unparalleled according to many, as I heard.”

“You spoke with Gorys, I take it,” the boy gave him a forgiving smile, the kind of smile that said, he was used to the compliment. “Make no mistake, beauty is not a blessing. Beauty is a curse. And beauty is a weapon, just as much as blood is a weapon for your kind. But it is no blessing, neither are. You could see that quick enough if you visited Lovely Lys.”

“Perhaps it is good then, that we are towards Pentos,” Howland remarked.

“I am quite convinced that Volantis will be more to your liking.”

“Why would it be so?”

“Pentos,” the boy seemed to think about it, “I think Pentos must be a weak city, a city of lies. The rich must be afraid there for they surround their big houses with high brick walls, and their servants, they wear the collars of slaves but not one Pentoshi would call them such out of fear. Lies and pretence, that is, and then there are the mice.”

“Mice?” Howland raised an eyebrow.

“There is an awful lot of mice.”

The boy left him shortly after, while he was still wondering about high brick walls and mice. The only city he’s seen was Kings Landing. There were no rich mansions surrounded by high brick walls, though many of the noble kept residence in the city – those who cared to win Targaryen favours. No doubt, Jon Connington once had a richly furnished and well-guarded residence in that city, even before his short tenure in the Tower of the Hand of the Red Keep. Howland remembered the streets, the poorly dressed smallfolk buzzing on the streets, paying them little mind, and the quite intolerable smell of stale decrement. The houses were almost on top of each other on some of those streets. Howland couldn’t recall seeing any mice, though.

The journey seemed short enough for him not to wonder much on his main predicament. He actively kept brushing aside the fact that somehow he ended up being wound up in a Targaryen plot, as he saw it. He fought in the rebellion, although there was little fighting done by him in truth. His greatest deed in the rebellion had been his greatest shame, the reason why he could never fulfil his dream and become a knight as he saw it. But he kept brushing that aside, as well, until he found that once he stopped wondering about how a Mandrake would end up in a Golden Company, or a Strong for that matter for one of the boys was a Strong, he found that he had to at least face one of the conundrums. He chose the Targaryen babe.

He could not even say that he was a mere bystander in the scheme, for in truth as soon as he agreed to take the boy to Greywater Watch, he was aiding Targaryens. Now there was two of them, and the other one was daughter of the Mad King after all. But Howland could explain it to himself, just as he’s told Myles Toyne that the children lost their mothers and fathers. Just as he told Ashara Dayne that the children had no part in their fathers’ sins and mistakes. Follies. Howland wondered what kind of love could make a prince like Rhaegar Targaryen, a man with a wife and children, to elope with a girl of fifteen. That there was love, he had no doubt for he’s read the diary. There was a lot of love proclaimed in the diary, love for Lyanna Stark, for Elia Martell and the children, even for Jon Connington. It seemed to Howland, the prince was generous with his love, perhaps too generous. Where were all those now whom he loved? Both ladies were dead, and the man was exile and yet, still bound by that love for why else would a man agree to besmirch their own honour and claim a child out of wedlock that in truth was not theirs? Seems that Connington meant what he’s said, he could do a great many things for the boy for it seemed that this lie caused him no trouble whatsoever, beyond the issue of figuring the means to pay for the endeavour. He must have meant then when he said, we do not choose whom we love, and the man must have had true conviction to serve his love even through death itself. Conviction, or foolish blindness, or plain idiocy sticking to the past, whichever that was to make a man two-and-twenty, perhaps three-and-twenty, to give away his life to serve a dead man. If raising Targaryens made Connington happier or more at peace with himself after the battle of the bells, so be it, Howland concluded. He could not agree with Connington’s reasons, and that made him worry for the lady. But the lady chose this path, she smiled the happiest smile once they spoke the words. Not that the lady seemed happy now, as if the sailing down to Pentos didn’t agree with her. She was protective of her new cubs, spending all her time with them as well, and Howland had no chance to speak to her about what’s been happening since she’s told him of the girl. At least she’s had the right reasons, to give life to two motherless babes who really could not have had any share of their fathers’ mistakes. Howland could agree with that, at least, he could stand behind that.

By the end of the third day, Pentos was visible in the far distance on the shoreline. Connington pointed it out to Howland while they watched with the boys on the deck, and the exile lord seemed visibly weary of the city. The city closest in ties to Westeros, where most merchants travelled and had trade. Where most exiles would first alight. It seemed to Howland that just like the boy, Connington was not keen at all to alight in this city. Yet alight they had to, for their journey on this ship was coming to an end. It was a comfortable way to travel, the Braavosi ship owned by the Iron Bank was built for passengers not unlike the lady Ashara, or the babes she fiercely mothered throughout the journey as her own. The passage must have cost a fortune to Connington, as Howland remarked at one time during supper. Connington merely laughed it off and said, he has no worries for he has no doubt that Gorys will present him with a bill once they arrive that will cause his heart to stop beating. The young man named Gorys didn’t laugh at it so much, and thus Howland thought it to be truth foretold.

Howland had no more chances to converse with the Lyseni boy whom he found rather bright and most certainly curious, but one could also say shady. The boy’s ideas sparked his interest though, so much so that he’s approached the knight, Tristan Rivers on the last day early morning to see whether the boy got the right of it. Crannogmen needed little sleep and he even less, his walk on deck to move as much as to see a little of the sunrise has presented him with the opportunity to discourse with the knight with the Westerosi bastard name standing guard by the way to their cabins.

“Methinks there is nothing to it,” the knight argued his own version of the case, “Beneath the gold the bitter steel. Methinks it a simple homage to Bittersteel. Or perhaps reminder of Qohor, my lord. The company sacked Qohor for lack of payment and that is a feat, my lord. Even the Dothraki screamers have failed to sack the sorcerer city. No, only the Golden Company.”

“Is the spirit of Bittersteel still alive in the company, then?” Howland asked.

“Oh, very much so,” Rivers nodded, “For those born into it, that is mother’s milk. I was not born into it, mind you, I only have the two rings I wear, but they talk about it enough and for my part, I like it much. Better to have purpose besides the gold we make for purpose bind men together. Not that there are any Blackfyres.”

“No, Maelys was last,” Howland nodded. “Surely though, the Blackfyres had daughters.”

“That, they did like everyone else,” Rivers remarked, “Though none knows for certain, but word is Blackheart one of theirs. Word is Brendel Byrne another, and a few more. They say Bittersteel married off the daughters of Daemon the first, and then their daughters too, and all in the company to those who supported him. None knows it true, but men talk.”

“Do they talk about Maelys,” Howland asked, “And forgive my prying if you please, I would much like to learn that is all. Meeting members of the Golden Company is not a regular occurrence to one as me, and I have curious nature.”

“That you do,” Rivers leaned forward, grinning in his enjoyment of the conversation, “Now I tell you and you tell no other, for Blackheart disapproves of such talk. But there are stories about Maelys, you have to camp under Volon Therys to hear them for the old speak of such stories. Cruel things, even before he tore off the head of the fourth Daemon, there were cruel things. And the daughters, Daemon had one it is said, and nobody dare mention her name so I know not even as much but I heard that Maelys dealt with her. And even before that Maelys stole off with another Blackfyre girl, it is said. And then once he dealt with the fourth Daemon, she took Aegon’s sword to her wrists, it is said. But none speaks openly of those things, and it is not even the worst if you ask me. There is a story that Maelys wanted to return home, he wanted to ride home on the back of a dragon and burn whomever defied him with a dragon. He tried to hatch a dragon for himself with blood magic, it is said. Only death can pay for life, my Lord, he gave his young son to the fire but the egg did not hatch for the life of his boy. Many cruel things, my Lord.”

“Why follow him then?”

“Who could tell,” Rivers shrugged, “The company follows the man who wields the sword. Besides, the men of the company want home as much as we want our gold, my Lord. You see, we make good gold here it is true, there are war chests hidden in Volon Therys full of gold, it is said. I would think that Blackheart is planning something, for so much gold. Who knows it true, though? Those serjeants, they wear their arm rings and their gold all over them and their fine silks… they look more lords when not in armour than you do, or your stag king even.”

“Is it a good life?”

“Oh, it is,” Rivers grinned, “Much time on the march, and one has to be eager for glory and volunteer for missions lest it grows boring, for there are few battles but many missions and skirmishes to be had. Just a few moons ago I volunteered to sail north the Royne with Griff in truth, for a mission. We fought pirates on barges and we scouted in lands I never saw and among ruins and then we raided them where they hid. It was fun. Now our sailing shall be safer for it, as well.”

“Griff,” Howland remarked, trying to use the name, “He is weary of this travel.”

“He is weary of Chroyane,” Rivers nodded, “As a man should be, with wife and children about him. It is no place for the wife and children, not even these boys we brought.”

“Why is that so?”

“Stone men,” Rivers whispered, “They live there in the Sorrows, as much as that is life… I have seen. Some are blind and more are mad and they grasp, not knowing what they grasp for. One touch and you turn into one yourself. They come on the Bridge of Dreams and jump the barges, for that is all they do, they roam the ruins aimlessly. Volantis sends them aid of food upriver. They own Chroyane now, they serve the Prince of Sorrows and they roam aimlessly hidden in the cold breath of drowned dragonlords, it is said.”

“I have thought myself a learned person,” Howland remarked, “Have dragonlords drowned there?”

Rivers grinned. “You shall see that ruined city, for I find that once you see it, you find nothing like it. They say the Roynar who dwelled there had water magic like the dragonlords of Valyria and their bloodmagic… and those two fought endlessly. A prince called on a host and marched to Volantis to defeat the dragonlords to end the wars, and he lost. They brought him back into his city to witness as they destroy it all, and now only the ruins remain. He called on Mother Rhoyne to curse the invaders, for you see the Rhoynar worship the Royne, she is their goddess. That night the river rose and many dragonlords drowned, and it is said they are kept under the water and their cold breath now lingers over Chroyane like the thickest fog you shall ever see.”

“Now I want to see it,” Howland admitted in his excitement at hearing such a story.

“And you shall,” Rivers agreed, “If Blackheart says that there was no passage by sea, then we shall find none. Mind you, Griff already instructed Gorys and myself to search the harbour and speak to the captain of every ship if needs be but I am doubtful of success. Blackheart always knows. But I understand it, had I such a comely woman and babes, I would not want to take them down the Rhoyne either. The ruined cities are not for comely maids or children. Little Denys will grow up a lot by the time we reach home.”

“I heard he has an older brother,” Howland accepted the change of topic.

“Duncan,” Rivers nodded, “He will be the finest of us soon enough for that boy is bright as sunlight, I tell you. If only he was able with the sword, but skill takes time to learn. The two of them squire for Blackheart and Duncan protects his little brother, so much so that Denys learns very little. He’s dutiful but if he wants to grow into a man of the company, he needs to start growing up.”

“What about the other one,” Howland asked then, realising an opportunity, “The boy from Lys.”

“No older brother to protect that one,” Rivers sighed, “It shows, if you ask me. That boy never had protection, deadly with a dagger they say. I heard the boy bested Griff on the yard, pulled his dagger on Griff in a neat move that could have made Griff a eunuch on the battlefield. But then, you think on what happened to the boy and see why he has need of that dagger in his boot. It is forbidden for the boys, but who will take it from him now?”

“I was surprised by it, truth be told,” Howland sighed, “I thought the Golden Company to be of the highest discipline.”

“Hold not against the company what some rouges allow themselves,” Rivers remarked sternly, “Blackheart will hang the man who did the boy harm, and the other one is dead already. The boy was generous with his favours they say, those men no doubt saw that mean free for all. The boy told them no but there was two of them, I heard that is how it went down. I am sure if there was only the one, that one would be a eunuch now. But there was two of them.”

“He seems to carry it well,” Howland remarked.

“Who can tell,” Rivers shrugged. “But he’s a Lyseni, he knows things. Was it young Denys, we all would be weeping with him now for he has no idea of anything, I doubt the boy knows what else his wee dripper is good for with a woman, let alone to know how it is used among men. And those Strong brothers, they were born into the company, their father fell a while back I heard and that is why they are precious to the serjeants. Was it young Denys there would be far worse to come out of it. But it was the Lyseni, no stranger to such things, and so we all shall move on from it so the boy can move on. That is what Blackheart said, take the boy with us so he is out of camp and occupied travelling the Rhoyne while the man hangs and order shall be restored.”

“Suppose a couple bad recruits,” Howland glanced at Rivers speaking the excuse, “If as you say, Blackheart maintains discipline.”

“Oh, he does,” Rivers nodded, “He is only a mild man until you win his ire, and lack of discipline is sure way to win his ire. He’s stern with his men, and the serjeants, they all follow his example else they be serjeants no longer.”

“What makes the Golden Company,” Howland asked then, “I thought it to be exile knights, but ten thousand has always sounded too many knights in exile to me.”

“Five hundred are those prestigious knights and five hundred squires ride with them in battle,” Rivers nodded, “It is privilege to be one of the five hundred, I tell you. But there are others, there are more riders and lances and archers, as well, thousand of them. Each of those have Westerosi just as well as from anywhere else in the known world, and they all train and work and fight as one, my lord. And then there are Harry’s elephants. I much want to win my place in his crew just to work with them elephants for a time, but truth is they say it boring work so I never asked. But in battle, can you imagine? Which warhorse will stand against them in battle?”

Marq Mandrake approached the two of them and Rivers gave up his post, for his nightly guard duty was over and he was to find some rest. Howland made no conversation with Mandrake. The man seemed grumpy, and even more so, the one-time Howland tried his curiosity got the better of him and he asked after House Mandrake which seemingly made the knight even less forthcoming in conversation.

Instead, he wondered about what he’s learned. The Golden Company must indeed be a highly disciplined force to work well together if made up of so many components and so many different people from different places, not that Howland was well educated in warfare compared to some others of his peers. But these were not the drafted levies of lords, these were professionals, no matter whether sword or lance, rider or archer. That can mean a lot in battle for these men live for the fight and thus surely, they cannot be routed easily. In Westeros few of the houses maintained a standing army, in truth Howland could now only think of Tywin Lannister. True enough the rest of them had kept a certain force, but if it came to war they would have to rely on the drafted levies.

The ten thousand as much as Howland could tell was now at the disposal of two Targaryen babes, thanks to Myles Toyne, their captain-general. True, they were Targaryens, not Blackfyres, but there were no Blackfyres. Howland wondered, which Westerosi house could beat the company on the field. If the company choose to sail to Westeros, which of the Houses could react swiftly before land is won in the name of Targaryen, allies switched and began their assembly… Only Tywin Lannister. Robert at least made a good choice to tie himself to the lion of Lannister for none else could protect him from such an event.

On the same day, their company alighted in Pentos. Howland heeded Toyne’s words about discretion, Quagg and he both donned their hooded cloaks and wrapped the three-prongs of their tridents in cloth just enough to hide, not enough to render them unusable. Now those were on their backs, ready to draw in a moment’s notice. The lady and the wetnurse was likewise wrapped in cloaks, carrying a babe each, the boy wed to the wetnurse ready to fight with hand on pommel so obviously that Connington told him off for it. That man grew more prickly by the day, which didn’t escape Howland’s attention either. The company men donned no cloaks, neither did the Strong boy and the other one, Connington’s squire. The Lyseni boy, he’s had a dark red hooded cloak all over him, Howland saw the boy tie his silver hair together behind his head before he donned the cloak even. Howland found it curious for the dark red stood out, no matter how it hid the boy’s Valyrian features.

What he found more curious was the boy’s demeanour. Howland could see no mice in the harbour, he even thought that the boy was jesting when he spoke of mice in Pentos. The boy instead kept looking around as they walked off the pier and across the harbour. A ball rolled in front of them, and the boy picked it up, handing it to the young girl who came shyly to claim back his toy. The boy crouched down in front of the dirty little girl, and from his pocket pulled a gold coin. He ran it along between his nimble fingers, three times back and forth ably without the slightest allusion that he would drop the coin, as the girl watched with wide eyes of wonder. Howland admired the skill, though he thought it learned in dubious ways, perhaps stealing even, and then the boy gave the coin to the little girl with the ball. The boy had a good heart, Howland took note.

“You should not give away your coin,” Howland heard Griff just as the boy stood, looking after the girl who by then ran away in the crowd, “How many you have? Best to keep and not gift away the few you have.”

“It is but one coin,” the boy shrugged, “I have some more and I can make more. She has only the one I wager, the one I gave her, and so it was good use of a coin.”

There was no message for them in the inn, just as Blackheart told them that they shall arrive before the company does, they were now to wait. That didn’t sit so easy with Howland, now that he’s heard much about the journey ahead, he wanted to get on with it, experience it. Instead, Gorys Edoryen took five of the six rooms available for Blackheart’s guests, with a bunk bed to be put in two of those. Gorys was a meticulous young man, Howland found. He’s given Howland a key, Connington another, and the wetnurse’s boy another. There were a few words to and fro for the lady argued to put a crib in the room she’s shared with her lord husband and not with the nurse, for she would have the babes near her at night. She was still feeding them on her breast no doubt, both of them perhaps. She may have done so to keep up pretences, to present herself a fierce mother of her cubs. But Howland wondered about her state of mind for doing that, though as she was now a Lady Connington, he quickly resolved himself not to talk into it but leave it to her lord husband to sort.

The remaining two rooms went to the two knights sharing with Gorys, and the three boys, with young Denys Strong immediately volunteering to take the camp bed and neither of the other two disputing it. Connington’s squire, Malo, kept looking around with keen interest in his eyes, no doubt never having visited the city before. The Lyseni boy also kept looking around, but more with suspicion in his purple eyes that sat uneasy with Howland. That boy spoke so much and yet said so very little of value, he thought again. He wondered if anyone knew anything tangible about that boy.

The days went past slowly, and they swiftly grew bored with the wait and the laying low. Howland thought of exploring the city, with Connington’s approval he took Quagg for a walk even, on the second day. That was when they already knew that there was no ship bound to Volantis, Blackheart was right about that, too. The walk did little to ease the boredom, and Howland found that he needed even less sleep, having to contend with his thoughts even in the night. On the second night he took to walk around the inn at night. Connington would not have liked it, but Howland kept it to himself, and walked an hour or two with his trident on his back. That night there was nothing to see.

It was the third night that he saw the boy. The Lyseni climbed down from the window of the room he shared with the other two boys, covered in his red cloak but Howland regardless recognised him. He hid in the small gap between the inn and the next building and watched as the boy made it to the ground, and then looked around the street lengthily, to both directions. Then the boy ran, away from the harbour.

Perhaps the boy decided that he’s had enough of the Golden Company, Howland thought. But then why leave in the night, why climb down from the window… because Tristan Rivers would be standing guard in the corridor, no doubt. The boy who was immersed in the company history like in nothing else surely did not yet tire of it… no, there was something else. The boy waited three days and three nights, Howland thought, and then climbed down the window. The boy spoke to nobody, only in their group, nobody else. Ever since they alighted… then Howland understood the boy’s generosity. Whatever transpired between the Lyseni and the little girl, the girl got a coin but only after it rolled three times between the boy’s fingers. Three times, for three days. Howland resolved himself to tell Connington about it, when he has the chance – something was going on with that Lyseni boy.

Chapter Text

THE LYSENI

He stopped after the third corner and stepped briefly behind the wall that surrounded a mansion. He glanced back, waited then glanced back again. That damned crannogman. He may have to deal with the crannogman, he thought sadly. Foolish curious crannogman. In truth, he quite liked the man, he liked him enough to indulge in a rare conversation that included at least some truth to the thoughts he revealed and he enjoyed doing so, and the man was intriguing as he was for he was of small nimble frame who carried a three-pronged spear and not a sword. And he was a crannogman, whatever those were, and he was a real westerosi yet so unlike Griff who was tall and strongly built and prickly. He wondered for a whole day after their first conversation on the ship that perhaps he could speak some more with the crannogman, perhaps he could ask some questions as well and learn why he was so different from the prickly moody charge Lysono now had. He knew, he WANTED to have more conversation. He craved it, he wanted to learn people and their curiosities and he wanted to do it without having to pry out their secrets for whatever silly plan cousin had in store for them, having to remain detached from them so once they had their use, Lysono can just discard them. That was how the boy felt, he knew, and he could not afford to be that boy, not for a long time. But that wasn’t even the biggest problem he had to consider now for the truth was that he’s never killed a man. Sure enough, he knew what to do with the dagger in his boot, he used to practice on the shore alone and he used to practice against trees and whatever else he could imagine up as foe, for the use of a dagger was not something he’s been trained, cousin didn’t think it important enough to learn. He may have used the dagger once or twice, but only to land a well-placed cut, nothing that would not heal. Only to scare off whomever tried to take advantage of him. Sure enough, he said much more, to the captain-general, to the boys – that was what he needed to say. He always said what he needed to say. But the truth was that he never even mamed anyone, he never killed a man.

Let’s not think of the captain-general, he thought bitterly as he peaked out on the street once more, but nobody followed. Perhaps the crannogman thought that he merely had enough of trying to become a sellsword. Truly, one look at him and anyone would know that he was not meant to be a sellsword. He’s been bred to be a bedwarmer, that was the purpose that he’s been brought into this world for and he knew it well. Cousin spoke of it enough times, not once letting him forget what he was created for. Cousin who spoke of the captain-general as well, of secrets he found out, the wrongs that were done by the man… Cousin spoke an awful lot of such things, making sure that Lysono never forgot.

He stepped out from his hiding spot and made his way toward his destination, thinking of mother. Sad that it was, he didn’t even remember mother’s face anymore, he could no longer hear her voice, no longer remembered her lullabies that for long years after the pox took her he still used to recall before his sleep, he could almost hear her then. Now her voice was gone, replaced by cousin’s lengthy stories of the wrongs that were to be righted. He could remember some of her stories, and he was glad for that. Cousin said, you must forget, you must become someone else, a new name, a new life, so you are ready to pay them all back for the wrongs they did. Cousin knew nothing about life, that much was already clear, and cousin somehow never told the same stories that mother did. Lysono knew well enough the differences, he thought about them long enough, memorised them so he never forgot.

He tried to focus his mind on what he will say, but it was quite difficult. He’s grown lax these past weeks with the Golden Company, now he felt like yawning at every third step, sad for having had to leave that rather comfortable bed behind. This also was the doing of the captain-general. Of all the damned cities, they had to come to Pentos. Not Tyrosh, not Myr, where he could have just remained the Lyseni squire boy and nothing more, no they came to Pentos. Even in Lys he would only need to keep the hood over his head, really, and even if anyone encountered him, he could talk himself out of it easily. But this was Pentos. He knew as soon as he’s learned of it there was no way to escape the mice and he will have to make this walk. They were everywhere, he knew well enough for he’s been one of them once, if only for a short while. Before he became old enough and pretty enough to have different use, he reminded himself bitterly.

The house came in view, or better said, the high brick walls did, the ones that surrounded this particular house. It was not even a house, it was half the size of the camp made by the company perhaps with all the land it encompassed behind the high brick walls. It had a large garden with benches large enough to lay across and poplar trees to provide shade above them, those not found in Essos but only in the Stormlands of Westeros. The Stormlands where Griff came from. He had to prepare, he will be questioned. He had to do well, for he had to see her. There has to be benefit to this risking of his position and what he’s achieved so far, but even without such thoughts, he had to see her. In truth he didn’t care about the mice and the magister and even dear cousin he could not care less about. He knew that they knew that as well, sure enough he did what he could to win their trust but he knew all along that there was no such thing to win. They kept her, the only thing he cared about, and just like that, they made him care.

The little rat girl sat atop the wall he could see as he neared the gate, in her eyes nothing of the wide eyed wonder she showed in the harbour three days ago. She disappeared on the other side as soon as he came into view and soon enough, the gate opened in front of him. The collared servant waved for him to follow, on his face sheer unveiled disgust. This servant, he remembers me. He remembers the things he’s heard, sounds of the things I did. If only I could cut his throat, he would make a nice first kill.

The servants who served here and likely everywhere else in Pentos, they looked down on other kinds of servants, the bedwarmers or pillowslaves or whores, however one wished to call them. It is the nature of men, he reminded himself cousin’s words, for these words were one of the very few cousin spoke that he found were actually true. The lower a man fell in life, the more he needed to find someone even lower than himself, someone to look down upon and despise for the sole reason that doing so would grant the illusion of small consolation that the man was not yet at the end of the rope.

“It is you who wears the collar,” he declared in that soft, pillowhouse-trained seductive voice of his, the Valyrian speech rolling off his tongue the way it did only if spoken by one who learned it in Lys. Lys the Lovely, Lys the Accursed. The man turned toward him, in his eyes the spite still clearly visible. Who said that I could not have some consolation of my own? Who said that I have to endure you as well, SLAVE?

“Think on it,” he said nonchalantly, smile forming in the edge of his mouth, “You wear the collar and I walk around freely, come and go as I wish. Truth is I sleep on a mattress with a well stuffed pillow under my head and when I wake I break my fast on food you only dream of when you smell it prepared in the kitchens. It is not me who is slave in all but name.”

He glanced down, to see the man’s fists, but he was right, knuckles white the man was near boiling point just hearing his few words, ready to punch him. He won’t, and that was obvious. He would not risk the beating for the man understood well enough, harming one who walked freely among them, who the magister expected so late in the night, that would only bring on him the magister’s ire.

“I thought so,” he shrugged it off, just as they reached the door, “I know my way from here,” he added, and disappeared behind the door, leaving the fuming servant outside.

In truth, he knew more than his way. There were more doors and some of those led to corridors, from the wide marble floored hall he found himself in. The urge to go and find the one door leading to her was almost too hard to fight, so he swallowed and speedily took the steps straight through to the solar.

“There you are,” the magister rose, wide grin on his face. He wore one of his heavy silken robes, and underneath he seemed to wear very little else. Of course, he had ideas. “I could not believe it, and yet, here you are. What news you bring?”

He’s grown fat. Perhaps he’s got nobody to fuck to work off all that feasting he does since cousin left and he became locked into this velvet-padded gold cage of his. Perhaps all he does is feasting. Perhaps the oil in his beard is in truth the grease from meat he feasted on. Disgusting as he ever was.

“That depends,” he shrugged, without moving from the door.

“Well then,” the magister stood, “I thought to wait with supper but you took so long! It is late. Still, I find we could have a bite. Come.”

The man stepped through the double door, that led to the room where he held his meetings, or where he held his feasts. The table was loaded. Lysono’s stomach turned, he thought of the rich stew they all had for supper and the warm fresh bread they had with it, the ale with which they washed it down. Somehow the simple stew seemed far more appealing than the loaded table in front of him, the smells of cheese and roasted meats, spiced curiosities.

“Lysono Maar,” the man spoke, “Good choice for a name, rolls off the tongue so well and it suits you. Lysono, now sit and eat, you must be hungry. You were always so hungry.” Of course I was, so would you if you were left on the street to starve. Training, cousin said. I say it was torture.

Lysono sat and waited, pretending to take in the sight of every single dish in front of him, pretending that he now had a hard choice presented to him. He waited until the magister began with the ‘bite’ he so clearly wanted to have. Then he took some onto his plate of what the magister chose for himself, pulled pork, biscuits, tiny soured cucumbers, small cubicles of soft white cheese. The magister likely didn’t pay attention to his choices, but Lysono did, he only took on his plate what the magister did. He was not to risk it, not now, not in this house. He was no fool, or so he kept telling himself.

The food in truth was delicious. There was no starving since he joined the Company, they didn’t think it part of the training of squires to starve them, at the least, but there was no finely made pulled pork battered in spiced butter and covered in melted sugar either, and the biscuits used to be the ones he always favoured, so was the cheese and the tiny cucumbers, their sour taste balancing well the sweetness of the meat. The magister knew. Of course, he had exactly the choices prepared that would loosen his tongue. I have to become smarter than that.

“Now tell me,” the magister spoke while he reached for some more of that pulled pork, “What news from the Golden Company? How you find your charge, easy as it was said to be? And what happened to your face? Tell me it was not the westerosi who beat you up.” No, it was more of the usual, but how would you know? Who in this world would want to stick their cock into your fat arse?

“That westerosi,” the magister continued, “He is said to be quite pliable with one who has looks like yours. Else I would not have agreed.” Because it needed your agreement. If you say so.

“And besides,” the magister continued, mouth full now, Lysono looking away, fixing his eyes on his plate in front of him lest his stomach truly begins to turn, “The man has red of hair and freckles. Who has red of hair and freckles when they are grown, that is ridiculous.” Lysono raised an eyebrow. The magister was now just playing stupid, he knew.

“It was not him,” he said, “Best not speak of it, best let it pass. I shall heal soon enough.”

“And your charge?”

“Coming along,” he shrugged, “It takes time.”

“You take me for a fool, boy,” the magister laughed, “I know you. Give you an hour and you can wrap a man around your finger, give you three more and he barely moves for you exhaust him while you learned all the things he would never speak of. I know you; it takes no time.”

“You misunderstand,” he explained, “My charge is not to fuck the man. My charge is to make him love me and that takes time. Besides, there is a small complication. He is wed now, he has to be more careful.”

The magister raised an eyebrow. “Wed?”

“Yes, wed,” Lysono shrugged once more, “Fine westerosi lady, we are escorting her to Volon Therys, that is why we are here.”

“We, you say…”

“Yes, we,” I got you. “Two knights and two squires, and Griff and his squire. Nothing much just safe escort for the lady, for there was no ship to Volantis in harbour.”

“Most interesting,” the magister remarked. “Fine westerosi lady, you say.”

“Yes, she is,” Lysono nodded, his eyes, his voice, all betraying interest in the conversation, exactly as he intended. “In truth she is quite the beauty and most curiously she has purple eyes. Dark hair it is true, but fair skin like mine and purple eyes. Tell cousin, he will know who she is I am sure of it. I had no word with her, seeing I am not his squire and I am not to be so close to his lady wife.”

“You should be his squire,” the magister argued, “You should be close to him.”

“I should not,” Lysono countered, “The Westerosi, he does not tread with his favours openly. Best not to be too obvious around him, but he knows already. Soon he will bite. Worry not, I know my charge.”

“See that you do,” the magister nodded, “Time is of the essence. The Targaryens have moved from Dragonstone.” Lysono looked up at that, straight to the magister.

“Your cousin wrote,” the magister explained, “He has made new plans, there are new opportunities to explore. We need you close to that man, the sooner the better. What happened to your pretty face?”

He took a deep breath, his mind frantic with the news that cousin made new plans. “I got raped,” he said lowly, “In an army camp with my looks, the inevitable happened I suppose.”

“Not good,” the magister shook his head.

“Only what could be expected I suppose,” Lysono said.

“Perhaps you should stay,” the magister changed to that annoying honeyed tone of his, the one he used whenver he wanted to make use of Lysono’s skills. The skills he learned in Lys. “You are no soldier, an army camp is not for you. Yes, I could write to your cousin, he would listen to me. I think you should stay.”

It was appealing but not because of the magister’s invitation. The invitation masked under those words was not at all appealing. Damn you, I tell you what happened and all you can think of is how you would do the same. Damn you to the fifth of hells.

“What are the new plans?”

“Oh nothing much of concern to you,” the magister waved it away, “Your charge remains the same. We plan to make use of the westerosi, so it is as you say. You need him wrapped around your fingers, Lysono, the sooner the better for we need to find them Targaryens.”

Lysono only nodded, there was nothing to say to it. It was the same charge as before.

“Can I see her?”

“With that on your face?”

“What of it,” the panic immediately set in as it always did. Surely, the magister would not refuse him to see her now would he?

“She will worry for you,” the magister reasoned, “Seeing that on your face, she will worry. You would not want that, would you?” Damn you.

“I come from an army camp,” he shrugged, “Surely, she understands that things can happen in an army camp. I could have fallen, or I could have injured myself in training.”

“She is asleep,” the magister switched to a different excuse, “It is late, after all, you took your time.”

“I had to get away,” Lysono said annoyed, “Surely, giving up my place is not part of my charge so I had to sneak away unseen.” Except I had not remained unseen. “If she sleeps all the better, I shall not wake her and she shall not see my face. Let me see her.”

“Perhaps next time,” the magister mused, “Unless… you could stay a little. In the morning, you could see her.” Damn you, yet again.

“And if I did that,” Lysono asked, “How would I climb the wall unseen and be found in my bed in the morn? Think. Let me see her and I shall be on my way.” Futile argument this is. You want to take me to your bed as usual; I want nothing of it as usual, and you knew I would not stay, you knew I have to return unseen. Yet you deny me. Damn you. Damn you, damn you!

“Next time it is, then,” the magister sighed, “Tell me, what news of the captain-general?”

“What news is there to be,” Lysono grunted, “I am yet to cut his throat if that is what you ask. He is still breathing.”

“We could do with a more approachable captain-general,” the magister remarked, “from what you told me and what your cousin told me, this one is quite useless to us. I would be glad to hear of you having taken that dagger of yours to his throat, after all you spoke of it much before…”

“I had no time,” Lysono argued, “And think on it, with my charge how would that work? They would look for a killer, and they know I carry a dagger. Once in Volantis perhaps I shall do it if I see chance. Far from the army, they are said to have their fun in Volantis. I shall see if I have chance there perhaps. Depends on my charge for my charge comes first. Cousin always said that the man has his use, in any case.”

The magister nodded. He seemed to have finished stuffing himself, for he stood.

“Come,” he said, “You brought news, you risked your position. Of course, I shall let you see her, and then we could proceed further. You shall stay no longer than an hour or two, there is much to discuss.” Discuss. If you say so.

The deal on offer was not even veiled enough not to be obvious, and Lysono let it slide without a comment as if he didn’t understand it. They walked through the corridors.

“You shall see,” the magister reasoned, “She is well cared for. I have bought her fine silk the past month or so, lilac in the colour of her eyes, I had a fine dress made for her. She looks like a queen in it, I tell you. She is well cared for, she has no want, just like your cousin wished.” Lysono only focused on memorising the corridors, which doors they crossed, which turns they took.

There was a man in front of her door, a guard that immediately stepped aside at the sight of them but his hand remained on the pommel of his sword as he looked up Lysono with curious wonder in his eyes: recognition. The magister only nodded, and Lysono slowly pushed down the handle, pushed the door in, careful not to make a sound.

The room smelled of flowers, there was but the one candle in the dark that gave it some light. Not much, but enough to make out the sleeping figure in the bed. She was so small in such a giant bed, she seemed most vulnerable as she laid there curled up under the covers. He walked around the bed, his steps made no sound, he knew how to remain unheard if he so wished. He wanted to see her face. She had a room with a guard and a proper bed, that was good. Her hair shone in the pale candlelight spread out on the pillow, and her hands looked like she had no work to harden them, no she was not being wasted away in the kitchens or worse. Her face seemed most peaceful. She was dressed in a shift that even covered her shoulders, that was good as well.

He crouched down beside her, fighting the urge to touch her, feel her warm skin under his fingers for a moment. He knew, even the slightest of touch would wake her and in turn wake the magister’s ire. He had the upper hand thus far, but he knew that he didn’t have the magister. One false move would be all that it took to be seized. He had to keep his upper hand. At the least now he’s seen, later he will think on her. Now he memorised the sleeping face so similar to his own. I promise you… I will get you out of here. What use have I if I could not protect my own sister? I will get you out of here, I will sort this fat cheesemonger and the westerosi and the captain-general, too. I will sort even our dear cousin and he will pay for the trainings and the lies and so much more. Just give me a little more time, that is all I need. Just a little more time. Then I will take us home.

He could have lingered for hours just watching her sleep. As he stood, he thought bitterly of how if the magister offered to bed him right here he just as well would agree as long as he could keep watching her peaceful sleeping face while it was done. The irony of that didn’t escape him, for in truth he hasn’t been on his hands and knees for a very long time. She’d wake, she’d be disgusted with him, he knew. She knew nothing of the world. Even during the few years back in Lys, it was he who took the work, with them both receiving the training paid for by dear cousin but it was he who did whatever was needed to keep the eager hands off her. Persuasion often, seduction sometimes, because in the end most man cared not at all if it was a boy or a girl when their lust needed sorting and one was willing. He learned to be willing.

He left the room, careful not to make a sound, slowly closing the door behind himself. The guard immediately stepped in between him and the door once more.

“Now you have seen,” the magister declared as soon as Lysono closed the door. Of course, the magister had expectations, they sat clearly in his wistful pale eyes so eager to devour him with a look. He shall crush those expectations he reminded himself, just enough so he can escape this damned gilded velvet-padded marble-floored cage of a palace that’s been suffocating. She was safe and he memorised the way to her room, he had what he came for. Now he only needed to get out with as little given as he gave so far, and nothing more.

“Now I have seen,” he nodded, just as he felt the magister’s hand on him. “You would claim that which is not your own.”

“And who would say so,” the magister’s grin was wide and disgusting, “Who would know?”

“I would know,” Lysono’s voice rang softly, seductively, knowing well that every word was winning over the magister’s mind, “Forgive me for saying but seduction is not your forte but it is mine. That is why I know that sometimes to win the love of another, one has to remain chaste and available to be claimed and visibly not for others. The one who desires will see through it otherwise, if they have any notion of what they desire. The one I am working on, he knows what to look for, he is no innocent man. You just have to summon for yourself a bedwarmer if I stirred such notions in you. It was not my intention; you are not my charge.”

The hand dropped from his buttocks. The fool believed every word, hopefully. There are no favours to buy from you magister, not anymore. You have nothing that you haven’t given me yet, nothing you could trade for what you want…

“But you speak of no success in that regard,” the magister remarked and Lysono turned toward the way out of the maze of corridors.

“It takes time, I told you,” he shrugged it off, “I am here, am I not? The man is with a wife, transporting her to Volon Therys, and yet I am in his company.” Because sometimes things just work out but you need not know that. “Trust in me, magister. If I could seduce you before then surely, I can seduce a westerosi who keeps restraining his needs.”

“You never had my love,” the magister remarked. Oh, but I did, you just don’t know it.

“True enough,” Lysono nodded, “And that shall tell you that I speak true when I say, it takes time to win one’s love. My charge is nothing less, so leave it to me how I go about it.”

“Shame, that is,” the magister remarked.

“I need to be back unseen,” Lysono said then, “Write to my dear cousin if you please, let him know that I paid a visit. The man is wed, tall and slender, dark haired and purple eyed woman whose name is not spoken. I have no word on Targaryens, they speak nothing of red dragons. In truth, they speak of no dragons at all, they lament old stories in the camp but nothing more. Write my cousin that they have forgotten it all, I am sure of it. The army is on the march toward Volantis, I expect it to remain in camp under Volon Therys for a time.”

“You have done well,” the magister nodded then, “While I still believe that you should remain here. An army camp is no place for one so soft and pretty like you. I could write to your cousin of that as well.”

“And if I remain we shall never catch a dragon,” he shrugged, “It is dragons cousin wants, not pitiful stories. Have you not heard him preach of it enough? We both have our task, let us not waver over a little misfortune.” He walked through the garden without a single glance on the poplar trees to the side, the servant – no, slave - man was already opening the gate for him.

“Get yourself a bedwarmer, magister,” he looked back, “You look nigh on ready to burst. Have some fun for you earned it, you care for my sister well. And watch for your eating, not to grow fat. More moving less eating, you can score two birds with one stone if you get yourself a bedwarmer.” For a moment he wondered if he should say more, if he should ask after cousin’s new plans once more, but he knew, while the magister allowed himself to be played in certain matters, he was no fool. If he was to tell he would have already done so, and if he was not to tell then nothing would pry it out of him but a few hours of work in his bed and that seemed wholly not worth to learn of yet another plan of cousin’s with yet another petty westerosi.

The walk back to the inn proved interesting in itself for the magister sent the mice to follow and Lysono amused himself with tricking the little rat until she gave up on the task. Not that he cared if the girl found their lodging. At the end of the day it was an inn, the magister likely knew who’s been dwelling there for three days by now. Instead of worries, he wondered about the encounter. Not about his sister, not yet. It was too fresh, for now it was a sweet memory and he’ll recall her sight when he finally gets to lay his head down to sleep and he will think nothing of it. Later on he shall dwell on it and the predicament of this whole situation. Now he needed to focus, to recall and to memorise everything he’s told the magister.

He revealed Griff’s lady. That was well enough, something had to be given. Something always has to be given, every good lie is based on truth, every manipulation is based on what the manipulated wants, and every trade is based on something given. He had three days to think on what he shall reveal and his choice had been the lady.

No doubt cousin’s spies in Volon Therys shall report the lady, no doubt there shall be mice in Griff’s house as soon as he takes it, just as there was one in Blackheart’s and in Peake’s. His information will be verified, as information was always to be verified. He would do the same, he wouldn’t rely on just one source even if it is a cousin, and he didn’t think himself treasured as kin, either. He thought on it when he’s set out on this mission, on everything he learned. Peake had daughters, few years younger than he was, and Peake had a discontent wife and two brothers he lived with. The brothers were nothing, for all he learned they were of no concern, but of course it all shall change in Volon Therys. They shall be home, they shall let loose. The brothers will no doubt enjoy themselves in Volantis like anyone else and then he’ll learn what they are made of. As for Peake himself, he was said to be above most things Lysono would employ to gain his trust. He was described mainly as a dutiful quiet man who drank with his men time to time but never whored. The way to him would be different and longer too, but he didn’t need a way to Peake.

Blackheart was another matter. He could work the captain-general of course he could, but he disdained at that task. The boy with crooked jaw and jug ears and the kindest of hearts, he was now one ugly man with a nasty scar across his lips and a cunning man, too, and it was best to remain of no concern to Blackheart for the time being.

As for the charge, he now had a wife, and Lysono revealed as much, presenting himself productive and focused on his task, firmly set on being part of the plan. That was how he needed to present himself. Beside that, what he needed was time. He had so little time left for what was two years… then they will come of age, he will have to act before it and take her from the magister’s care.

He didn’t say about the babes, but he knew that cousin will put two and two together, he will know why the man suddenly wed a woman and he will expect at least one babe. He didn’t mention them for they were most curious to him. What the magister said was even more curious to him, considering the babes. On one hand, he would now begin to formulate his own theory about the babes, the boy surely being of the lady with that hair, but the girl? Last he’s been told was that the Targaryen queen was with child and now he’s been told that the Targaryens left Dragonstone. Not one Targaryen but more of them. Perhaps then the girl was that child of the Queen’s now borne and smuggled into the Golden Company, for whatever cunning reason Blackheart cooked up for such a thing. Cousin would much enjoy such findings, not that Lysono felt eager to openly theorise. If it was true, that was a brilliant plan in truth, Lysono thought, but there was a small problem. Two problems in fact. One was, the brilliant plan had the flaw of cousin already aware and expecting a Targaryen babe to show up SOMEWHERE. They underestimated his dear cousin if they were following such a plan. The other problem though was that he could not be sure of that plan. The babes were different in size, one had the patches of dark hair and the other, he knew that one was to soon grow hair of silver. Their different size in truth didn’t spark thoughts of Maelys in him like he claimed neither did he believe the crannogman’s explanation – twins of different size? Perhaps born in different time. He knew the girl will grow hair of silver because he had hair of silver, he’s seen enough Lyseni babes to know, they were born with big eyes purple or lilac or indigo, but with no hair, and later they would grow hair of silver with gold streaks in it. And when they grow up, they would have scarcely any bodily hair, just like Lysono had no chance of ever growing a beard or hair on his chest. Fine enough, for the lady seemed to share the blood and thus could in theory produce a babe of silverhead. Her eyes were so similar to that of the babes, but therein lied the other problem with his red dragon babe theory. The eyes of the babes, they were the same. Lysono studied them long enough, side by side as they were lain in the cot on the ship. Their eyes were of the same, shape and colour both, exactly the same. That the boy is the lady’s he had no reason to doubt, else why would a man known to fuck silver haired manwhores rush to wed her if he was not guilty of leaving her with child? Westerosi and their curious honour. But then the girl, she had to be hers as well just like they said for they had the exact same eyes. He wasn’t closer to figuring out the mystery of the babes if there even was one, not just yet.

What he was most certain of was that these were no ordinary babes. Griff’s bride was no ordinary woman, she looked like one with dragon blood, and in truth Lysono wondered if it was black or red dragonblood, for Blackheart to go out of his way with gold to get her to Volantis, despite him not being the man she said the words to. Blackheart would not lift a finger for a westerosi woman randomly wed into the company, Lysono was certain of that. Blackheart seemed to spend just enough time on things to put them out of the way, put a solution in motion and move on never looking back, like the matter of his own misfortune in the camp. He still fumed with Gorys Edoryen about that for he wanted to test his skills with the dagger before he has real need of those skills. He’s never mamed or killed a man before and he wasn’t as naïve as to think that he could get through this situatin without the need to do such things. He had to admit though, Gorys’ intervention has proven to be useful in some ways. Firstly, it showed him how Blackheart worked. The man was too upfront, too forceful in his prying, as if answers were his right, no doubt due to having spent his adult life leading the ten thousand. Then he went and swiftly made order, and he had the one caught drawn naked beside the command tent, to send a clear message to the ten thousand. It was the one who slapped Lysono, when he spoke his refusal that one punched him so hard that he fell on the floor. That was the man who dragged him up and pushed him with his chest against the table, the man who first took advantage of him while the other held him down. The other was dead. But the man who laughed at feeling him relax into it, laughing at how ‘willing’ he became, that man had the suffering. Of course he relaxed into it, he didn’t want his blood drawn he knew better than that, but the man laughing at him has shamed him, talking while he did what he did about how he, Lysono must enjoy it after all like the Lyseni whore he is, that shamed him and he still felt the shame. He found that he was content with the justice of it, the man who took him first and shamed him has spent his last days drawn naked besides the command tent and the one who did less harm was shot down dead. He would have liked it less the other way around, though by now he was certain that both men were dead. He was certain of it being the reason why he was in Griff’s company now, unlike what he’s told the magister, he was here to remove him from the camp and have the man sentenced and hung. He had to give it to Blackheart, that was decently done, for that saved him from the judgement and the prying and the lustful eyes that would have surely followed was he in the camp with his face proclaiming to all that he was the one harmed.

The no-ordinary babes and the no-ordinary woman received a definite no-ordinary attention from Blackheart for he was certain that Griff himself could not foot the bill for all this travel. Take the Braavosi passage, it was a ship far neater than anything Lysono has seen before, the cabins had nice carvings on everything and wood covered walls and even feather mattresses. The only feather mattresses he experienced before were in the magister’s mansion and in the pillowhouses in Lys, the boys and girls worked on them and once work was done they were allowed to sleep on them, in truth saving the need to have rooms for sleep. The magister had feather mattresses, his knees used to sink into the mattress. But he didn’t kneel in a long time, not since he ceased having need to pry out the magister’s secrets. The magister had no more secrets, Lysono thought, and he could give no more concessions. Well enough for his oiled beard was damn disgusting and smelly, that was the reason to kneel in the first place. Was it not for such uncomely things, he would always choose a different way for surest way to get what he wanted was to look in the eyes, he needed his own eyes and his voice as much as other bits of himself.

He reached the inn, thinking about the cost of it all. The Braavosi passage, the five rooms in the inn and the food twice daily. They shall have need of a decent litter, doubtful they were to transport babes on horseback. They were in need of horses, but he figured, perhaps they were awaiting the company so they could retrieve the knights’ horses. Three knights, that was nine horses, put the ladies in a litter and that is enough. They were said to sail down the Rhoyne meaning they will take the old valyrian road toward Norvos until they reach the ruins of Ghoyan Drohe. He was glad for cousin allowing him to at least have some education. A man cannot make sense of others’ and their secrets without having at least some knowledge of the world but now that knowledge served in other ways. They will no doubt hire a boat on the Little Rhoyne to sail downriver. They will see the ruined cities of the Rhoynar, and in truth that was very much something to look forward to. Even more so, they will be on a boat with nobody else, locked together in a tight space. No better way to figure the intentions of each in their travel party, for there was much to figure out.

Truth be told Denys had nothing about him that warranted any figuring out, neither did Malo but Malo at least may know things. Malo has been Blackheart’s squire and now he was Griff’s squire. The two knights were of Blackheart’s crew, which spoke volumes about their assignment here – no doubt they were to keep their eyes as open as they were to keep their swords at the ready. What they were watching for was yet to be figured out, but if one considered their presence here alongside Malo’s very recent assignment, then it was clear, Blackheart was keeping a very close eye on Griff and perhaps even on his lady and their two babes, once more telling Lysono that the babes were of importance. He really wondered about the lady, and whether she could be a black dragon for he knew nothing about the lady, and his westerosi knowledge left a lot to desire – cousin didn’t put much value on him learning such things as houses and people of Westeros, and that was a sore shortcoming now. There were also the two small Westerosi men, one serving the other that was clear enough, and the other being overly curious and in truth intriguing as well. Lysono hoped that the man will keep to himself what he's seen tonight for he really had no will in him to harm the man. Though, now that he gave it much thought, the crannogman had little chance, he reasoned. Griff has grown prickly as he was said to be, and Griff ordered them all to not leave the inn, and the crannogman had been out at night just as he was. A secret for a secret this was then, for if the man reveals his, he will have no problems to give up the man’s but even more so, the man cannot reveal his secret without revealing his own. The man will no doubt claim that he needed fresh air or a walk to clear his head, what other reason could he have had to be out so late? And he will claim the same, but that having seen the man he ran for fear of having been discovered, and later as he planned he climbed back to the room. Yes, that is what he shall do about it. Best to leave the dagger on this journey unless it cannot be avoided.

He easily climbed the three stories to the window for while he was lean build, he had strength in him developed through years of living on the streets and of work on ships and on markets, and through climbing walls and down in chimneys to steal things. He knew as well that he didn’t have a nimble build, he could tell that from how he didn’t have the particularly slim waist and calves of bedslaves that was favoured in Lys but in truth, his own build proved to be far more useful in such areas as well. Once fully grown he will be able to build the muscle of a soldier and he won’t be a short man either, he was near a head taller already than Denys Strong of the same age – once he’s grown then nobody will mistake him for a pillowslave anymore, no matter how pretty his face is or how he will never be able to grow a beard. It was reassuring to muse over such things, for he much wanted to be seen strong enough not to have anyone forcing him to bend over tables anymore. He could still feel the shame of it, and it served a bitter reminder of where he came from and the things he had to do. Once he’s grown, he won’t be doing the bidding of others anymore, and he won’t be serving the needs of others anymore either – not even dear cousin’s. Of that he was most certain.

The window was still open as he left it. He made his way to his bed, undressed, took his shift he was to sleep in, but then thought better of it. He wondeed who else may have discovered his secret, for it was better to know now than to be caught off guard. Instead of the bed he went to the door, peaking out. Tristan Rivers duly stood on the corridor blocking the way, his back toward the doors. As he was, barefoot in nothing but a shift, he walked out to the corridor.

“Where to,” he heard Rivers ask without even looking back.

“The privy,” he murmured, “So stuffy here tonight, I had too much water.”

“You and Denys both,” Rivers laughed, “At least you opened your eyes first, not walked into me. Careful on the stairs, shout if anyone bothers you there and I shall come.”

He only nodded as he walked past Rivers. So it was, Denys also woke while he was away, perhaps even seen his bed empty, though Rivers laughed at how asleep Denys had been so perhaps not. Not that Denys would make much out of his empty bed, the most problems the boy could cause would be by asking him about it in front of the wrong people. Denys was innocent, so much so that he seemed completely sheltered from the world and had really no idea of how ugly it really was, Lysono thought, as he did his business in the privy. There were two men there, the two of them looking him up like men often did and it left him feeling considerably uneasy as he had to lift the shift up to do his business, he caught himself pulling the fabric down to cover his backside while pissing even. They reminded him of the two other men, and the way they brought back the memory didn’t sit easy with him at all. In truth he even thought to call on Rivers, even before the two moved. But in the end they didn’t move, they only looked, and Lysono didn’t antagonise them further by looking at them.

“Any trouble?” Rivers asked as he made his way up the stairs.

“Two men looking nasty,” he said, giving Rivers a fearful look that was only half feigned, “They looked. Did nothing more in the end.”

Rivers sighed. “Next time I go with you, better there be no such fright for you. Though best if you just learn to keep it, you know? You lot want to be soldiers of the Golden Company, will you just go off to piss in the middle of a mission or a battle? You would not for Blackheart or any of the serjeants would tell you to piss yourself right there and then. Best learn to keep it in control, then there is no fright in the privy for you either.”

Lysono only nodded, wondering if Rivers meant to scold him or if he meant to be protective. Or both, and perhaps even Rivers could not figure which it was. Protective was good, it was what he needed. There shall be no next time for any two men but he was honest with himself, he needed men like Rivers to be protective for he could not do much against more than one by himself, that much has been proven. He quietly entered the room again, his eyes looking up Denys Strong on the spare bed in the middle. The boy was fast asleep, his limbs entangled in his blanket like children do, his shift up to his neck. He was a funny sight. The boy was a child. Lysono was no such child for some could not afford being children for so long. He was no child and the difference could not have been more obvious between the two of them but the thought didn’t fill him with pride, it filled him with sadness and longing for mother’s lullaby that he could not even remember anymore. He climbed into his own bed, curled up under the blanket. The mattress was soft, the pillow stuffed just well enough. This was life in the Golden Company then, comfortable mattresses and stuffed pillows he had to himself unless he chose to share them, and men standing guard who would rather walk with him to the privy than have strangers give him a fright. In the morning there shall be biscuits and those little Pentoshi soured cucumbers he liked, and the spiced and dried sausages that will be thinly sliced up so the innkeep does not have to serve so much. And bacon, hopefully, and boiled eggs and milk, for this innkeep was adamant that them boys needed milk to grow into strong men and so he served them milk every morning. And was he not here with this lot, there would be a thick sleeping mat that he would have all for himself in Brendel Byrne’s tent, and there would be bread and cheese and bacon and sausage and they would not slice the sausage they would just give him one, and tell him to better eat it all for he needs the meat to grow the muscle. There would be training, and surely by now they would be marching through the mountains, and he would be given his own horse to ride. It would not be his own for he would not own it, but at the least he would not share it either and he would not be walking. Nobody walked in the company. And in the evening there would be stew made of dried meat and whatever vegetables they throw into it that day, and more bread. Perhaps even ale, or watered wine. In truth, life in the Golden Company was not bad at all, not bad for the work of running around with messages and not even for the occasional peeling of potatoes for hours.

In truth, he had to give this some thought. It was nagging at him for a while now, since he was made to sleep in Brendel Byrne’s tent. Byrne in truth was quite kind to him, spoke very few words but he took Lysono to get a proper sleeping mat and a pillow and a blanket and told him to make bed on the other side of the tent. Byrne didn’t try to win favours from him, he didn’t try to get anything from him in truth. He wanted the new mat away from his own mat as well and that was reassuring. He had him look into things that didn’t need looking into, busy himself with polishing armour and sharpening knives, and such. And Byrne told him things, the very things a boy would want to hear after he’s been harmed. That the man will hang have no doubt of that, that they tolerated no such thing and that he, Byrne will watch out better. That the serjeants should have watched out better. Byrne told him, he may be a boy but he was one of their own now for as long as he stayed in the company and here men should stand for their own, weed out the bad apples before such troubles and protect their own young. Lysono didn’t really believe any of it, but hearing it felt good and he had to give it some thought, because it wasn’t letting him be. Later the next day, Byrne told him of this new charge to travel with Griff, told him it will be good for him and then if he wanted, he can train with Byrne once the company reached Volantis. There was much to like in that idea, much to learn from such an arrangement though Byrne wasn’t a person of interest at all – Byrne had nothing interesting going about him in truth. Blackheart was right, the man had no eyes for him at all, and somehow that felt refreshing, to be around someone completely oblivious to his beauty was liberating. The man was not Peake, neither was he the captain-general, and most importantly he was not the redhead westerosi Griff, thus there was really very little to gain from him. It was intriguing, there were usually only the ones who either wanted things from him or who he needed things from, and Byrne was neither. He had to give it some thought, he had to give some proper thought to this new life in the Golden Company.

For now, he closed his eyes and as he promised to himself, he thought about the sleeping image of his sister. Nothing more, he would not let anything to disturb the peace of her image. Sleep came to him fast that way, and he was grateful for it.

The next morning the boredom ceased finally, and in truth he was glad that it took so long for he promised three days. One day sooner for Griff to reach his boiling point and Lysono would have found himself in considerable predicament, but it took Griff four days to reach the end of his patience. Quite long in truth for someone so hot tempered as he seemed to be. He flat out argued with Gorys to get horses, and even his lady chimed in assuring Gorys that she had no need for a litter. These two were made for each other, Lysono mused himself, no doubt they either were in complete agreement and already decided it all anyways, or they were so much at each others’ throats behind the door of their room that they wanted to have it done with right on the day. They both seemed as adamant as they seemed cold, so he could not tell which was the case. But it was amusing, to say the least. Griff sent Gorys off to sort it out – those were his words. He sent the rest of them to make use of the baths for they’ll be on the road soon. The innkeeprer in turn offered Gorys his horses and even a pair of his men – his slaves – for there had to be someone returning the horses. No doubt that innkeeper realised that there was gold to be had from their lot and now wanted more of it, seeing good business. He also closed the baths, if only for an hour, but that was well enough for they only had each other for company for that hour. The water could have been warmer but regardless, that was nice. It was so rare to be able to sit in a stone bath, so rare.

By midday they set out, and he wondered at how the two women wrapped around their bodies long linens with the babes wrapped in them. The crannogman was right, the lady was protective of the girl, carried her and left the other woman to carry the boy. He rode behind them with Denys and Malo by his side, for in front of the ladies rode Griff with Gorys and the two collared ones. Behind them were the two crannogmen and behind those the two knights, Rivers and Marq Mandrake. Mandrake looked sour like a lemon. He always looked sour like a lemon, Lysono mused himself. There was nothing to be sour about, if not the slight ache in his backside. He had to get more used to riding for long. But they made good pace, far faster than the company march to north. It was fun, the wind was blowing and the sun was shining and it was fun to be riding so freely on the black stone of the old road.

“Lysono,” the crannogman called out for him, and he slowed his horse to fall in line to speak. “Is that your name?”

“It is,” he nodded, “Means Lyseni, whatever else my mother called me I have no memory of it. This one fits me well.”

“I suppose so,” the man said, “They say there are many in Lys with Valyrian features.”

“It is a Valyrian city,” he said. “Where the blood of Old Valyria still lives strong, where people speak Valyrian like a song.” The words rolled on his tongue in Valyrian like a song, indeed. The man smiled, nodding. “You speak Valyrian?” he asked, still in Valyrian.

“Only a little,” the man replied, joining in on his game. Broken Valyrian, sounded more like Dothraki speech to Lysono’s ears, but good enough to understand.

“I thought nobody speaks Valyrian in Westeros.”

“Highborn do,” the man explained, “You should try Griff or the Lady, you could likely converse with them in your own language. Highborn are taught Valyrian by their maesters. A sign of good education.”

“Highborn,” Lysono repeated, “You are a lord.” He was taught the common tongue as part of his education; how ironic this was.

“I am.”

Lysono nodded. That was new information, albeit he could have told as much from the way the other crannogman served this one.

“A lord who prefers fresh air at night,” he said then, “Same as I.”

“I thought I was unseen,” the man laughed.

“I thought I was unseen,” he chuckled, “You scared me instead. I ran three blocks before I stopped to realise that I was a fool to run.”

“You were ordered not to leave,” the man remarked.

“I am yet to find in me the will to follow shit orders,” Lysono laughed, and then laughed even more at the man’s wide eyes. “Perhaps switch,” he said, once more speaking in Common.

“Well, that was refreshing,” the man laughed, “And grounding, I thank you for that experience. I thought my Valyrian to be better but in truth, I struggled. Thought I shall ask you to teach me that trick.”

“What trick?”

“The one with the coin,” the man said nonchalantly, “How you roll it between your fingers without dropping it, I would much like to learn.”

Lysono gave an innocent, almost happy smile to the man, the kind of smile he gave whenever he felt completely duped. The man was no fool, the man knew why he rolled the coin between his fingers three times and now told him as much without actually telling him. The man may yet prove to be dangerous, sad as that was to realise.

“So I shall teach you,” he nodded, “After all, we will spend our time on a boat. There shall be plenty of time to learn new tricks. You can go back to crannogland and show off your essosi thieving skills, and your people shall curse me for leading you astray. Thus I shall become famous in Westeros! Tell them it was a pretty Lyseni who taught you, named Lysono Maar, and you conversed in Valyrian while you sailed the Mother Rhoyne.”

The man laughed carefreely at that, “Not going to deny,” he said, “I am having the time of my life. Seen Braavos, now seen Pentos, now here we are riding on a true old Valyrian road for all I know, and soon we shall see the first ruined city of the Rhoynar, sail the Rhoyne, see stone men even and more ruines of cities. And at the end of it is Volantis. I always dreamed of seeing the world, this is better than I could have asked for.”

“I would much like to see Westeros,” Lysono said wistfully, “I know very little about it, but I see how you are different from Griff. He is said to be Stormlander, and you are a crannogman. So different, I would much like to see your lands.”

“My people live in marshlands,” the man explained, “Our lands are mainly marshes, so you see we cannot grow to be big men like Griff, but small and nimble, much aligned with nature. It is like… a flooded forest, but with mud traps and hidden sink holes and treacherous waters you need to be skilled to direct your boat across. We hunt with tridents and fish with nets and our life is calm and simple. I am the bad apple for my eagerness to travel, my kind mainly keeps to ourselves and enjoy the simple life.”

“I suppose that is why you are kind in nature,” Lysono remarked, “Those blessed with simple life have little to grow bitter over, I suppose. I have not met many who had such a blessed life.”

“Perhaps you are right,” the man nodded, “And certainly wise beyond your tender years to conclude such things.”

“I take it then,” Lysono lowered his mirthful voice, “Griff the Stormlander is used to live in rain and storms and always being soaked through his clothing by heavy rainfall, and that is why he is so prickly with all of us. The storms made him prickly.”

The man laughed once more. “I have never seen his lands,” he explained, “But if I remember my studies well, his home overlooks Shipbreaker Bay, it is built on the rocks above it. So he probably has seen many storms and many ships sunk by such storms.”

Lysono nodded, “And the lady?” he asked, “She seems to be… fierce, that is the word. Not like how I would imagine a westerosi lady, she speaks too much for that. She must come from a land of hardship as well, that taught her to speak her mind.”

“Dorne,” the man nodded, “Lot of sunshine, hot air and lot of sand with little water.”

Lysono nodded once more, taking in the information. The lady was Dornish, now he knew. “That explains it,” he smiled, “The lady has a bright smile like sunshine. Lot of sunshine, you say, that explains why she smiles so bright.”

Chapter Text

GORYS EDORYEN

“He’s quite good,” the Lyseni sat down in the grass next to him, his eyes on the two men sparring. One of them was the leader of their small travel company, Griff. The other was the stableboy. Except he was no stableboy, and in truth he was no boy anymore either. “I gave up on correcting old Ser Willem,” the man named Rolly laughed when Gorys mentioned the misunderstanding to him. He’s heard from Tristan Rivers, who’s heard it from Lord Howland, who probably heard it from Griff or the man himself… It was a source of mirth to everyone that Ser Willem Darry described this mountain of a man as a stableboy. In truth, Rolly spent most his life in the smithy of Dragonstone, and before it, in Bitterbridge, for his father was the blacksmith there, it was said.

“You could enlist in the Company,” Gorys told the man when they first stopped for the night and good-natured Rolly happened to sit beside him for their modest supper. They naturally began to converse, Rolly’s laughter was light-hearted and his nature forthcoming, and Gorys quickly grew to like the man who was about the same age as Griff as much as Gorys could tell.

“Not sure what they could do with me,” Rolly shrugged, “I am no knight.”

“There are more than the knights,” Gorys countered, “It is a mighty undertaking of ten thousand men. It needs messengers and cooks and stableboys and smiths even, as much as it needs lances and archers and squires and yes, knights too. But only five hundred are the knights.”

“That is the problem,” Rolly explained, “I would not want to be a travelling smith, even less so a travelling stableboy. We made it to Essos, who would have thought so? Why make it here if we do all the same as if we were there?”

“You made your point,” Gorys nodded. “I can understand wanting to make your own way.”

“It is so, you see,” Rolly explained, “My father always told me, once you became a man you take over the smithy. I never wanted to take over the smithy.”

“That was… Bitterbridge?”

“You know where that is?”

“Not really,” Gorys laughed, “Heard the name. But you came from Dragonstone, the Targaryen Island.”

“Not anymore,” Rolly sighed. “Whatever they say about them dragons, it was a good life there. The prince was a kind man, never thought he would kidnap and rape a girl.”

“Griff knew him,” Gorys whispered.

“Oh I know,” Rolly’s laughter carried no sign of the gravity of the topic. “I remember him on Dragonstone, he came to visit time to time. Hard to forget, the princess used to be in the foulest of moods whenever he was around. Dalla used to wish for his leaving the soonest. He used to look different though. He used to look like a pampered lord, used to behave like it as well.”

“He can be quite prickly sometimes,” Gorys agreed, “But he means well.” In truth, Griff was pricklier these past days than he’s ever seen him to be, but he didn’t feel like sharing that. If you can’t speak nicely of people, do not discourse them, mother used to say. Do not gossip maliciously. “How did you end up on Dragonstone then?”

“For Dalla,” Rolly shrugged, “It was at the tourney the stag held. Storms End, that is the name of the place where it was. It was damn raining every day; the melee was a mud bath. Lord Connington was there as well, saw him being unhorsed by Ser Barristan Selmy. He unhorsed Prince Rhaegar too, and the prince unhorsed Ser Arthur Dayne after breaking twelve lances! It was a sight, that match. I was travelling and thought I enlist in the melee to make some gold... Dalla was there, and I saw her… you can imagine the rest. My days as a man of my own were over.”

“I start to envy Westerosi,” Gorys sighed, “For your love stories.”

“There is good in love and there is bad,” Rolly shrugged it off. “Never loved anyone before?”

“I think not,” Gorys smiled.

“You are young yet, I can see,” Rolly nodded, “Besides, it is not all rosy, I said as much just now. Sometimes you wish you never had it. Women can be quite… complicated.”

“And you have no children of your own?”

“Had one,” Rolly whispered, “Mention nothing of it to Dalla. The pox took the babe, took her mother as well, around the time the little princess was born. That is how she became the wetnurse for them dragons, and now we are here. Something for something, I suppose.”

“I still think that you could enlist in the company,” Gorys remarked. “This is not Westeros, there are no castles. You need to make the gold another way, there is no serving lords like there is in Westeros. You could make good gold in the company.”

“By being a smith?” Rolly laughed, “Then what is the difference in being a smith in whatever town we are going, or being a travelling smith? Then it is better to stay in one place, with Dalla.” That made much sense, if put this way, Gorys had to admit.

“Do you know how to use a sword?”

“What kind of question is that,” Rolly laughed aloud once more. “I am a smith, sort of. My father used to say, no smith can make a good sword if he knows not how to use one. He even made me a longsword… but that is another story.”

“Griff is a knight,” Gorys explained, “And a damn good swordsman. You can train with him. Then see once we arrived if you can make the list.”

“How?”

“How to train with Griff?” Gorys raised an eyebrow, “Just ask him. He will train the boys anyway, that is his charge.”

“How to make the list,” Rolly whispered, “If I enlist, I want to be a knight. I always wanted to be a knight.”

“Train with Griff,” Gorys smiled, recognising the wistful look in the man’s eyes. “He has his ways. If you impress him, that is a good way to make it. Duncan impressed him, and he recommended Duncan to Blackheart.”

“Duncan?”

“Denys’ brother,” Gorys explained, “They squire for Blackheart now.”

“Blackheart.”

“The leader of the Golden Company,” Gorys explained further.

“That is a fine thing,” Rolly nodded, “but I mean not to be a squire even for the leader of the Golden Company. I am too old to be a squire methinks, I want to be a knight.”

“Well,” Gorys grinned, “I said so, train with Griff.”

So it was that now Gorys watched Rolly sparring with Griff. Lysono was right, the man was good indeed. Gorys glanced aside, at the Lyseni watching the sparring intently, and then glanced aside again, and then again. He wanted to make conversation, wondering how to go about it for this was the first time the boy didn’t look at him as if he wanted to test the sharpness of the dagger in his boot by slicing off a piece of him. He found, he really wanted to make conversation and the more he felt like he wanted it the less he could figure how to go about it, all the while the boy seemed immersed in watching the training session as he should be. Malo arrived and dumped himself on the boy’s other side, handing sausages, cheese and bread to the boy, who handed half of it to Gorys without a word. Supper. Denys Strong arrived as well with his own pieces of sausage and cheese and bread. Gorys knew, his chance to privately converse with the Lyseni was gone, he sighed at the realisation.

“How did he do that,” Malo wondered aloud just then at a move by Rolly that almost got Griff. “What I would do if I could do that…”

“You would be no squire,” Denys remarked.

“Well, sooner or later I would prefer to be knighted,” Malo shrugged, “Not that it will come soon. Swordplay is really hard to learn.”

“Should start with a dagger,” Lysono shrugged. “Learn to use that, then the sword is easier I find.”

“Says one who can use a sword,” Malo scoffed, “And a dagger.”

“Was born with neither,” Lysono countered.

“How did you learn?” Denys leaned forward to look at Lysono as he asked.

“I used to go down to the beach,” the boy explained, “practice there by myself the moves I saw men do on the squares and such. And I used to practice on trees and fence posts and whatever else I found that I could imagine up a foe. Practiced so much when it came to know what to do, I thought nothing about it, it just came. I think that is the key to it, practice so many times that you need not think on your next move. Then you begin thinking steps ahead. I think that is what Griff does.”

“That is what he said,” Malo laughed, “When I asked him, he said to learn the basics, learn to read your opponent, then the key is to learn to think ahead. All the fine moves come after.”

“Because when you can think ahead,” Griff spoke as he neared, “You can think of how to make the best moves, how to do the most with the least effort.”

“Where does the speed come from,” Rolly asked, watching as Malo handed Griff a flask. Gorys handed the man his own flask, realising the man had no squire to attend him after a long training session. Rolly nodded gratefully. “You are faster than anyone I sparred with. My lord.”

“Anyone?” Griff raised an eyebrow. “I remember you on Dragonstone, you are not one to forget easily. I saw you spar with prince Rhaegar.”

“And you are faster,” Rolly grinned.

“Doubtful,” Griff shrugged, “I rarely defeated him and I had lost more times than I could count.”

Because you didn’t want to defeat him. Gorys watched as Rolly thought of an answer, hopefully kinder than his own thoughts.

“Are we done,” the man asked instead.

“Thought you had enough,” Griff laughed.

“I can take a couple more landings on my arse,” Rolly shrugged, “If it takes a hundred times of my landing on my arse to get knighted, so be it. Even if it takes a thousand.”

“You really want to be a knight then,” Griff remarked with a grin. “How did you learn the use of a sword? Not from my silver prince that is for sure. You waste too many moves for that and you do none of his turns.”

Gorys chuckled to himself listening. Even after being wed, Griff still referred to Rhaegar Targaryen as his silver prince. Some things never change, it is true.

“Long story,” Rolly remarked unusually solemnly for how mirthful he’s been during the short time that Gorys has known the man.

“Share nothing of it,” Griff rolled his eyes, “We only have all the time in the world to waste.”

Denys chuckled aloud at the remark as Griff sat down in the grass, taking a piece of sausage and cheese from Malo. Gorys wondered about it, how Malo already mastered the skill of thinking ahead, he seemed to know exactly what his charge would want next. Rolly raised an eyebrow watching them as he stood beside them still.

“Denys,” Gorys leaned toward the boy, “Run and bring Rolly his share of supper.”

“But no story before I return,” Denys remarked as he stood.

“What are your stories,” Rolly asked as he sat down in their makeshift circle as well, watching the boy run away toward their bags, where the two servants were busy packing. Near them, the two women were just as busy tending the two babes. The crannogmen were no doubt on their walk nearby, they seemed to prefer a lot of walking, a lot of exercise and none of the swordplay. No, they carried tridents on their backs.

“Not much,” Gorys took on himself to answer, to start the conversation. In truth he thought, no, he hoped that the Lyseni will also answer after him and so he would maybe learn more about the boy who occupied a fair share of his thoughts lately. “I am of eighteen years. My father was a teacher, my mother a washerwoman, I grew up in Volantis. My father passed when I was thirteen, childbirth took my mother long before it. I could not keep the room we had on my own so I packed up and walked with a few boys north to the camp of the Company. I enlisted as squire, trained an awful lot, counted even more for Blackheart knew of my education by my father. Got named his squire, then I got named assistant to the paymaster. Soon I shall have my fourth bangle in the company.”

“You a knight?” Rolly asked.

“I am,” Gorys nodded. “Though I think little of my own skills with the sword, to speak the truth of it. But Blackheart tested me, when I bested him after hours and countless landing on my arse, he knighted me. There is little else to it.”

“You?” Rolly turned toward the Lyseni next to Gorys, just as Gorys hoped.

“There is even less to me than to Gorys,” the boy shrugged. Gorys glanced at Griff, who intently watched the boy. So it was, Griff was still suspicious of the boy, he thought. He could neither understand, nor agree with Griff’s suspicions, he found as he listened to the boy. “I am fourteen and I am from Lys, as you can tell by my looks. That is all. Orphan like Gorys, was little when my mother passed. I enlisted with a few others off Myr a short while back and I am definitely not a knight.”

“Not yet,” Malo remarked, “He will be soon, if you ask me. He’s good, he could beat you with a sword I wager.”

“We could test that,” Rolly’s eyes lit up.

“Aye,” Griff nodded, “I want to see that. Only swords, no daggers.”

“You take the fun out of it,” the Lyseni scoffed.

“You will never learn to rely on your sword otherwise,” Griff countered, just as Denys arrived.

“Tell me that you are yet to share your story,” the boy declared as he handed Rolly his supper.

“What is your story, little one,” Rolly asked him instead.

“I am not as little as you think,” Denys growled, causing Griff to chuckle. “I am of Lysono’s age! Cannot help it that my father was a short man, now can I?”

At that they all laughed.

“I mean it,” Rolly said as he calmed, “What are boys like you doing in the Golden Company?”

“Same as the other boys,” Denys began to explain, “And even more so, for my father was a knight of the Company. Fell in a skirmish a few years back, I still remember when Blackheart came to our lot to tell my mother. Mind you, mother liked it not that we enlisted, but Duncan always wanted to be a knight of the Company like father. Duncan is my brother; he is the same age as Gorys.”

“He used to come by the yard, Duncan,” Griff nodded, “Only came near when nobody was around and he used to practice by himself. It took him weeks to muster his will and ask me to spar with him, he used to sit and watch from afar. Now they squire for Blackheart, both Duncan and Denys.”

“Not now, though,” Denys remarked, “Now I am nobody’s squire, I wager. And who would have thought, there is still the same of washing shirts and peeling potatoes as if I was.”

At that they laughed again, all of them, even Rolly who could probably understand very little of the point Denys just made. Gorys wondered about how Denys seemed to open up. Blackheart was right once more – Denys began to find his voice and it took him very little time to do so.

“At the least you wash none of the soiled linens,” Rolly remarked, “Two babes make an awful lot of soiled linens.”

“Malo is Griff’s squire,” Denys countered, “If anyone then he is first in line to wash them soiled linens.”

“I think not,” Malo frowned, “Griff, tell me you mean not to make me…”

“Oh, I think it a wonderful idea,” Griff laughed, “Any of you little shits fall out of line, you wash baby shit and piss out of linens for the rest of the journey. Wonderful idea, I am certain that Dalla could use some help so…”

Rolly’s laugh roared. “Boys, I truly hope you fall out of line,” he said amidst his laughter.

“Now,” Griff turned toward Rolly, “tell us your story. I would never knight a man I know nothing about, no one would.”

Rolly’s eyes narrowed, albeit wistfully. “So be it,” he sighed. “It was on my sixteenth nameday. You see, my father was blacksmith to Lord Caswell in Bitterbridge, you may have known that already. He used to say, no smith can make a good sword if he knows not how to use one. So I trained, for I wanted to be a knight since I can remember much like the brother of the little one here. I must have some skill for I could enlist in the garrison by the end of it, but then it was my sixteenth nameday.”

“I always resented that coward Lorent Caswell,” Rolly’s voice hardened as he told he tale, “The coward he was, son of a lord and could show little more for it. But you see, he was an only son, coward whinging weakling that he was and hateful to top it, but nobody was to speak of it. He became a squire then his father knighted him for nothing, and he was nothing that knights are to be made of. Then came my sixteenth nameday and I was already a big one for I spent my time in the smithy when not in training since I can remember and my father was no short man either. He made me a longsword for my sixteenth nameday.”

“It was a beautiful sword, it truly was. My father told me, now you are a man grown, it is only well that you own a proper sword. Then Lorent that snake saw it on my waist, and you see, he was what he was, he wanted whatever he wanted and nobody was to say a word against it. He wanted my sword. He told me that I was only fit to wield a hammer, not a sword. His cronies took my sword.”

“So, I went and fetched a hammer, for he said I am to wield a hammer, you see. I showed him what I can do with a hammer against my own sword if wielded by someone who knows nothing about what to do with it,” He almost spit the last of the words as he spoke, “Broke both his arms, half his ribs, pierced a lung I am sure, as well. That is the story. I had to leave Bitterbridge after that, it broke my father’s heart I could tell but he sent me off with what little coin he had. I travelled wondering where to go to escape Lord Caswell, took up some work here and there, partook in the melee in the tourney I told you about,” he glanced at Gorys, “met my Dalla there and I ended up on Dragonstone with her. Then we came to Essos for Dalla is wetnurse to them babes as you all know. Now you know the rest of it, as well.”

Griff stood. “Westeros is full of shit lords like that,” he said bitterly, “For I am sure that Lorent Caswell is a lord by now just as well as Robert is king, the whoring drunkard that he is. At least your curse of a lord cannot be a knight now that you broke both his arms, cripples are forbidden. Mine became a king instead. Come,” he patted on Rolly’s shoulder, who swiftly handed to Gorys the remaining of his food and stood.

“You mean to continue?” he asked Griff.

“No,” Griff remarked sternly, “I mean to see what you can really do. Defeat me, and you may earn those spurs. I need a knight of my own, let us see if you are the man.”

Gorys’ eyes grew wide. He glanced aside, all the boys looked stunned at Griff. True, Rolly was good, but was he that good? Would Griff truly knight him if he was?

Rolly seemed in disbelief of it as well for a moment, but he clearly was not to let such a chance pass. In no time he was following Griff, sword once more in hand.

“I think he will do it,” Malo remarked as they watched the match. It was no sparring, for sure. Griff was fast like lightning this time, it really showed how he slowed his moves when he was training them for now he seemed unstoppable. But Rolly took it and gave as much back as well. True, he was slower, far slower than Griff. But it was just as clear that he was stronger. Some of his clashes near shook Griff who in time began to struggle to defend against the sheer strength of the man.

“Speed against strength,” Gorys remarked aloud at one such occasion. Griff took a moment to hold as their swords clashed, his face betraying the need for muscle strength to do so before he swirled out and countered, causing in the end that Rolly landed on his backside once more. He was up in no time and attacked again, giving Griff no breather to recover.

“He will tire Griff,” Lysono chuckled.

“I think so, too,” Gorys nodded, “And Griff is by no means a weakling. Saw him toss grain sacks around as if they were feathers when we were preparing for the march north.”

“There is always a stronger one,” Lysono remarked, “Or a faster one, even. Nobody is invincible.”

“Blackheart is,” Denys countered, “I am sure Blackheart is stronger than Rolly.”

“Perhaps we will find out,” Gorys nodded, “Once we arrive, I told Rolly to see Blackheart about enlisting. Though he may need no knighting anymore by then.”

“I cannot wait to grow up,” Denys sighed, “I doubt to ever be as fast, but if I can be as strong as Griff then maybe I can defeat someone and earn my spurs.”

“Or even as Gorys,” Malo chuckled, “After all, he defeated Blackheart, as well and earned his spurs. Forgive me to say Gorys, but Griff is clearly stronger than you are.” Gorys nodded. There was nothing to it for it was true as well, and he knew it. He wasn’t a weakling by any means, years of loading ships made him build muscle, but lately he rarely did such things. He even recalled himself thinking that he also should help with the loading up at times, maintain the muscle strength before it ebbs away.

“I doubt Blackheart to be as invincible as you all make him out to be,” Lysono shrugged.

“I doubt you to know,” Denys countered.

“I doubt you to know half as much as I do,” Lysono shot a curiously bitter look toward Denys, “I have eyes, I see far more than you do.” With that, he killed all conversation between them for good. Gorys wondered at the boy’s foul mood albeit he wrote off his animosity toward the captain-general the same way as his animosity toward himself – the boy struggled to accept the help he’s been given when those two men harmed him. As he wondered about it and in truth wondered about the boy sitting next to him once more, they all sat silently and watched the duel.

It took hours. No matter how it showed relatively early on that Rolly’s strength outweighed Griff’s, Griff was still a far superior swordsman. He gave no respite either, he made the man work for whatever reward he had in mind, for Gorys began to wonder about Griff’s words. He needed a knight of his own, Griff said, and Gorys took his time but understood in the end what Griff meant by those words. Once he understood, it seemed so obvious that he wondered why he himself didn’t see the opportunity when he spoke to the man the day before. The man’s wife was to be employed and housed by Griff, and so the man didn’t really need to enlist in the company after all, for there was an opening in Griff’s newly forming household for a man just like him, and even more so like him for he had more reason than the gold he would earn to do well in the job, he had his wife there as well. Just as he said he could also stay in one place – in Griff’s employment, for Griff needed a man to look after the safety of the household and protect the women when he was not around. Laswell Peake employed two of the old knights for the same reason in fact, two who served in the company for long, so long that they even served with Laswell’s father. They were close to Florys Peake, Gorys heard of the tale a few times. That is how Laswell knew of them and they now lived in his house and worked for the Peakes after spending the prime of their lives serving in the Company and surviving it. Griff needed someone like that, and he had no friends here of his father to make his choice easy, but the role came with need for trust. Gorys saw it clearly from Griff’s perspective. The man, Rolly wanted to be knighted, to be recognised, and his wife was to be in Griff’s employment anyways so it was obvious for Griff to see if the man was the man, as he’s put it.

Just then, it happened. After hours of fighting, which was by now watched by all of them, the crannogmen as well as the ladies settled nearby with the sleeping babes, and even the two servants – slaves, in truth – of the innkeep who were also guarding the horses now having finished with their packing up for the night. Marq Mandrake stood nearby as well, telling Gorys that the guard already changed to Tristan, soon they were to settle to rest. True enough, the sun was slowly making its way down considering the lack of brightness no matter how Gorys lost track of time watching the match – or wondering about other things. But then it happened. Griff defended a blow, clearly not without struggle, and the man, Rolly must have realised thus for he simply moved and attacked again and again as swiftly as he could. The third time, as Griff raised his sword to meet Rolly’s, he was slower, he didn’t move his body enough to meet him at the right angle and when their swords clashed, Griff’s back leg that was meant to support his weight during the blow, instead slipped on the ground. The result was that Griff fell on his knees half-losing his balance and his sword slipped, causing him to near lose an ear if Rolly wasn’t as fast as he was to drop the sword instead. Gorys could even hear a small cry, the Lady Ashara made the sound no doubt suddenly terrified at the sight. All in all, it was the same result no matter how it came about, Griff knelt in front of the man who defeated him, if only for a few moments for Rolly reached out a hand and helped him up. They both looked absolutely exhausted, Gorys could see.

Griff said something and picked up his sword. Rolly stood stunned, watching.

“Go on,” Griff called out to him. Rolly picked up his own sword, his eyes on his beloved. Then he went down on one knee, and laid his sword in front of himself on the ground.

“By the Gods,” Denys remarked stunned, “I never saw a knighting before!”

“You follow the Seven?” Griff asked Rolly then, who nodded.

“There goes my knighting,” Lysono remarked, “I care little for the faith of the Seven.”

“Neither do I,” Gorys smiled at the boy reassuringly, “Still I was dubbed a knight. It is possible if you earn it, it is just different words spoken.”

“We only met this man,” Malo remarked, “And he already earned it.”

True enough, Griff raised his sword, rested its tip on the right shoulder of the kneeling Rolly. When he spoke, his voice roared loud and clear, “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.”

His sword moved to Rolly’s other shoulder, “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.”

Then he raised his sword again resting on Rolly’s right shoulder, “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young, the helpless and the innocent.”

His sword moved again, “In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women.”

“I honestly think that there is too much charging,” Lysono remarked as they watched the ceremony, “You cannot do all these things and live.”

“What do you mean by that?” Malo asked.

“Think on it next time you find a girl for yourself,” Lysono grinned, “While you go at her, will you be protecting her in the name of your Maid?”

“Well,” Malo began to protest, but then he said nothing. He seemed to think about it, though. Gorys thought, there was some truth to what Lysono said. A lot of truth in fact.

“In the name of the Smith, I charge you to uphold order and obey your captains, lords and TRUE king.

“In the name of the Crone, I charge you to guide those without faith in the Light of the Seven.

“In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to honour your knightly oath until an honourable death however humble or dangerous your task may be.”

“Arise… what’s your name again?” Griff asked then and Lysono chuckled aloud. Gorys also had to laugh at the sight of Rolly panicking, looking around.

“Duckfield,” the man was notably hesitant in his answer.

“Arise, Ser Rolly Duckfield,” Griff declared, “A knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” Marq Mandrake began clapping and they all joined in. Denys seemed to Gorys as if he’s going to jump out of his own skin from his excitement at what they have witnessed.

“One more thing,” Rolly said then, without moving from the ground. “I mean to ask… I mean, Dalla is to stay in your employment, is that so?”

Griff turned back toward the now Ser Rolly, “It is so,” he said, “Hopefully she will like it enough to remain so. Hopefully we will all like it enough to settle, once we arrive.”

“Well, then,” Rolly declared, “There is this one more thing.”

“What thing?” Griff asked curiously.

“I offer my services, Lord Connington,” Rolly declared instead of an explanation, still on his knees. Griff raised an eyebrow. Gorys only thought, how this all was working out perfectly for Griff, for he knew from these few words, an oath was forthcoming.

“I will shield your back and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if needs be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

“This is funny,” Lysono remarked, “Griff just charged him to guide us in the light of the Seven, and he swears by the Old Gods.”

“And the New,” Gorys added, Lysono’s sarcastic take on the proceedings slowly growing on him with all its annoyance. “The New are the Seven.”

“You are wrong,” Lysono countered, “They are not Seven. There is only one deity, with seven faces. Even I know that.” Gorys rolled his eyes. He knew it, as well for Blackheart had that woman in his house who told him a lot about the faith of the Seven, after Blackheart told him that was the faith of knights in the Company and so he grew curious. Not curious enough to honestly follow the Light of the Seven though and he never pretended otherwise. They were still called the Seven and yes, men often portrayed them as seven different deities for men had a need to portray deities in a way to themselves that, as the woman told him, was in their own liking so they could convince others easier to associate and to believe. Thus it was that they graced their septs with seven altars overlooked by seven statues instead of one figure with seven heads or faces. Besides, each of the Seven had their roles. Sailors prayed to the Smith not just the smiths, maids prayed for a suitable husband to the Maid and whomever prayed for mercy did beg the Mother for it like soldiers offered vigils to the Warrior before battle just as before their knighting. Gorys felt the need to protest but then let the insult slide instead, finding himself unwilling to launch an argument against the boy, a voice in him still protesting, reminding him not to let the boy grow on him this way at the expense of his own honour. He wondered if there was an insult or if he only imagined it, because it was the boy who spoke it. He wondered why he wondered about it at all. The boy had the ability to turn him into a mess.

Griff looked at his wife sitting beside Rolly’s, and Gorys saw the Lady Ashara nod with a smile on her face like Gorys saw only her to give, warm and honest and reassuring. Once more Gorys thought Griff to be a lucky man to have such a wife. Only after her approval did Griff turn back toward the kneeling knight. “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise Ser.”

Then Rolly finally stood, sheathing his sword.

“Did he swear his service to Griff for his life then?” Malo asked.

“I think Griff can release him from his vow,” Gorys answered, “Honestly, I am not certain. Knights swear no service like that in the Company, this is the oath knights swear to their liege lord in Westeros from what I know. But there are knights who serve for occasions only, like a war or similar and then they move on to serve another lord. They are called hedge knights in Westeros.”

“Funny name,” Denys remarked.

“They are called that for they are poor,” Gorys explained, “They own no lands and they offer their services for coin, and they are said to sleep under hedgerows when they journey from place to place to find employment.”

“He means to say,” Lysono added his own take on it, “That they are the sellswords of Westeros. But Westerosi are either too posh or too cynical to call them thus.”

“I think you are too cynical,” Malo remarked.

“I am not,” Lysono argued, “I merely see things for what they are. Hedge knights who are called that for sleeping under hedgerows? I say they were named thus by men who were eager to point out that there are some who are less fortunate than them.”

“Lysono is right,” Gorys remarked to his own surprise before he even thought about it, “In that in Westeros they frown upon sellswords. They would not call their own that. Cannot speak of the other observation, though.”

“I can,” Lysono nodded, “And you can too, if you think of it. Just think, it is only the nature of men, always in need to feel more than the one next to us, it is in the nature of all of us.”

“I definitely would not want to be prettier than you,” Denys laughed. “And thus it is not in my nature.”

“I bet you want to be better than me with a sword, though,” Lysono argued, “Is it not so?”

Denys looked at him wide eyed.

“Thought so,” Lysono nodded, “So you see, I was right. It is nothing to be ashamed of, we all have it in us.”

“Who do you want to better?” Malo asked the boy.

Lysono wondered about it for a moment, “You know nothing about him,” he said lowly, “He is not of the Company and so it would mean nothing to you if I told you. One day…” he seemed to think for a moment, “One day I will best that one. Then I will cut his throat, and then it will be only me left. That is all there is to it.”

Just then, Rolly arrived at their circle, reaching out toward Gorys, for the remainder of his supper.

“That was a mighty match,” Malo nodded toward him, “Truly glorious to watch.”

“He is truly hard to beat,” Rolly said nodding gratefully for the praise, “Harder than even prince Rhaegar has been, now I am certain of it and I never defeated the prince in truth. But this was worth not to give up.”

“Ser Rolly,” Gorys nodded, “See, it took you no time.”

“Resolved both my problems at once, did he not,” Rolly grinned toward him. “Lord Connington sorted it all, and all it took was tiring him out on the yard. Not that it was easy. I would not want to fight that man for life.”

“And you should not,” Malo remarked, “You swore to serve Griff, not fight him.”

“Except,” Lysono added, “He is no Lord anymore.”

“Duckfield?” Gorys interrupted before Rolly could address this latest curious remark of Lysono’s.

“Well,” Rolly looked at him apologetically, “I have no family name. Knights need a family name.”

“Why Duckfield though,” Malo asked.

“Look around,” Rolly remarked with a slight grin as he stood. He left them to join his beloved, to rest by the side of the ladies and the babes as was his way. Malo looked around, Gorys did too. To the south of them on the field, there were ducks, he could barely see them as the sun was going down in earnest by now but there was also a boy running around them, herding them, no doubt to their shelter for the night.

“What I would give for a roasted duck breast,” Denys sighed.

“With potatoes, spiced with rosemary,” Malo nodded.

“Plum sauce,” Lysono laughed, “Duck is nothing without plum sauce. Or even better, serve it with cabbage.”

“Cabbage?” Malo asked shocked, “You just ruined it for me.”

“Have you ever tried,” Lysono grinned, “Cabbage properly cooked with apples and cinnamon, it is lovely. You should try, the sweetness of it is perfect with the meat. That, with spiced sweet potatoes, and a nice duck breast roast with crispy skin on the meat. Sounds perfect, now I am hungry again.”

Gorys wondered about it. Not because it sounded appetising, but because it sounded like something that would be served at a lord’s table. Or a magister’s, perhaps. Sauces made of plums and cabbage cooked with apples in cinnamon, and such. What that meant was that it sounded like food for the rich, and so Lysono’s description of this particular dish left Gorys wonder about the boy again, and even more so Griff’s misgivings about him.

He excused himself as he stood, and began walking around their small camp site at a distance. He needed to put his thoughts in order, separate the slight tinge of jealousy he felt at the notion of the boy from what he thought he’s learned, and separate that from the duel and the ceremony afterward which again, left the boy in a particularly sarcastic mood, one could say even argumentative, looking for things to criticise, ways to talk down others as Gorys never heard the boy before in truth. The boy was keen to find the flaws in the knighting ceremony that the boys all were striving for, instead of seeing the beauty and nobility in it. The boy didn’t even sound to have wanted it for himself, not at all, and if not so, then what was he doing squiring in the Golden Company? Was he doing it all only for the gold then? Or was he doing it for something else, and if so, what was it?

By the time Gorys reached sight of Tristan Rivers, standing guard toward the road just where they left it a few hours ago to take the ideal clearing between a few large stones hiding it from the road itself, he was convinced that Griff was right. He was just as certain that he had to give this all more thought, and he had to talk about it before his own thoughts would completely mess him up.

He knew, the boys including Lysono, and even Rivers and Marq Mandrake all thought that their sudden leaving of Pentos was due to Griff’s temper and him having had enough of sitting around locked inside the inn for days while awaiting word from Blackheart. Gorys thought so as well when they set out, for Griff told him nothing but to sort it, meaning sort what it took for them to get on the road within hours of Griff giving the order in his usual prickly lordly fashion, even supported by his Lady wife. It needed little sorting, the innkeeper overheard them and so when Gorys was to ask the man where to rent a few horses, the innkeep provided all he needed in reply. All for good gold Gorys knew, but Griff as the leader of the travel party has approved the expense and so it was all sorted swiftly.

It was only once they left Pentos that Gorys learned the truth of it.

“You think I lost it,” Griff told him then, “And you are visibly fuming, Gorys.”

“My apologies,” Gorys rolled his eyes.

“No, MY apologies,” Griff countered, “I could not share and I was agreed not to share for Ashara and Lord Howland and I agreed to keep it between us. But now I think that I should share with you. I saw how you look at the Lyseni boy.”

“Nothing of your concern,” Gorys said lowly, “I told you; I heed your advice. There is nothing to it.”

“Is that so?”

“What do you want me to say,” Gorys shrugged, “In any case, the boy is angry with me still for my telling to Blackheart and Brendel on what happened to him. He has avoided me since.”

“Just as well,” Griff remarked, “And if I am right, soon the boy will avoid you no longer. Which is why I must speak with you first.”

Gorys glanced aside at Griff wide eyed, best not formulating the thoughts that wanted to form in his mind.

“Not what you think,” Griff gave him a slight grin, “I mean to warn you. The boy is not who he presents himself to be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We set out in such haste because of him. When we alighted, the boy gave a signal to the beggar girl, rolled his gold coin between his fingers three times. Three days past, and the boy was seen climbing down the side of the inn at night, and leaving in haste. He was followed to a mansion in Pentos, and then he was followed back a short time after.”

“A mansion in Pentos?”

“Indeed,” Griff nodded, “Where the servant opened the gate for him right as he arrived. He had no need to ring the bell even, I was told.”

“I know not what to make of this,” Gorys sighed.

“Me neither,” Griff nodded, “Not yet, anyways. Just as I told Lord Howland when he told me of it, but one thing is certain, the boy is not just a simple orphan boy from Lys. The boy clearly was expected and welcomed at that mansion, Gorys. Lord Howland thought it to be the trick with the coin, it was the signal to tell when he shall arrive. It makes sense to me.”

“So what is he,” Gorys asked, “A thief, perhaps? Thieves know such tricks.”

“They do,” Griff nodded, “But in truth, I think the boy something else. I think he was a bedwarmer, I am sorry to say. In truth I thought that he simply went to visit his former master.”

“But the boy signed up outside Myr, not outside Pentos,” Gorys argued albeit he felt a certain futility in his own argument, or more like, defense of Lysono Maar. The Gods, whatever Gods knew why he felt such a strong need to defend the boy.

“I told you; I know not what to make of it, not just yet,” Griff said sternly. “But you ought to know, for I think the boy will try to seduce you once more.”

“Seduce me,” Gorys repeated bitterly.

“Yes, seduce you,” Griff declared to him. “See reason, Gorys. The boy came to you, you told me thus. The boy wanted something from you, no doubt. Just think on it, in Lys they breed their bedslaves to produce even more beautiful bedslaves and they train them in the art of seduction and pleasure… just look at that boy, and you can tell where he comes from and I am certain that you know of more reasons than that, you can compare. Lord Howland spoke to the boy at some length and he believes the boy has a sister somewhere and that is why he is in the Company now, perhaps to earn the gold and free her. But I think there is more to it, and if I am right, you will be his best chance for information for whatever he wants.”

“What could he want from me,” Gorys resolved himself to reason, “I have nothing to give. I even left the key to the war chest and the chequers with Blackheart, only brought the gold he said we may need and I can assure you that I guard that well.”

“I think it not gold that he wants,” Griff said kindly, “I think it information.”

“About what?”

“That, I am yet to figure out. Or better said, Lord Howland, for he will try to speak more to the boy, the boy seems to warm to him a little at least.”

“Perhaps the Lord is next on his list of people to seduce for information then,” Gorys shrugged bitterly.

“Doubtful,” Griff argued, “he said the boy made no attempts. Not that I think Lord Howland would see it coming if the boy tried. Something tells me the boy is more skilled than that. Or Lord Howland less experienced. Or both.”

“So, you say,” Gorys began to sum up, “He visited a mansion despite your order to stay put, and he did so after a thieving trick to signal to an orphan in the harbour when he shall visit.”

“And that is all I know,” Griff nodded, “Meaning, I still know nothing of his reason for enlisting in the Golden Company, and his relation to that mansion. But you see, we had to leave Pentos to remove the boy from the city where he seems to have such connections.”

“Why,” Gorys asked then angrily, “Why not just send him off?”

“Why do that,” Griff asked instead of an answer, “If you were fourteen again, would you find it fair to be dismissed from the Company for mere suspicions about you? I just think that there is more to that boy, that is no reason to dismiss him.”

“Perhaps you think so because he looks like a Targaryen and you want there to be more with him.”

“That was uncalled for,” Griff scoffed at Gorys, “Make of it what you want, I thought of you enough to warn you, and to trust you with what we know. Do not disrespect me in return.”

“The Lord speaks in you,” Gorys shrugged, “You are not MY LORD, my lord. I speak however I want; we are of the same rank as we ever were, you ought to remember it.”

True enough, for on the day that Griff was promoted, Gorys has been promoted too, with the difference being him not having to bother with a contingent of men once they arrived at Volon Therys, unlike Griff. No, he only had to worry about housing Griff’s lot in Blackheart’s house with Blackheart’s woman and the other woman who taught him of the Seven, while he had to speedily find suitable accommodation for them to settle, and have it prepared while he also found them the servants they needed to run such a household. Perhaps Griff has been luckier in truth, though at least Gorys’ own tasks had an end to them, or so he hoped.

Truly, he took their conversation as Griff being jealous of him having had the boy’s attentions before, he could compare as Griff put it. Now, Gorys thought that to be nothing more but childish overreaction, sign of his own jealousy and protectiveness over the boy who in truth showed absolutely no sign of feeling anything similar toward him at all. True, they had fun that one time and true enough it was the best he ever had and he could indeed compare. While they did what they did that one night together, they chattered of insignificances, of life in the company, funny stories. The boy told him about Lys and he told the boy about Volantis and that was all besides what they did with each other. Which to Gorys was quite an experience, he thought of it again. Now, as he thought about it, he knew, as hard as it was to admit, the experience was what seemed to bind him to the boy in ways he thought himself unable to be bound to any boy. No, he did not love, at least he didn’t think he did. But he felt bound to the boy, as if bound to protect him. If the boy has been using him, he went about it perfectly, Gorys thought bitterly. If the boy meant to use him then the boy was cruel, for doing what he did to Gorys and then doing what he’s been doing to him since, eluding him, ignoring him, giving him those angry looks. Making him feel miserable at times, he admitted to himself. He resolved himself to speak to Griff about it.

As he neared, he watched Griff with his Lady. He tried before to figure, to feed his own curiosity, what it could be like to be loved by someone so much that they would cross the Narrow Sea, pretend their own death just to be with you. Every time he thought about it, Gorys found it the most wonderful thing, something he could now tell that he yearned to have. Griff had it, even the newly knighted Ser Rolly Duckfield had it with Dalla who was wetnurse to Griff’s babes. Griff’s babe and the Targaryen babe, but they never spoke about her like that, those who knew were all sworn to silence about it, Gorys knew.

Griff and his Lady, they seemed to have something that Gorys could not describe to himself in one word, not even in one sentence. He could only describe the signs of it. Whenever Griff looked at the Lady there was a light in his pale blue eyes and they were less cold than their usual. It was a knowing look, perhaps a kind of admiration, certainly a kind of appreciation. He could see the same in the Lady’s eyes toward Griff and more, for the Lady often touched. Nothing that would draw the attention of someone who was not looking, but if one was watching them closely enough then one could see how she often touched her hand to his. How he tucked her hair behind her ear sometimes, and they both had a particularly soft tone toward each other. Whenever they spoke to each other, they lowered their voices, they spoke in half sentences as if the other knew their thoughts, and their voice took a softer tone. Gorys never heard Griff use the cold lordly tone with her that he used with everyone else, even when he was jesting or drunk.

Now as he neared them, Gorys could see her laying down, just getting ready to sleep. Griff pulled the blanket on her, Gorys took that another sign of care between them. They were speaking but Gorys could not understand, they were speaking in those low soft voices they used with each other. Not that much dissimilar to how the boy spoke to him that night, he thought bitterly, and that dragged him back to his earlier thoughts, just as Griff sitting beside the Lady looked up at him approaching. He said something and stood, and came to meet him halfway.

“You look like you bit into a lemon,” he remarked as Gorys reached him.

“Perhaps,” Gorys shrugged, “The boy, he spent some time in that mansion.”

“Hmmm,” Griff nodded, his arm motioning for them to walk away from the camp site. “So, the boy came to you, I take it,” he said kindly, though Gorys’ eager ears could now tell the difference from when he would speak to his Lady.

“He did not,” he protested more defensively than he intended, “At least I think not that he meant to, only that he sat next to me during the duel. We spoke very little.”

“Then how…”

“He described some kind of food,” Gorys explained, “It sounded rich, I recall him mentioning cinnamon? The man, Ser Rolly, he explained that he called himself Duckfield because he had no family name and he looked around and there were ducks on the field behind us… Denys spoke of roast duck and Lysono, he described a whole serving of sauces and whatnot. Rich food. He spent some time in that mansion to have known such things, I thought.”

“I see,” Griff nodded, “I would mind little if someone served me roast duck with cabbage and potatoes.”

“That is what it was,” Gorys interrupted, “The cabbage, with apples and cinnamon.”

“And ginger, that is how to make it,” Griff nodded, “My father’s cook used to prepare it that way. How funny that we discourse roast duck serving. So, the boy knows rich foods. Lord Howland tried to speak to him yesterday, you know? He said that the boy gave him the most curious look when he asked to be taught the trick with the coin. As if the boy knew that he’s been found out. I told Lord Howland to be more careful.”

“I still cannot believe him as dangerous as you make him to be,” Gorys sighed. “What if he is just a boy who was sold to that Pentoshi and somehow made his way out of it? What if he wants to make gold like anyone else who knows what to do with a sword, what is wrong with that? Perhaps he is even yet to buy himself out of the whole ordeal and he needs the gold to do thus. Perhaps his master was kind to him to let him go and he merely meant to pay back his kindness and visit to let the man know how he faired in the Company.”

“And you asked me why not just dismiss him,” Griff gave him an understanding smile and Gorys felt not just a bit like a fool. “Perhaps it is as you say, Gorys. Which is why we watch the boy until we know whether it is as you hope it to be, or it is something more sinister. Think of it as a game.”

“A game?”

“Yes, a game,” Griff chuckled, “Did you not think about it?”

“About what?”

“Why Blackheart sent Marq and Tristan Rivers, for one,” Griff shrugged, “As if he was here, Gorys. Make no mistake, whatever we say or do will be reported to Blackheart once we all arrive in Volon Therys. And he sent the boy with us.”

“You make no sense,” Gorys grunted, “Sure, Marq is watching, he is always watching. So is Tristan, just like when you sailed the Rhoyne before, Tristan will report how the journey really went. That is nothing new and nothing to hold against them, those are their orders and Blackheart is right to give them for he needs to know if something is amiss. But the boy? He was sent so Blackheart could sentence and hang the man who raped him, without shaming the boy.”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?” Gorys felt fuming, “I saw it, Griff, I saw where they did it. It was hard not to imagine how it happened, seeing the mess they made. I was the one who found him after and Blackheart told me as much, the man was to become an example without shaming the boy.”

“I hear you, Gorys,” Griff nodded clearly in defense of himself, “I just think that things are not as simple as you see them, that is all.”

“Perhaps because you think everyone sinister,” Gorys shrugged, “In any case, you may be right about the boy, who am I to say otherwise to you? Thought to tell you what I found out and so I did.”

With that, he left Griff standing there, making his way to his sleeping mat between that of Marq Mandrake and little Denys Strong, who just as he said earlier was in truth not so little, not at all younger than Lysono Maar. Gorys could not tell why he felt so angry. It wasn’t like Griff told him anything to be angry about, and still, he felt absolutely furious at the man, and in truth at almost everyone else as well.

Or perhaps it was something Griff said. Perhaps it was ‘perhaps’, that one word that sent Gorys’ mind into a frenzy of anger, for he could understand what Griff implied with the word. He found the idea disgusting. He found that he could not believe Blackheart ever would do that. How would Blackheart even know that the boy liked Redheads? Gorys only told it to Griff, when he confessed to Blackheart about what he did he left out the part where the boy asked after Griff and how he believed himself to be used because of that. Perhaps Griff told the captain-general, but Gorys could not even imagine Griff having a conversation where that would come up. Firstly, because he was hard to converse with by default, and secondly, because however prickly or annoying Griff could sometimes become, however he lacked trust and saw everyone evil like a demon, he was a truly honourable man who would not chatter about the private matters of others. But then Gorys had to conclude that Blackheart himself would have to be as sinister as to put the Valyrian looking boy in Griff’s way on this journey and after what happened to the boy, at least that is what Griff implied with that one word, ‘perhaps’ telling Gorys as much as Griff not believing the boy’s misfortune in the camp having much to do with his being part of their travel company. No, Gorys could not believe Blackheart to be as sinister as to use a young squire boy like that, or to try and interfere in Griff’s marriage like that. The notion of it made Gorys angrier the more he thought about it, and now he could tell why he felt so angry with Griff. Whatever Blackheart saw in the man, Gorys saw little of it, and if he allowed himself, he would have begun to question how Blackheart could trust such a bitter and downright paranoid man with the Targaryen babe.

As he pulled the blanket up to his neck on his curled-up self, Marq stood up and walked away, no doubt to relieve himself. Gorys wondered how long he’s been laying there fuming. On his other side, as he sat up, he could see Denys then Malo and then even Lysono sleeping soundly. He took his time watching but as much as he could see, the Lyseni was sleeping motionlessly, curled up under his blanket. People have their ways of sleeping; their preference and they just sleep that way without even knowing that they do. Denys would roll himself around his blanket, or the blanket around himself, many times until his limbs became one big entangled mess with it, his body covered by it very little. Malo slept as he used to when about two years ago Gorys shared tent with him for a short time, when Malo just signed up. He laid on his stomach, hugging the pillow under his head as he slept. And the Lyseni, he slept like he did in Gorys’ tent that night, curled up with his knees pulled close to himself, his head resting on an arm under his pillow. Holding the pillow and his other arm around his torso under the blanket, Gorys knew. They were all sleeping. Marq returned.

“Should be sleeping,” he whispered to Gorys, “you become a knight and forget how to sleep?”

“No,” Gorys argued as if it was worth arguing, “Just this journey, it is so… convoluted. Gives me a headache.”

“If I was responsible for the gold, it would also give me a headache,” Marq remarked. “Fucking lot of gold for escorting Griff’s lot if you ask me.”

“His gold,” Gorys shrugged it off, “Up to him what he spends it on, at the end of the day.”

“Take me not for a fool,” Marq chuckled, “You would not be stuck with us; by the gods even I would not be stuck with us if it was about him fucking away his gold on his woman and babes. No, it is the woman. Blackheart said her to be sister to Ser Arthur Dayne. What’s a woman like that doing with Griff is beyond me, but Blackheart seems to be smitten with her being a Dayne, would you not say so?”

“I would not know,” Gorys remarked as he laid back, “She came to Braavos for Griff, after all. She sent a missive to him; Blackheart got it as he gets all the missives and so he is involved. That is all I know. Besides, she must love him to cross the Narrow Sea just to be with him, would you not say so?”

“Who knows,” Marq shrugged, “I never loved a woman, and I count myself luckier for it. Do yourself a favour Gorys, never love. Love can break you down like nothing else can, I have seen it enough.”

Perhaps it is too late for that. The thought came before Gorys realised it, a shiver of panic running through him with that thought. He recalled the Lyseni curled up under his blanket, holding that damned pillow like… Best not to think about it.

“I disagree,” he said, perhaps more to himself, for he had to disagree, now that he thought what he thought. “I think love can be beautiful. I think love can heal people.”

“Heal people?” Marq raised an eyebrow, “You are a hopeless romantic, Gorys.”

“Perhaps,” Gorys said, the use of the word not lost on him, reminding him of the double meaning Griff used it for earlier. “But I think so, I think you are perhaps right and love can break people but then I think that if it broke them then it was not true love. It was not love that was returned as it should be and it was not love freely given as it should be. I think when two really love one another, that can heal them.”

“Do care to explain,” Marq grinned, “The fuck would it heal them from? The pox?”

“No, you fool,” Gorys rolled his eyes, “But I think that when you truly love someone you care for them as so you want the best for them, and for one who knows nothing of how it feels to be cared for, to have been mistreated, that can heal them. Heal their soul? Do you get my meaning?” He wondered if even he got his own meaning. He wondered if he spoke about the Lyseni when he spoke about how love can heal someone from their past hardships and the marks those left on them.

“You remind me of something Laswell told me once,” Marq said then, “Mind you, he was drunk out of his mind. He said that he wed because before it he never thought he would need anyone in his life, and then he met the girl and true enough he put the twins in her but then he realised, he ought to wed her because in truth he could not imagine his life without her.”

“See? Perhaps it is the same, what I mean,” Gorys argued, “Though I know Laswell grew up well cared for. His father was a well-respected serjeant.”

“Perhaps, as you say,” Marq nodded, before he leaned closer to Gorys and whispered, “Perhaps it is because they are black dragons, the Peakes. That’s the word in the Company. In any case, however he could not imagine his life without that girl, now he’s got a wife who does nothing but bicker with him. He needs a different woman if you ask me.”

“He’s wed to her,” Gorys remarked, “He cannot just change her to another.”

“And so, his watch began,” Marq chuckled, “For he either finds himself another or he remains celibate for the rest of his life. Same as our griffin lord.”

“What’s that to mean,” Gorys wondered aloud.

“He also gets none of the fun, if I am right,” Marq chuckled as he explained, “Though in his case I think the problem lies with him, not with the Lady Dayne. She seems to be willing enough.”

“They won’t get randy here in the grass beside all of us,” Gorys declared in disbelief, “After all they are castle-raised, they ought to be modest about it.”

“They had their room, did they not,” Marq argued his case, “Still I think they made no use of the privacy of it, either.”

“How would you know.”

“I fucked enough women to know,” Marq shrugged, “You are still young Gorys, and you have eyes for nobody but our pretty boy, and even if not, you still prefer the boys and never fancied a girl, I wager. You would know little about women. But I, I know a lot about women. Trust me, I can tell when one wants to get some.”

“You speak of Griff’s wife,” Gorys whispered in warning.

“Sad, that is,” Marq remarked, “Was she not, I would gladly help her predicament. Damn those eyes of hers! I tell you, never seen a woman with eyes like hers. She could wrap me around her fingers just by looking at me with those purple eyes of hers.”

“Again, you speak of Griff’s wife,” Gorys repeated. In truth, he wondered what point Marq was making, if any. He wasn’t one to lust over another man’s wife. Marq had his vices, his pride and his whoring like he said and even more so maids and he like, but not once did Gorys hear of anything dishonourable with another’s wife. True, the Lady was a beauty, but there were many beautiful women in the world and this one was not free. Marq was an honourable man who would not attempt seducing the wife of a knight in the company either or so Gorys believed, not that the man minded gossiping about others, it seemed. Which also was new, to be fair. Not that Gorys chatted much with Marq before. Never in truth has he heard Marq speaking about any woman before. You fool. He speaks to see if you agree. He’s watching, he's always watching. That is his order. He’s watching, and he wants to know what you know to see if you confirm his take on what he sees.

Well, thanks to this talk, now Gorys found himself even more upset. He felt like he’s been squeezed into what Griff called a ‘game’, everyone seemingly wanting something, everyone seemingly different than what they really were here for. But he knew that Marq has been watching, he told Griff as much. True enough, he knew of it, because he knew of some of Marq’s previous missions and some of Tristan’s as well in truth, and he knew some of Blackheart’s plans and he really made nothing of any of this until this evening. None of those plans were ever near as sinister as using a squire boy to sow strife between a man and his wife, and what reason could Blackheart even have to wish for such a thing? Griff’s been promoted, the captain-general went out of his way to help the man, Gorys’ own presence in their travel company was proof of that, just as Marq said. Gorys concluded for his own peace of mind that Griff surely got the wrong end of this, likely because he could not trust a soul and he thought the worst of everyone all the time, and in truth Blackheart was only assuring their safety. Likely because of the Targaryen baby girl they fostered, of which Marq of course knew nothing about. Likely Blackheart was most interested in how they cared for the girl and less so about how they cared for each other, that made far more sense to Gorys. He wondered if Griff could even find it in himself to trust his own lady wife.

“I think it beautiful,” he whispered to Marq. He will not join his game, he will not feed into it, he decided. “Think on it, they were separated because Griff became exiled, because he did something honourable. I think it was honourable, Blackheart said that Griff should have burned a whole town with all its people and he did no such thing, that is why he was exiled. They became separated and she came after him, so they could be together. Think of it this way, Marq. That is love, someone standing by you like that.”

“You are a hopeless romantic, indeed,” Marq chuckled.

“You point the finger,” Gorys shrugged, “While you are swooning over purple eyes the same as I do.”

“That part of it I understand at the least,” Marq grinned at him, “I was never one for boys like you and Griff are, but damn those eyes. The boy is pretty, I give you that.”

“There is nothing of what you imply,” Gorys declared, hoping that he sounded less defensive than he felt. “Me and the boy, there is nothing there, and I had girls before. I want the boy to make it in the company for he is smart and skilful and he deserves it. That is all.”

“Skilful, you say,” Marq repeated, “Is that why you look at him so wistfully, like a dog begging for a bone?”

“I doubt I look at anyone like that,” Gorys said in pretence nonchalance for the words cut deeper into his by now clearly aching self. Damn that boy sleeping three mats away from him, damn that night when the boy came to him. Damn him for going with what the boy wanted. Damn himself for wanting it, for he was wanting it again was he not? He let out a painful sigh. “In any case, even if I was interested, there cannot be anything out of it. The boy is in the Company, and so he is off limits.”

“If you say so,” Marq signalled his leaving the topic. “Now tell me what you think, does Griff have eyes for that boy? He likes them boys looking Valyrian after all.”

Gorys chuckled. Marq clearly didn’t get enough out of him, for asking him so outright in the end. “You know nothing of Griff, I take it,” he said, “He never touched anyone in the company. Why would he start now when his wife is finally by his side. Again, think about it.”

“Again, if you say so,” Marq shrugged it off, “Try to sleep, Gorys. We should reach the ruins on the morrow, you will have work to do, I wager.” With that, he turned his back to Gorys. The interrogation was over, Gorys thought. Sleep didn’t come to him easily, though. Time passed, Denys beside him untangled himself from his blanket in the middle of the night and stumbled away to relieve himself, no doubt more asleep than awake as he did so. He must have woken Lysono who then did the same, Gorys watched as he got up and after looking around, walked away, then watched as he came back, looked around once more before he laid back on his mat disappearing from Gorys’ line of sight. He wondered if the boy took his dagger with him on his way. Of course he did, here they slept all dressed up and at the ready, just like they would, were they on the march with the company. He had to become more careful, Gorys thought, people spoke of him as if they knew his thoughts, as if they knew more than he did about his own thoughts. No, he had to finally forget about this boy who made a damned mess of him, he had to admit to himself finally. It was simple, he told himself, as he watched the boy return. Wonder not if he looked your way, he reminded himself. The boy is of the company, he is off limits. It is as you told Marq, simple as that. He is off limits, and you ought to forget that you ever laid eyes – and hands – and more – on that boy before.

They reached the ruins of Ghoyan Drohe the next day just as Marq foretold Gorys that they would. He had work to do just the same as well, for it was damn hard to figure what to do once they reached the Little Rhoyne. Of course, the task sounded easy: hire a boat, sort supplies, set sail toward the south. Carrying out the task was not near as easy, Gorys stumbled on the first part of it even.

The problem was not the same as in Pentos for there were boats, multiple of them available for hire for they seemed suitable enough, all bound south to Valysar or Volon Therys for on a river like the Rhoyne there was nowhere else to go – Gorys even found a large and shiny red single-mast poleboat that was said to be bound for Volantis itself, it had beautiful carvings made of wood on its till, depicting what seemed like a naked woman and an octopus to Gorys as much as he could figure it, but he could see that the wood was well maintained and oiled, it didn’t turn grey at all. Besides, they didn’t need to go as far as Volantis, ideally they needed Volon Therys, but if Valysar that was of no issue either – albeit, Gorys would face the headache of finding horses once more if the company was slower than sailing down the Rhoyne. Which in truth was said to be slow by Tristan Rivers, who assured Gorys that the company would catch up with them. Gorys could not see how, albeit he wondered about how by now they surely reached Pentos, by now Blackheart would be sending a messenger to reach them at the inn. If he wasn’t even receiving the response by now that they left behind, advising the captain-general that they had to set out, for reasons to be explained later but nothing serious that needed his attention. At least Gorys hoped this to be the message that Griff left with the innkeep. The last thing he needed to make him feel like a complete failure was Blackheart’s ire thinking that Gorys failed to hold this venture together. As if he was the leader of it, which he most definitely was not.

There were more boats. There was one painted purple like the Lady’s eyes – or Lysono’s, and Gorys by now was tired and annoyed enough to want to curse aloud whenever he thought of the boy which seemed to be so often that his cursing would become one endless rant in no time. The purple boat was large enough, said to have six cabins, four could be hired. Four is enough for them all. The captain spoke in Tyroshi accent, a large man who said to sail the boat with two of his brothers, transporting spices down to Valysar, but he would be good to take them as far as Volon Therys if they could agree on the price of hire. Gorys thought the matter sorted, until he told of it to Griff. And because he was good at his job, he also told Griff of the two other offers he collected, a boat of the same size painted in bright yellow, or more like the colour of mustard seed than that of sunflowers; and another albeit smaller four cabin boat painted orange like the rising sun. The captain of it assured Gorys that they could make use of the four cabins, if they found the right price. Everything is possible, if one is willing to pay the right price… or negotiate it. At least Gorys knew how to negotiate, though by now he wasn’t sure about knowing anything at all.

That he remarked all their colours was exactly why Griff refused them all. He told Gorys to speak to the captain of the ugliest, oldest looking ramshackle single-masted poleboat there was in sight. No carvings on that one, no intricacy or bright colours, nothing that would have spoken to Gorys of transport ‘befitting the station’ of the Lady Ashara. It looked like dirt in the colour of brownish grey, and even that paint was peeling off it showing its greyed wood structure.

“That is the point,” Griff told him, “Think on it, Gorys. I would rather not declare who we transport, should we run into pirates. That one is perfect, less likely to be attacked.”

“If you say so,” Gorys shrugged, resolving himself to it without any argument, albeit he’s been fuming inside. No doubt Tristan and Marq Mandrake will tell all on his ‘success’ of boat-hiring to Blackheart, but Gorys didn’t find it in him to assert his own point. They had enough swords and even a pair of tridents should they be attacked. He just didn’t feel like arguing with Griff and so he made his way toward the boat anchored to the side further south from the rest.

The captain looked every bit a Rhoynar, but as soon as he opened his mouth, Gorys knew the man to be Westerosi, his accent gave him away. Something to mention to Griff when he presents whatever this captain had to offer.

“Are you to sail south,” he asked the man.

“That, we are,” the man nodded cheerfully, “We mean for Valysar once we sort supplies, should be a day or two. You need passage?”

“Indeed,” Gorys nodded.

“Is none of them fancy boats offering you suitable passage, then,” the man asked laughing.

“I mean to see all the options at our disposal,” Gorys countered, “I am not the one who makes decisions. My leader means to see what you offer added to the rest before he decides.”

“I see,” the man nodded, “Smart, that is, sending one to negotiate who makes no decisions. Well, you see the boat, young man. No fancy one, we prefer to not stand out, as you can see. But we have something they lack, for we have a far shallower draft then they do. Why is that important, I hear you ask?” No, I didn’t ask.

“The Little Rhoyne is littered with treacherous sandbars,” the man began to answer his own question, “all of them lot would have you zigzag around them, wasting days in the process while they try not to get stranded on one of those sandbars or worse. We can sail through just fine, straight through, if time is of the essence to you. Then we can raise the sail and with the current we can make good speed as well, which I am sure you understand can mean life or death on the upper Rhoyne. Have you sailed Mother Rhoyne before?”

“No, I have not,” Gorys admitted, wondering curiously at the explanation he’s heard, “My leader has, he sailed north to deal with some of the Pirates then back to Volon Therys.”

The man glanced on Gorys’ wrist at hearing his answer. “You of the Golden Company then, I take it,” he remarked with slight admiration in his eyes, “They oft camp under Volon Therys, I know that much. Not that I dealt with them before, we only bought the boat a few years back. But they are Westerosi, and so am I. Not that you sound Westerosi to my ears.”

“Wait until you hear my leader,” Gorys chuckled, “So how many cabins you have?”

“Four,” the man nodded, “But you can only take three. I would not have my beloved give up the cabin for all the gold in the world, sure you understand that. I see there are women with your lot, so you can understand.”

“Women and children,” Gorys nodded.

“And so, you understand why it matters to sail a boat that does not beg to be attacked on the river,” the man nodded, glancing behind Gorys at their awaiting group that seemed to settle into a makeshift picnic near the pier. “Or while you anchor at night, in your sleep, they would come and attack you then, a boat with rich carvings that shines in the moonlight with its bright colour, begging to be attacked. How many do you have? You seem to be a large group there.”

“Two of those will leave,” Gorys said, finding himself quite short in his negotiating skills against this man, “And the horses, they leave. We have six men, two women, five children of which two are small.” In truth they had seven men and four children for Malo Jayn was of age, but that didn’t bother Gorys just as it never bothered anyone else, not even Malo himself.

“Three cabins not enough for your lot then,” the man sighed, “Sad, that is. I became hopeful to sail with men from home, but it is what it is, the Shy Maid will not grow bigger for you either. Tell your captain then, we can talk about it, but not possible unless some of your men sleep on the roof the cabins, for I will not have my beloved give up the cabin, not even for Westerosi.”

Gorys nodded, “What of your price?”

“We can talk about the price,” the man shrugged, “Once we know whether there is something to talk about. No point discoursing now, is there? Go tell your captain, three cabins, tell your captain what I told you, and that Ysilla bakes the best biscuits in all the world each morning and bacon to go with them. Once we find stock of bacon in this mess, truly there used to be more stalls here, and less boats at once. Hard to find supplies when there is such demand.” With that he turned from Gorys and swiftly jumped onboard the boat, leaving Gorys to think on his words. How nonchalantly he chattered about supplies, none of the other captains discoursed such a matter with him. None of them avoided to name their price either, he thought, this one was truly above him in negotiating and he felt way too tired to do anything about it. Another Westerosi he had to deal with, this was.

He told Griff all about it, everything the man said, and then of the accent he had, as well. As soon as Griff spoke Gorys realised that the man had the same accent, and so he told him that as well. That made Griff want to meet the man, turning this negotiation to the worst indeed by taking Gorys’ best card out of his hand.

“You the captain,” Griff called out, and the man turned, his eyes lighting up in awe.

“A Stormlander!” he said, “Ysilla come! This man is from back home,” he said then he jumped off the boat once more onto the pier. “Wait… I know you,” he told Griff. “Yes, I know you. By the Gods, I know you from somewhere.”

Griff merely raised an eyebrow. He seemed clearly amused. A small woman appeared on the deck of the boat, looking even more Rhoynish than the man. “I thought you from Dorne,” Griff said, “Judging by your looks. Both of your looks.”

“Aye and nay,” the man laughed, “We are of Rhoynish blood, both of us, as much as a common man or maid could tell in the Greenwood where their mother and father came from before they made them. You are a lord; you speak as one. I will remember where I know you from,” he glanced at Griff’s wrist as he spoke, “And you not of the Golden Company either. A lord from the Stormlands, you are then.” He turned to the woman who just stopped beside him, her large black eyes settled on Griff.

“This here is my wife, Ysilla,” the man spoke, “We sail the boat together. She is called the Shy Maid for you see, she looks shy, not screaming aloud of her cargo like other boats… My name is Yandry.”

“Griff,” Griff nodded, “And I am of the Company, I…”

“By the Gods,” the man named Yandry interrupted with such excitement in his voice that he caused Gorys to laugh aloud, “I remember! Griff, like Griffin’s Roost? I saw you at the tourney my lord, at Storms End! Lord Connington, are you not? Of course you are, I heard about some of what has befallen you in this last war. Far as we are from the Stormlands but men speak everywhere and they tell the tales. And now here you are. Joined the Golden Company then, good for you, my lord.”

“That tourney seems to follow me,” Griff grinned, “I am who you name me, but as it is, the name is just Griff for I am not lord of anything anymore. You have three cabins, I hear.”

“That is the most I can offer,” Yandry nodded, “Ysilla and I share the fourth one and I will not have her sleep under the stars even for you, my… Griff. But now that I know who you are, tell me of your party and I speak to my wife and we give you an offer, as it is.”

Griff nodded with an eyebrow raised. Fair enough, Gorys thought, the man seemed honest enough not to mean to trick them. Excited enough to have met Griff here of all places. This was the first time that his name worked for Griff in this land, as much as Gorys could tell, and he could see that the man was just as surprised about it as the two Rhoynish were.

“Fine,” Griff said, “I tell you as it is. There are two knights of the Company with us, with two of my friends from the North, and my wife and children. There are three young boys, they squire for the Company and we meant for them to see the turtles in the Rhoyne. Then there is our wetnurse and a knight in my service. And Gorys here, and myself. There you have it, three cabins are not enough for us, even four are hard to sort but we can make do with four.”

“We could…” the woman began, but the man interrupted.

“We cannot,” he told the woman, “I will not. But it is springtime and dry weather. We can try and make do, let us talk about it for a moment or two.” With that he nodded to Griff and pulled the woman away.

“Interesting,” Gorys remarked to Griff.

“They will make a good offer,” Griff sighed as he whispered his reply to Gorys, “Probably the best. Sad that they have no space for all of us in the cabins.”

“You mean to leave behind…”

“I mean no such thing,” Griff told him sternly, “In any case who would we leave behind? We have need of everyone, and those we could do without we cannot leave behind. We cannot leave the boys, just as we cannot ask Lord Howland not to make the journey. Hard as it is, we need Marq and Tristan as we need you, and what is the point if we leave anyone else behind?”

“Then we cannot take the boat,” Gorys shrugged.

“Why not,” Griff asked, “It is as the man said, warm and dry spring weather. I mind it not sleeping on the roof, seems suitable enough with a mat.”

“You would do that,” Gorys asked surprised. “Thought you would prefer to stay with the Lady.”

Griff seemed just as surprised at his remark. “In any case, do you think the boat can take all of us if some take the roof?”

“The captain says so,” Gorys shrugged again. “I was raised by a teacher, not a sailor. I know little about boats besides having loaded an awful lot of them in my youth.”

“As if you were an old man past your prime, Gorys,” Griff laughed, just as the couple made their way back to them.

“So here it is, my Lord,” the man spoke, “We are bound for Valysar. Once we sorted supplies, that is, for I tell you, it is not good here today for supplies. Anyways, we take your lot if you can fit yourselves into the three cabins. And if you need, I am good to sleep on the deck myself but I will not have Ysilla sleep on the deck, but if you need for your women, she could share cabin with them, she says. There you have it, that is the offer.”

“And your price?” Gorys asked.

“There is none,” the man shrugged grinning, before he turned to Griff again, “You are a Lord from home, for we are from the Kingswood. Orphans, we left when all that mess began to get ugly, you know what I mean. We sold what we had, we bought the boat, and now we make a living sailing Mother Rhoyne. We sail there anyways, and so we take your lot for you are Lord of Griffin’s Roost, my Lord. In any case, they say it good to be friends of the Golden Company. Valysar, if that suits you. Once we sort the supplies, that is.”

Gorys was truly stunned. The man who he took as the worst to negotiate with has just offered to sail them for free, not trying to make profit out of their lot, and all this because the man realised who Griff was back in Westeros. What a strange turn of events, this was.

“We need to discuss,” Griff said then, “Because of the space. Let us see if we can figure this out, and we shall be back with you shortly.”

“Fair enough,” the man nodded. “For you have some figuring out to do with that many of you, it is true. Let us know what you came up with, then.” They left them, and so Griff turned and made his way back.

“I think not that we could do what they said,” Gorys heard the Lady, “Dalla and I could share with the woman but then she would have no sleep because of the children.”

Griff only nodded, his eyes on Tristan Rivers seemingly eager to speak. “I would gladly take the rooftop,” Rivers said.

“I do too,” Malo remarked, “If Griff allows, I mean.”

“Doubt it to be the question of what he allows,” the Lyseni boy chuckled, “But I would also take the rooftop. Methinks it will even better than those cabins. I want to hear what those people from Westeros do here.”

“Can I take the rooftop as well?” Denys asked. Griff laughed aloud.

“If Tristan takes the roof, so would I,” Marq Mandrake remarked, “After all he will be the one sleeping in sunlight, not I, I will only have to put up with the boys.” Griff nodded. Gorys knew, they needed one less cabin now, they only needed three in truth. He would find himself space to lay down his mat wherever, he wasn’t particularly mindful of it as long as he could safely guard the gold on him. Perhaps in the hold. That left one cabin needed for the crannogmen, one for Dalla and Ser Rolly, and one for Griff and his Lady. It was sorted.

“I wanted the rooftop,” Lord Howland remarked, “Seems all of it has been taken.”

“Seems we will soon need less than the cabins they have, and more of the roof than they have,” Griff laughed. “Gorys, go and tell them that we take their offer, then buy supplies. Buy their supplies as well, it is the least we can do, and then buy some more. Best to be certain.”

“If you find less than what we need like they say,” Rivers added, “Tell the man to plan a stop at Ny Sar, or down south in Selhorys depending on what you can find.”

“Selhorys would be good in any case,” Griff agreed, “It would be good to hear what news if any before we reach Valysar and the market was good enough if we would need supplies. Could even ride ahead from there if needs be.”

“Indeed,” Rivers nodded, “Though I remember the brothel of Selhorys far better than the market in truth. Forgive me,” he said toward Lady Ashara as he caught himself. The Lady just laughed at his rapidly blushing face.

“Nice to find some of our Westerosi honour here,” Marq remarked aloud then, “Of course it is the Westerosi who make no attempt to relieve us of our gold on a journey they would make anyway. Makes me fucking proud to be from Westeros for a change.”

Griff nodded once more to him and so Gorys turned and left them.

The man named Yandry was not surprised at all by his answer. Of course he wasn’t, he offered free passage after all. They shall pay in stories, he told Gorys, but Gorys made a point of sorting their supplies as well. Truth to it was that with such demand the prices were high. And so Gorys could do something for the Shy Maid after all, for he could buy up all the dried bacon in barrels, all the flour for the woman named Ysilla was adamant to get the flour, get all the eggs as well and she shall bake them biscuits every morn to go with that bacon. Gorys purchased sausages, mead and ale and fresh water, Ysilla also made him purchase barrels of potatoes and onions and carrots and the like, and dried meats. He also purchased some linens for towels, more for the modesty of the women, for he soon realised that they were all to bathe in the Rhoyne the coming days. After the days of riding, they all were in need of washing.

Griff sent the boys, and the four of them made a quick work of loading up the ship so much so that Yandry jested about hiring them boys for the time they served in the Company, for he could make good use of such help. He could teach them to sail, he grinned at Gorys. Little Denys seemed excited even at that. That boy was excited to sleep under the stars for the foreseeable time even, nothing could dampen his excitement.

By the time they finished, Griff and Tristan Rivers sorted the two servants who left with the horses and enough supplies to make it back to Pentos. There was nothing left to do but to set out on this last leg of the journey, though by now Gorys knew, there was one more headache to be had. He will have to sort a way from Valysar to Volon Therys, but considering the length of the journey they will make on this boat, that seemed in truth nothing compared. He finally felt like he was on the way home. He yearned for his own room in the town, and for the solitude it offered. He felt the need for it, to finally be able to calm his mind and perhaps even his heart.

Boarding could not have been more amicable, made thus by the women who quickly warmed to chatter among themselves, the captain’s wife immediately taken up with the babes, helping them to settle. In the end Griff and his lady took a cabin as Gorys expected, a smaller one for it had a larger bed in it. The large one had a smaller bunk bed in it, which seemed counter-productive to Gorys until he saw the cabin. It had a large desk, and shelves with potions and herbs and the like on them, behind makeshift wooden guards to keep the jars and glasses on the shelves. A captain has to make do, Yandry explained, they need to have what they need when they need it, the maps as much as the potions and herbs and so that was where they stored them for the shelves came with the boat. Now Yandry and Rivers quickly nailed two of large chests together that they found there, removed their lids, filled them with straw and atop of that wool and then filled them some more with some of the linen before they nailed them to the cabin wall near the bed. They were to be the cots, for the two little ones. Gorys had to admit, Yandry seemed as resourceful as he was accommodating. He seemed enjoying himself explaining things about sailing to the boys as well, with Denys showering him with questions while they worked.

It all took so little time and then they set sail to make use of what remained of the day, Yandry said. Gorys could immediately feel the boat move with the waves, his stomach quickly giving in to the motion. In no time he was retching off the back of the boat, Rivers standing on the roof laughing at his sight.

“You properly turned green,” Lysono remarked as he approached and offered a flask to him. “You will get used to it, may take a day or two though.”

“How reassuring,” Gorys rolled his eyes in his annoyance, but he took the flask. It was watered mead and for some reason it calmed his stomach somewhat, he wondered about that as he sat down with his legs hanging into the water. He was wondering if his stomach calmed because it was the Lyseni who gave him the refreshment, and not because he had some refreshment. He could smell food, Ysilla began to prepare supper for their lot, just as she promised. To his complete shock, Lysono sat down beside him after a moment.

“I mean to speak with you,” the boy said solemnly, keeping his voice low, “And it is no good time for it I know but it never will be, I wager. So I mean to speak and be done with it. And I mean to ask something of you. Two things.” So it was, Gorys thought to himself, just like Griff foretold. All he wanted, he could now really feel it crystal clearly, all he longed for was for this boy to want to speak to him, to want something of him. At the same time, it was the most bitter thing to wonder and not know whether the boy merely toyed with him, tried to seduce him to gain something from him, perhaps even to find out the secrets of others through him, like Griff believed it to be. He wanted to curse Griff aloud for putting such thoughts into his head, at the same time knowing that had he not known, he would only be falling prey to whatever game the boy was playing at, without even having any notion of doing so. For that, he had to be at least grateful to Griff, but now he only felt shattered all the more by it. No better way to crown such an awful two days, his mind tired after his lack of sleep, his stomach turning in synch with the waves that moved the boat ahead in the wind.

“Out with it then,” he sighed. He could see, the boy gave an understanding smile.

“Guess you know it anyways,” he said softly, not unlike how soft he spoke to Gorys that night. “Guess I could have been smarter about it. But you must believe me, I thought a lot about this. About the Company as well, I had a lot to think about.”

“The Company?” Gorys turned toward the boy surprised. “What is there to think about the Company? You have it good in the ranks. Blackheart clearly stood for you as well.”

“That, he did,” the boy sighed. “So did you. You were right about it, of course. I hate to admit it, you surely know that. But I am grateful.”

“I know,” Gorys remarked, “You hate to admit it, I know. You made that very clear.”

“I apologise,” Lysono said lowly, looking every bit sorry. Gorys almost believed that he meant it, he wanted to believe it. “It was quite uncalled for, how I behaved. You only helped me. You are a good man, Gorys Edoryen. I told as much to Lord Reed; you are a good man. Made me really want to see Volantis, if good men such as you come from there, if not for the elephants.”

“Made,” Gorys repeated, “In past tense?” The praise he let slide, unable to make anything of it in his current sensitive state, unwilling to try and read anything into it just to find some consolation.

“I still want to see it,” the boy gave him a smile, “I hope I will.”

“You hope.”

“I do,” the boy nodded, “I am not sure yet if I can stay in the Company, in truth.” Gorys raised an eyebrow in surprise at the revelation as the boy continued. “I need to speak to someone and you keep the secrets of so many people, with your position and all. It is awful of me to ask you, it really is, for I have nothing to offer in return. I cannot be with you; I cannot be with anyone. Wait… that is not fair to say, I resolved myself to be honest, for once. It is just…” the boy trailed off into silence.

“It is just that you are not interested,” Gorys finished his sentence. He wondered at how easy it was to say such a thing, and at the same time how heavy he felt the meaning of those words dawning on him.

“One way to put it,” the boy said, his eyes scanning the shoreline, the river. “It is not what you think. You are a good man and I would not want to have one such as you involved with one such as me. Besides, you ought to find a good woman for yourself and not play around like that much longer. I ought to grow up if that is even possible, and then one day perhaps I shall also find a good woman.”

Gorys raised an eyebrow. “Took you as one for men,” he remarked.

“I know,” the boy said solemnly. “So does everyone else. Because I always say and do what people expect me to say and do.”

“Not yesterday,” Gorys chuckled, “I found you quite annoying yesterday. What is there to think about the Company anyway, why could you not stay? Though you seemed less interested in it yesterday, seemed prickly like Griff on his worst day, trying to make an argument out of anything.”

“I tried to find things not to like these past days,” the boy confessed, “Trust me it is easy to like and much harder to find things not to like, though I still cannot figure why they worship a seven-faced deity then swear oaths by their Old Gods.”

“I know there is a lot to like,” Gorys nodded in understanding. The conversation, or the boy’s soothing soft tone seemed to calm his mind in the end, if not his stomach. He sipped from the boy’s flask once more. “I told you; I was not unlike you when I joined up. You heard again yesterday. I know what it is like trying to find work and make enough and never being able to make enough and keep losing... Here you have no heavy work really, I know today was different with loading the ship but the hardest thing to do is peeling potatoes, really. There is food for free, more than you can eat, and you may not believe after what happened but there are people looking out for you. It is more than most have, it is not bad at all for a chance to make something more of yourself.”

“More than what?” The boy asked curiously.

“How would I know,” Gorys shrugged, “More than whatever you would become otherwise.”

The boy swallowed hard at that, clearly thinking on Gorys’ words for a long moment. “Are you not angry with me, then?”

Gorys took a deep breath. Did he have any reason to be angry? “No, I am not,” he said, “I have no reason. It is what it is, we get over it I suppose.”

Lysono seemed truly relieved. “I am glad,” he said, “I did not mean it, Gorys please believe me, I did not mean it. I did not mean to hurt. You are a good man.”

“So you have told me,” Gorys nodded with a smile that he surprised even himself with for it was as honest as he could give it in this moment. He felt a strange ease coming onto him. He did not mean to hurt, the boy said, as close as he came to say that he wanted nothing from Gorys, nothing at all, at least not in the sense of what they shared that one time. Somehow Gorys felt eased by the resolution of that thought, if not hurt, indeed, by the rejection in it. The realisation came, he never had his heart broken before. Perhaps this was it then, he thought, perhaps this was how it felt when one has their heart broken by another. Perhaps this was what Marq warned him about, too little too late, that was.

“You are a knight,” the boy remarked after a time of silence between them and Gorys nodded, knowing well that more was forthcoming. “You are charged to protect the innocent and defend the women and the children and uphold your oath no matter how hard that is, whatever those words were.”

“My charge was somewhat simpler,” Gorys explained, “Though that is the jist of it. Be just and brave and protect everyone else, be honourable, and so on.”

“I am no innocent,” the boy said then, “I would not call myself a child either and I am definitely no woman, but if I asked you in the name of someone else, would you help me protect someone?”

“Your sister?” Gorys asked and he immediately caught himself. “Or is it your mother?” He added, hoping the boy being less sharp than his usual self and not having caught Gorys’ accidental revelation of knowledge.

“I told you, my mother is dead,” the boy remarked, “It was no lie. It is my sister I speak of.”

“Where is your sister, then?”

“If I told you,” the boy whispered, “Would you tell of it to others? To Griff?”

“Well,” Gorys thought about it, “If you tell me of someone in danger, then I am bound to tell on it if it means that I can help. But you know that already, for I told on you before. It was for your own protection, but I told on you before.”

“You did,” Lysono nodded. He took a deep breath. “I ask you not to tell, Gorys. I need to speak to someone; I ask you not to tell on me.”

“Fine,” Gorys nodded, his curiosity slowly getting the better of him.

“Pentos,” the boy whispered, seemingly relieved, perhaps even eager to let something off his chest. “She is in Pentos, and she is in no danger, as much as I can tell. She had a guard at her door and she had a nice room for herself and she slept properly dressed in a proper bed with proper pillows… you know what I mean. She seemed well cared for.”

“Why are you troubled, then,” Gorys asked.

“That, I cannot figure,” the boy said clearly troubled by his own revelation, “Something is amiss. I cannot tell what it is. I went to see her, when we were in Pentos I sneaked out, I climbed down the wall at night and I went to see her. It all seemed fine, she seemed fine. Something is amiss, I am sure of it and I dared not to ask why for I did not want to… I did not want to do what I did with you and use that just to pry it out, because that was what I was asked for it. That’s the truth. Now I curse myself for not doing it for her.”

Gorys wondered about it, about how he thought Griff right about the boy once more, the boy seemed to have been a bedwarmer, or something close enough to that. True, the boy was skilled, very skilled. He tried not to remember how skilled. “Is that why you would leave the Company, to protect her?”

“It is not,” Lysono sighed, “Please ask nothing of it, for I cannot share that. I just… I thought it will be hateful, I can take hateful. I can take people coming onto me and pushing me down on tables any day. Sure, I would not like it, but I can handle it. But this is not hateful. There is you, and there is Malo and Duncan and Tristan Rivers who would guard me while I take a piss to save me from a fright and Brendel Byrne, he was kind to me as well, said he would look out for me, train with me even. Blackheart was far kinder to me than I was told him to be, Griff is not so bad either and his Lady, I spoke a little to his Lady today and she was so very kind to me. Nobody tries to force their way on me. True, there were those two but that was only what I expected and this, you lot is what I got instead. Do you understand me?”

“I think so,” Gorys wondered aloud.

“I heard you speak last night,” Lysono whispered, “I know you understand Gorys, I know you care. What am I to do with this?”

Gorys wondered about it even more, though he didn’t mind being overheard last night. Perhaps it was what the boy needed to hear in the end to come to him and finally speak. “Nothing,” he said after a moment, “I should not tell but I tell you this one thing, keep it to yourself. Blackheart has his way; he uses the things that happen to teach me things. The day I told on you he asked me what I think he should do about you. I told him to do nothing. I told him that I think you were never helped before, and now that you knew what it is like to be helped, either you will take the help or you will not.”

“What did he say?”

“Well said,” Gorys smiled, “That is what he said. Truly, he said nothing more about you to me. But I truly think that you should take the help. You say that you expected us all awful and we are not so awful, that is supposed to be a good thing, is it not? I think you should stay; I think you could use some not-awful if you get my meaning. Besides, you work hard, you can fight well enough, you can make it here.”

“Not if I choose to do what I am to do,” the boy whispered. “This, is not me. This was never to be me. I was never meant to be a soldier. I was meant to be something far worse than that. I tell you Gorys, the prettiest people are sometimes the ugliest inside. Beauty truly is a curse, and so is the blood.”

Lysono suddenly fell silent and thus Gorys had a little time to digest what all he has learned. “I tell you this,” he said then, “If you find that your sister is in danger, you can let me know. I will try to help if I can. You have my word.” The boy merely nodded. “Will you stay, then?”

“Who knows,” the boy sighed, as he laid back on the deck, his eyes scanning the sky. He seemed thoughtful to Gorys, and he still seemed troubled, truly deeply troubled like Gorys never saw him before, not even on the day he found the boy outside the planks.

“Why have you joined,” he asked the boy, “You say that you were never meant to be a soldier, why sign up then?”

“Ask nothing about it,” Lysono whispered, “Best you know nothing about it. It was the only way. Would you tell me about Blackheart?”

“Blackheart?” As if a little alarm bell went off in Gorys’ head at the question, once more he could almost hear Griff’s warning ringing in his ears so loud that he felt the headache creeping onto him banging in his head like dozens of drums. “Tell me what those two things are instead,” he changed the topic, “You said you mean to ask two things of me.”

The boy’s eyes searched his. “Fine,” he sighed, “I meant to ask for your word that you tell nothing on what I tell you. And I meant to ask for your forgiveness.”

“Easy enough,” Gorys noted aloud in his relief, “I think I gave both of those as I could.”

“You tell not on others either, I wager,” the boy said then, “Perhaps you are weary of my asking and you should be after how I treated you, I understand that. But you say that you will tell nothing of it unless there is a danger, and so I tell you there is none. I just want to see clearer, that is all. Blackheart. Ser Myles Toyne, he leads the Company since Maelys fell on the Stepstones when Blackheart was sixteen of age, he was elected by the sergeants. His father fell on the Stepstones, he was wounded while he was retrieving the sword for the Company, did you know? I was told that he is a very cruel man, a heartless man, the kind who would stop at nothing to get what he wants, to get more power to himself. He seems not so cruel to me, so I was wondering and that is why I asked you. I was wondering about all the things I was told. I am wondering if there is truth to them.”

Gorys found himself quite stunned. Even he knew nothing about Blackheart’s father, though in truth he never asked either. People simply didn’t ask about such things. True they were all told to learn the old stories, learn how the company was formed by Bittersteel and why, but about Maelys, nobody dared to speak aloud about anything related to Maelys. Even if it was how Blackheart’s father fell or how he was elected despite not being a Blackfyre. Though some said that he was a Blackfyre. Some said Laswell Peake and his brothers were as well, and so was Brendel Byrne according to some others. Nobody knew for certain, and nobody declared such things aloud, certainly not to the squire boys or even other Essosi-born, like Gorys.

“I tell you this,” the boy sat up, “tell nothing about it and so I give you a secret for the secret you gave me. Blackheart’s grandmother was a Blackfyre, she was daughter to Aenys Blackfyre. Bittersteel married her off to a Toyne, and she had a twin sister who Bittersteel married off to a Peake. They are black dragons; it is not just a story.”

“How would you know…” Gorys asked stunned, catching sight of Denys Strong approaching them as he looked up Lysono Maar with all his beautiful Valyrian features, cursing in his mind at the timing of interruption being the worst it could possibly have been. Even being caught doing something indecent with the boy would have seemed better than having to end this conversation now when it seemed to finally going somewhere.

“Griff says that you should come to training,” Denys told Lysono nonchalantly as he was already turning to make his way back to the front deck. Lysono stood, his eyes firmly on Gorys watching him. He seemed to be completely unaffected by the movement of the boat, Gorys thought, wondering why of all thoughts and questions this was what came into his mind.

“Are you my friend, Gorys,” the boy asked. Gorys wondered about the question as he wondered about anything by now that the boy said or did, but he nodded. “Tell nothing on it then, none of what we said.”

“I will not,” Gorys said before he even thought about it, wanting to rush out the one question he could think up. “How do you know these things?”

“The boy with the jug ears and the crooked jaw and the kindest of hearts,” the boy declared, “He knew my mother.” With that, Lysono left Gorys speedily. He only turned back by the side of the cabin wall, just before he would disappear from Gorys’ view. “Thank you, Gorys,” he said softly, his purple eyes once more full of wonder not unlike how Gorys once before knew in them.

“For what,” Gorys murmured finding himself utterly shocked as the conversation began to weigh on him.

“For being my friend,” Lysono said, “And for allowing me to say no.” Then he disappeared, leaving Gorys with his mind in an even bigger mess than before his appearance.

Clearly, as much as he wondered about his place in the company, the boy didn’t want to wake Griff’s ire by delaying, much to Gorys’ dismay. So many questions, he now realised, so many things he wanted to ask the boy. How would he know that Blackheart knew his mother, if it was Blackheart he was referring to? It must have been, the boy described him close enough about his jaw and ears… and kindest of hearts? A boy, Lysono said. Gorys was shocked, so shocked that he could almost forget about his own heartache, even forget about the turmoil in his stomach. The boy said that his mother was dead, told him before that his mother died when he was young, so young that he would not remember his given name. That is why he chose to call himself Lysono Maar, which in truth told nothing more of him than what anyone could see from a glance at him, that he was a Lyseni. One could assume that he liked the sea, he seemed steady on the boat just now, so steady that Gorys made a mark of it to himself. But if he was so young, how would he know about who his mother knew before he came into this world? So many questions. Gorys felt eager to ask someone, ask Griff perhaps.

Then he realised the gravity of his own situation. He gave his word, thrice over in fact. He promised not to tell as clear as the water flowing under the boat, he could see the stones underneath and he could even see a turtle swimming past as he looked down. He gave his knightly word to the boy. He walked into this, just as blindly as if he had no prior warning, and now he was to break his word or keep the boy’s secrets. Griff was wrong, the boy wanted no information from him in the end, the boy wanted something far harder to give. He wanted Gorys’ silence.

He thought about it, but no danger seemed imminent to anyone. They were on a boat of all places. In truth, if he thought about it, he didn’t even believe the boy to mean danger to any of them, either. The boy needed to talk to someone, he said so himself, and so he talked. That was all to it, then, Gorys assured himself. Perhaps it was not as hard as he first felt it to be. Perhaps he could be friend to the boy like he said he was. The boy seemed to struggle with his situation in the company and the support he received and the kindness of others for he was not used to such things as being treated well, and that was just like Gorys foretold Blackheart that it would be. The boy confided in him about it, and that made Gorys proud in truth. Yes, he could keep to himself what he’s learned. Griff suspected the boy to have a sister somewhere, he needed no telling, not even of the boy’s secret journey during a night in Pentos for Griff knew about that as well. And what if the boy knew that there were black dragons in the company? Did that really matter? It did not, Gorys concluded, not if weighed against the trust he’s been given, and his own knightly word. Many suspected those captains to be of the blood, after all. Gorys had so many questions now. He decided, he can keep the boy’s secrets and then perhaps he can even learn more secrets, find out the answers to some of his questions, and then perhaps the boy would see that not everyone is as awful as he expected them to be, like he said. The boy could learn that people can be kind, that people can care about him. Perhaps then the boy would open up some more, and he would settle in the company, and make something good of himself. Something more than he was meant to be, and nothing of the ugliness that he described himself to be. In time, the boy could grow into a fine man of the Company because Gorys didn’t doubt that it was possible like Lysono did, not among the men he met in the Company. He could become one of them like Gorys did. Gorys had Blackheart’s help to become who he now was, he could give back some of that and help a boy in need of help to find his own way. The resolution he reached seemed to soothe his aching heart, make the rejection by Lysono Maar seem almost nothing beside it. Yes, Gorys decided, he will keep the boy’s secrets.

Chapter Text

GRIFF

He was ready to explode, he could feel the anger rising within himself moment by moment as he waited. It took no time in truth and the Lyseni showed up coming from the back, his face unreadable if not somewhat solemn.

“What the fuck,” Griff growled, wanting to question that damned boy right there and then. Wanting to go in the back and see what Gorys had to say about it, now that the Lyseni clearly sought him out. Instead, he nodded to Rolly. “Have your pick,” he scoffed, “And you boys, do your best. I mean to see what you got.”

Rolly grinned at the task, a mischievous happy grin. The man seemed to have no problem in the world, and especially now that he got his lifelong wish fulfilled, he seemed happy go lucky in his element as if nothing in the world was amiss. Why was it that all of them behaved as if they had no problem in the world at all, at least whenever he was around them, they seemed as if they were a different species – or better said, he was a different species. Even Gorys could manage to seem so normal compared to how Griff felt he was, when he wasn’t staring at that boy with wide puppy eyes. Why could he not manage that and just get on with their lot, Griff wondered. Not that he could ever manage it before, not that it troubled him before even near the way it troubled him these past days, since they set out, really. How come he never noticed his own complete inability to mingle with others, how come it never came to the fore before. That it wasn’t new, he knew, he remembered enough of his own being set apart in Kings Landing, in the Company before. It never seemed to matter the way it did now. “I said I mean to find out,” he nodded toward the Lyseni who slowly began his way to the circle as if while he took the few steps, if he made it last long enough, there would be a change to what was coming for him. It was clear on his face as the sunlight.

“Sword only,” Griff grunted at them, “The boy can make a eunuch out of you with a dagger, we know that much. I mean to see what he can do with a sword. Here, give me that dagger.”

“I will not pull it,” the boy seemed startled as he stopped in the middle, his eyes growing wide with panic.

“No, you will not,” Griff argued, “For you shall give it here.”

“But you give it back,” the boy asked, making him wonder what need would the boy have for a dagger anyways. A dagger forbidden, for the boys were to carry no weapons on themselves. Then again, this one had need for something to defend himself with, though perhaps it would have been better if he just took the dagger to that pretty face of his and be done with it. The years in the company will sort that out in any case, why delay the inevitable if he could help himself with it. What a thought that was. He was angry with the boy who seemed to hesitate, looking around at all of them. He pulled the dagger from his boot finally, as he came to stand in front of Griff he turned it in his hand expertly before he handed it over. “Please give it back,” the boy whispered, “It was a gift, please give it back.” Griff nodded. The seemingly honest pleading in the boy’s purple eyes caught him off guard somewhat but the boy was in the small circle in the middle of the deck again in no time.

The boy was not near as good with that sword as he could have been had he the assurance of the dagger about him. The boy seemed in truth worse than Griff recalled Duncan or even Malo to be and that was unlike the boy who bested him on the yard before. Took that damned dagger to his balls and then offered him his services, Griff reminded himself. As if he had need for the boy’s services now, or any boy’s services, as if he had need for more troubles on top of the ones he had. At least the boy wasn’t pushing that matter, perhaps due to what befell on him, perhaps due to Ashara, perhaps he simply gave up. He hoped for the latter, with its finality. The boy looked too pretty, too perfect to hope for anything else and stay sane. The boy was fourteen and that would have put him off no matter what, even if things weren’t as dire as he felt them to be, he could at least trust in himself for that much. He was not yet fourteen for his first time, but he was years away from any real experience at fourteen. He never thought it decent, not even when he was fourteen swooning over his silver prince did he think it decent, he didn’t even dare to have thoughts yet at fourteen of the things he knew this boy do. No, at least he could trust himself not to get involved, and that was reassuring. He didn’t trust himself with many things, nothing else at all really. Only this boy, pretty as he was. Funny, considering the boy’s role on this boat as Griff saw it, with Marq Mandrake’s eyes always on them.

He tried not to think about that or any of it really, he really did. He was ought to focus, he was ought to see to it why the boy was so damn slow and clumsy, as if his head was elsewhere. Perhaps he left his head with Gorys in the back, Griff chuckled to himself. The boy lost the sword after what seemed an agonising delay of the inevitable.

Malo was next, visibly scared out of his mind at facing Rolly. “We saw him defeat you just yesterday,” he told Griff, “Now you want us to go at him.” Malo had balls, at the least.  

“At ease, soldier,” Griff laughed surprising himself with it even, and more so at how hysterical he heard himself sound. Perhaps he already lost it. “I told you to go at him, I said nothing about defeating him, now did I? How do you mean to become a sellsword if you never get to learn the first thing about a sword anyways?” Malo seemed to swallow his answer, or perhaps even his pride for the boy was as proud as he was dutiful, Griff knew that much by now. He knew just as well that Malo did nothing to earn his ire or animosity, the boy in truth proved to be as capable as Griff ever imagined a squire to be, for he never had one before. Malo has truly been far more useful to him than he ever was in the short year that he squired for Rhaegar, between Rhaegar’s knighting by the king and his own knighting by Rhaegar himself once Griff came of age. That Malo wasn’t afraid to speak up, he shouldn’t have held against the boy. But it was annoying so he did. Anything would do, anything he could find and use to set himself apart, he knew. He hated it, and he always did it. Was it Malo who annoyed him then, or was it himself?

Now the Lyseni and Denys had two years at the least to learn what to do with a sword for they would not be knighted before they came of age in about two years from now, but Malo, he had no such luxury. No, Malo was of age, a man grown in truth, nearer to Gorys in truth than to his sixteenth nameday, as was Duncan Strong. Malo had to figure it out and do it yesterday, he didn’t have much time if he didn’t want to be written off. The boy was his squire, his charge. Griff let out a heavy sigh as he made a mental note of yet another problem weighing down his shoulders and no doubt troubling his thoughts in the days ahead. Clearly, he was to make something out of the boy on this journey, and considering the boy’s service to him, he was to at least try his best in return if he meant to go about this boy properly as he meant to go about the other one. Not getting on a boy was so much easier than getting a boy to learn something. He should have never become a father with that mentality, he knew. This boy deserved as much as his proper attempt to try, no matter how Griff didn’t need yet another thing to worry about.

He sat back watching Denys take the final turn, he knew at least how this one will go and he has not been surprised. Toyne was right, the boy learned nothing in Duncan’s shadow. So it was, he had three boys, two of them unable to raise a sword for their lives, the third seemingly having forgotten how to do so since the last time he held a sword but willing to get acquainted with his sword, just not the one Malo has been keeping sharp as his squire. He turned toward the approaching Howland Reed.

“Not very promising,” Reed whispered, “Even I can tell, they have much to learn yet. Though I think them to be quite intimidated by Ser Rolly, he is a large man after all who overpowered their captain in front of their eyes just yesterday, and they are young boys.”

“That, they are,” Griff nodded, “I know not how it is in the Neck Lord Howland, but in this land the world is not kind to young boys. They learn or they will never make it.”

Reed seemed to ponder on those words. “I meant to ask if I could be of help,” he said kindly, “I know the boys were told to learn of the Company’s history, but you see, they are quite keen to learn about our land, our history and laws and customs. I thought to offer to teach them, after all that is more my forte. But now I see I should have thought to offer my lacking skills with the sword as well, perhaps then they would not be so frightened.”

Wise, that was, Griff had to admit. “Lysono,” he called out, nodding toward the circle. The boy hesitated, watching Reed pick up the sword Griff could see the sheer confusion in the boy’s eyes.

“Worry not,” Reed said in that soothing voice of his as he stopped in the circle, “I know less about it than you do.”

“Have you ever fought, my lord,” Malo called out.

“That, I have,” Reed glanced back at Griff as he spoke, “Perhaps I shall tell you the story of it, if you manage to toss me in the river at the end of this?” Sure enough, Denys’ eyes lit up at the notion. Damn Howland Reed, the man seemed to have his way with everyone Griff had no idea where to begin with even. Reed could manage his squire charges, his knights, Reed easily acquainted himself with his captain, by the Gods the man even knew how to handle Griff’s own wife, for in truth he had no idea about that, either. Perhaps Griff should even tell Reed to sort Gorys’ for that boy seemed by now completely lost in his longing for the Lyseni, and even more so in his sickness of the sea. Somehow he knew, Reed would even resolve that in no time. Damn, was Reed in his own place, he would probably have no issues with how to go about sorting his own predicaments that in truth he expected Howland Reed to know little about. He would never share with Reed either. Besides, there were things that he just simply could not put in words, not even to himself, and yet he knew, he was running out of time to fix them all. To fix himself enough to be able to face them all and be a man about it like he was ought to be. He shook his head, returning to the present.

Of course Howland Reed was right, the man just knew, did he not? Lysono seemed to find himself, it took him a while to lose that sword from his hand against Reed who wasn’t as useless with the blade as he claimed himself to be in truth. The man could not be called a swordsman by any means and that filled Griff with at least some pride – the one thing he excelled in was the same thing a man excelling in everything else lacked. His satisfaction was not to last though. Griff heard the shushing of fabric, a lady’s skirt, turned to see his wife approach. His WIFE. What has the world come to, he thought for the hundredth of time, he had a wife. No, he had to return to the present, he had to do his job, he reminded himself. The wife could wait a couple more hours, until he will face the problem one more time with no excuse to escape it, and no doubt he will face his own incapability about it just the same as he did every time he had to face the problem had on since the day he said the words.

He watched Malo find his balls against Reed, trying a few moves Griff never saw the boy do before. He seemed to even have fun while going at it, and Griff felt a bit more grateful once more for Howland Reed despite how that made him feel even less of a man himself. He wanted to hate Reed, hate them all – he couldn’t.

“Something I did not expect you to do,” he’s heard Ashara’s soft voice beside him, just as Malo mounted another attack against Reed.

“He offered it,” Griff explained, “Said the boys would perhaps try harder if they had a shot.”

“Of course he offered it,” Ashara replied, he could hear the smile even through her voice though he didn’t look away from the action for finally he could see some action from his own squire like never before.

“I shall add it to the many things I shall be grateful for by Lord Howland Reed,” he remarked, “The list is growing longer by the day, I will struggle to recount it all by the end.”

“He needs nothing of your thanks, Jon,” Ashara explained, “He enjoys it, you know? He likes it here; he likes the travel and he likes being helpful.”

“He is a curious one,” he nodded, “Wish I could have him to share with me half of that curious mind of his.”

“You are only tired,” Ashara whispered, he felt her fingers touch his. His own fingers mindlessly locked with hers, for the truth of it was that every single time she did such a gesture he responded to it without a single thought about what and why he did, and that in turn kept pushing him deeper and deeper into the hole he kept digging himself into. Yet, no matter how he frowned at himself, no matter how he abhorred at the abomination he was, every time she spoke to him her voice felt like a balm to all the scars he didn’t even remember he had. Who knows, perhaps I shall find the poet in me by the end of this. Rhaegar would like that, no doubt.

Damn Rhaegar, damn him to the seventh of hells, even though Griff knew, he didn’t really mean that either. True enough, he knew very little of what he meant by the things he said or did or even thought, but at the least he assured himself about knowing what he did not. He felt her pull her hand away, just like she always did. She never lingered long, and whenever she pulled away, she left him wishing that she lingered instead, left him cursing himself for not knowing how to make her so, and even if he knew and she lingered, what would he do about it? Nothing, most likely, nothing at all. Best then that she did not linger, as if she knew, Griff thought. Perhaps she knew. She has always been a smart woman, kind and thoughtful of all the differences she learned in him that he could never figure out. Why he did the things he said or did, why he could not be more like Rhaegar? Or Howland Reed, even. Anyone really who knew their way around other people. Griff managed to even set mild-mannered good-hearted Gorys against himself instead, how in the seven hells he achieved that he could not even begin to fathom. Reed has just caused Malo to almost fall into the water off the side of the boat, only the Lyseni’s quick wits of grabbing the boy’s overcoat saved him, that and Rolly’s swiftness to pull the boy back from that grab and cause him to land on his arse on the deck instead. They all laughed, even Malo laughed. Griff heard his own wife laugh beside him, and yet, he could not find in himself the will to laugh. Perhaps he completely lost the ability of normal, non-hysterical, non-cynical laughter. Somewhere along the line of his attempts to figure what to do with all these people, all the failings have caused him to forget how to laugh.

Ashara told him once, in truth he had a nice laugh, he should use it more often. She was now his wife, and for all Griff could tell, he was the luckiest man in the world for that, if not for everything else that came with the words they spoke to each other. Of course he could see how others looked at her. He saw it on Toyne on the eve of his wedding and in truth even before that, he knew not the first thing about women but he could read any man enough to know when they liked what they saw, when the sight stirred their blood and numbed their mind to reason and the instinct to possess was kicking in, the same instinct he never felt about any woman, not even any man, only his silver prince. He saw it on Tristan Rivers since, he saw it on Marq Mandrake, in truth the first time Gorys met his Lady even that boy seemed stunned and that boy had eyes for none else but the Lyseni, so much so that he was losing the last of his wits over it. If Griff wasn’t so lost in his misery over his own situation, he would amuse himself pondering on whether he ever was so clumsy and obvious about Rhaegar as Gorys has been about Lysono Maar. If he was, then he was an even bigger failure than he ever thought himself to be, for he himself must have fed all those rumours about himself throughout the years in Kings Landing and being none the wiser about it, proud and prickly as he was so much so that none would have dared to ever enlighten him about what a clown he turned himself into. But then came Ashara Dayne, in Kings Landing as she did so now, causing him ever so often to think himself something else, something more than he knew himself to be, all the while pouring salt on all those wounds caused by his accursed undying love for Rhaegar without either of them knowing and masking the act in soothing balm. That was exactly how he felt sometimes, poetic as that was. Really, he may turn his miserable self into a poet soon enough, if he continued.

Instead, he tried to focus on Denys Strong. The boy still knew little about what to do, but he made up for a lot of that with his excitement, jumping around like the child he was still, as if it was play, the word sword- in front of it merely descriptive and nothing more to the activity. It was no play; it was life or death. It was survival or Toyne once more visiting the lot of the Strongs to tell the boy’s mother how the boy fell in his care. In Griff’s care. He could not have that on himself, he could not carry that as well. Did he not carry enough weight of all the ways he failed the people he once loved, did the ghosts not remind him enough?

Just last night in the grass, he wondered about whether he should perhaps talk about that to Ashara. Tell her something of himself that actually had meaning, make her see at least the surface of what a miserable excuse of a man he was. Perhaps then she would understand and she would never once reach out her hand and he would never again face the longing when she pulled away. He would never learn anything more about what it was like to have one such as her by his side, always in his support, always aligned to his thinking. Always reassuring him, keeping him going despite how he should have known by now that he already failed, before he even began. What was he thinking when he agreed to this? He could not figure that, either. Denys fell on his arse losing his sword. Griff yearned to pick up that sword and slice someone to pieces. Perhaps there’ll be a pirate attack and he will be able to kill and release the tension in himself the way he knew how for the only other way he foreswore when he declared himself to be Ashara’s to the end of his days, no matter about the Lyseni, any Lyseni with Rhaegar’s son and sister in his care and Toyne’s spies watching to the end of his days for it, as he expected life to become. Perhaps there will be stonemen jumping on the boat in the Croyane, and he will be able to kill. Or he will score himself a touch and have it all end at that. He cursed himself for such thoughts, what would Ashara do with them two babes if he caught the greyscale? How was she to raise Rhaegar’s son without him? Curse Rhaegar to the seventh of hells, indeed.

They were all looking at him, waiting for him to proceed further. He didn’t pay enough attention to know how to. No problem, he at least had now a knight in his service for such matters, how convenient was that? “Ser Rolly,” he called out, “Your thoughts?”

In truth he kept paying little attention for he simply couldn’t, he only nodded toward Rolly to proceed when the man glanced at him wondering, before he pulled Lysono back in the middle of the circle. He was showing the boy moves, mistakes the boy made against Reed and how the boy was to go about correcting those, his words as if alien to Griff’s ears, not registering. He did the same with Malo Jayn, and then with Denys Strong as well. Ser Rolly Duckfield, son of a smith from Bitterbridge who could break bones with a hammer and wanted to be a knight, he was proving to be a useful asset, indeed, masking Griff’s growing inability to deal with anything at hand.

“Supper is ready,” he’s heard Ysilla call out.

They looked around startled. They made Griff chuckle to himself, how they became used to such luxuries as eating their supper at a table daily no matter if in camp or on the march in the Golden Company, for example, these boys, or whatever their problem was now. Ser Rolly had his wits about him, he sat down on the deck. Reed followed, Quagg the other crannogman appeared and sat beside his lord and so the boys shrugged it off following the example. Even Yandry came forth and followed, Rivers and Mandrake as well. Only Dalla was to be served in her cabin for Griff knew, one of the women was to stay with ‘his children’ at all times. Ashara was by his side, and so he sat on a small bench by the way down to the cabins, reaching for her hand the Gods knew why as he did so. She gave him one of those warm smiles of hers and sat beside him. At least they would look like man and wife, behaving like this, modesty be damned. He pulled back his hand, again the Gods knew why for he wished that he did not.

“Mother have mercy!” Ysilla cried out just as she appeared in front with two plates and handed them to Denys and the Lyseni – the youngest of their lot, the captain’s wife has proven herself to be most thoughtful if not even protective of the children. All the children. And even the men, for her cry was at Gorys who just appeared looking every bit like a ghost, a green ghost. “Yandry,” she called out but her man was already reaching for Gorys, pulling the boy down to sit on the deck beside him.

“No supper for you yet, young man,” Ysilla spoke kindly to Gorys, “Let me serve this lot, then I shall make a potion for you. That shall make you hale again in no time, then you shall have a whole breast of a duck to yourself for you surely need it.”

“It is duck,” Malo laughed. The Lyseni laughed as well. There must have been an inner joke amongst the boys, even Rolly’s laughter roared, though Griff now remembered Gorys’ earlier findings and how Gorys came about them. He took the plate from Ysilla, duck and potatoes. No cabbage, she would not have the cinnamon to prepare cabbage with apples if she even knew how. She has put some greens on his plate, Griff wondering about them.

“No chafing at the food, my lord,” Ysilla told him kindly in that tone of voice of hers that reminded Griff of his own mother from his childhood, no matter how the woman seemed so different in every way from his mother, she seemed the polar opposite. He hasn’t thought much about his mother in a long time, not until he’s met the captain’s wife. She was mothering them all, he could tell. It was one more thing for him to be grateful about, one less thing for him to worry about, he knew. The boys needed that. Hells, even he needed that perhaps. He glanced at Ashara taking to the food on her plate, reminding himself to get it together for the dozenth time today. In truth he wondered if any of them ever noticed what a miserable mess he’s been these past days. If they would only know. But he was becoming certain that they did.

“You should not have, Ysilla,” Ashara remarked, “This is delicious!”

“It is always the duck,” Ysilla explained as she served the knights, "in Ghoyan Drohe it is duck, In Valysar it will be chicken. In Selhorys you can buy a whole piglet for the price of a duck up here for nobody stops for supply in Selhorys, my Lady. We get the fresh meat and the greens; we eat that before we eat the dry meat and the rest. But in the morn it shall be biscuits for your lot, and you will never want to break your fast on anything but the biscuits I bake after you had it, you shall see.”

With that, she finished serving, handing the last plate to her own husband. She patted reassuringly on Gorys’ shoulder and swiftly disappeared in the back, a plate in her hand. Griff watched as she appeared with some leaves in her hand now, some kind of herbs, she tossed them in a pot, poured water then mead on them and boiled it. In no time she was serving Gorys a horn of whatever she cooked up.

“Drink it all, young man,” she said kindly, “You may not like it, but you need it and the mead shall make it sweet enough to bear. Drink up before your supper goes cold.”

Griff watched Gorys make a face at the first sip, but the boy obeyed. So it was, he concluded, he shall add Ysilla of the Shy Maid to his list of people to be grateful for, for he would not know the first thing about what to do with Gorys’ latest predicament either. Of course, Howland Reed would know, he surely would. But not he, not Jon Connington of Griffin’s Roost. He really knew nothing at all, he concluded, glancing on his own lady wife by his side. What has life become, just when he thought that he could not sink lower than where he was, in that inn in Volantis where his biggest problem seemed to be that he forgot to shutter the window before he fucked that inexperienced boy twice over and drank himself into a stupor, so the ghosts would not come to him with the boy by his side and he would find his way into a restful sleep. He would wake and at most attempt to decide whether to attend to his need to relieve himself or to the naked boy beside him on the bed. What has the world become, why did Toyne have to appear in that room, why did it all have to turn for worse ten times over when he thought that he could not sink any lower? No doubt Rhaegar would have a clever answer to this as well, he would go on lengthily about the literature of how men could fall and what each of the maesters wrote about it who in truth never knew the first thing about any of this at all. Rhaegar would know what to say to make me forget that I even had problems and I would be lost in his mindless monologue that in truth said very little just to listen to that soothing voice of his. Rhaegar would know how to make me feel like I was a man at the least... Rhaegar is not here, Rhaegar is dead. What am I doing thinking about whatever I am even thinking about, wasting all the evening in my misery. Eat. Drink. Be a lord. Be a captain. Be a husband, if I could figure the first thing about it. Be a father as if I had that in me. Be whatever just to make Marq Mandrake look away from me for once, make Gorys stop questioning me. Make Ashara stop… whatever she is doing to me, make her stop. Make them all stop, make the whole fucking world stop and time stop. Gods, just make it all stop before I completely lose it. Please. Thank you.

“Listen up,” he called out toward the boys, seeing that they were near the end of clearing their tin plates, hoping that he managed to sort enough of his thoughts while he did the same to at least pretend to be something akin of a leader. The three of them boys set their eyes on him at once. So did Gorys in truth, so did Ser Rolly, Tristan Rivers and Marq Mandrake, Howland Reed and his man Quagg and so did even Ashara by his side. He felt the attention swiftly weigh him down, fighting the urge to run away, anything to disappear from their sight before they see what a clown he really was, a pretender. You ought to lead them, the fuck you are thinking.

“From the morrow there shall be order,” he declared, wondering why he chose such harsh words. There was order until now all the same and he had very little to do with it in truth. “I mean, a new order. Ysilla has the task to feed our lot twice a day and so she shall receive help doing so. One of you boys to help Ysilla for a day, one of you to do the washing, and the third one… Dalla has my children for the night, she needs sleep in the day so you earned the task of washing the linens after all. Washing after breaking your fast, kitchen duty twice a day.”

“Who,” Denys looked properly panicking, “The linens, who?”

“Malo,” Griff said as apologetically as he could muster, “It is true, you are first in line.”

“Damn,” the boy cried out, “I just ate, really? Griff…”

“I take first,” the Lyseni interrupted what was to surely become a pleading. “What of it, you shall be second anyways, I wager. I take first, I do it while you do the clothing?”

Griff found himself stunned to where he sat by that boy, by what seemed to be pure generosity on the boy’s part. “Would you,” Malo asked, no, pleaded the boy.

“Not a problem,” the boy shrugged, “I had worse. Not as bad as you think, I shall show you how.”

“Show me as well,” Denys pleaded, “Do I have to do it, as well?” He looked at Griff wide eyed.

“The three of you shall rotate the work like in the camp,” Griff explained, “Think on it this way. Today is this, and who knows what it shall be next month, if there was a fight then you would find yourselves assisting healers on a battlefield for you are squires of the Golden Company. Let me not explain further, we all just had our supper. There is more.”

“The Gods help us,” Malo cried out, causing Ser Rolly to laugh aloud.

“There shall be training every afternoon and the three of you to attend every day. Anyone else willing, join in but the three of you are to train with Ser Rolly every day.”

“We cannot make pairs from three,” the Lyseni remarked.

“I have a mind to join,” Howland Reed chimed in, “So shall Quagg, he could learn a thing or two about the sword as well.”

“That makes five,” Lysono chuckled, “We still cannot make pairs.”

“If that is all well,” Yandry spoke, “I would make a sixth. I held a sword once or twice before; I know I could yet learn much about what to do with it. That would be helpful indeed for Ysilla and I for when we sail alone with no knights of the Golden Company to protect the boat. If my Lord agrees?” He turned toward Griff as he spoke. Griff only nodded letting slide being called a Lord. At least they could give this for the passage as well and still it was free for them in the end, even helping them out. To make pairs.

“Three hours, every day,” he said then, “With Ser Rolly and myself. Once that is done, there is more.” The boys looked frightened out of their minds at him and he felt sorry for them but he knew, they shall at least like this part.

“Lord Howland offered to teach your lot about Westeros,” he said, “Learn more about the geography and the Houses and Lords and Laws and customs. Up to him how long he takes and how often he does it, but it shall be most useful for you lot. Do learn, I may question you by the end of it, I expect your lot to impress me like the men of the Company you want to become.” As if each of the Ten Thousand could list the Houses and Lords of Westeros.

“Finally, something good,” Malo remarked happily, “Thank you, Lord Reed.” Griff watched Reed nod. At least Malo had manners to say thanks, the boy had everything going for him in truth. If only he would be able to learn the use of a sword.

“That is all,” he called out, his eyes settling on the Lyseni. Their whole group began to disperse, the boys stood, Denys made his way to Reed, Malo followed. But not the Lyseni Griff had his eyes on, no he stood, his eyes meeting Griff’s. Griff nodded to the side. The boy made his way to the side and to behind the cabins with a face unreadable. He glanced at Gorys momentarily but Gorys for once paid him no mind, busy to finally be able to stuff himself while his food was still warm. Griff felt thankful for that. He didn’t need more animosity from Gorys Edoryen of all people, Gorys was to become his new best friend was he not? Gorys was to handle the gold, Griff needed Gorys by his side. He also needed to begin sorting his problems. He may as well start with the Lyseni boy. He nodded to Ashara and followed the Lyseni, hoping that he had the willpower and the focus to at least be able to deal with one boy.

He found the boy sitting in the back behind the cabins and so he followed example. At least he won’t have to look at the boy, sitting beside him on the edge of the boat, he assured himself. In his hand was the boy’s dagger.

“This is forbidden to squire boys,” he declared after he sat, raising the dagger in his hand to indicate what he referred to. When no reply came, he looked at the boy but the Lyseni only nodded in understanding.

“Fine,” Griff resolved the matter by laying the dagger on his other side on the deck, seeing that no explanation was forthcoming.

“Let us speak frankly then,” he said, more to win a few more moments and gather his thoughts, wasting one of those moments asking himself why he even sat here attempting to sort something he in truth knew very little about. “I want you to leave Gorys alone,” he declared to the boy, diving straight right into the middle of it the way he would whenever he could not figure where to begin. “I would say fuck him or leave him. But let us be honest, if you keep on fucking around with him that will be the end of you in the Company and so leave him. Whatever game you are playing with Gorys, leave him be. Stop fucking around altogether, it is a sellsword company not a damned pillowhouse.” No response was forthcoming still, so he looked again. The boy seemed properly startled, as he nodded at him once more.

“Not so cocky now, I see,” he remarked. The boy said nothing, to his surprise the boy didn’t even shrug at his remark like he would have, were the others around. The boy began to puzzle him in earnest. “Fine,” Griff sighed, “What is a boy like you doing visiting mansions in Pentos at night, defying my order to stay put? Speak up.”

The boy said nothing again, but as Griff looked, he could see that the boy didn’t look so startled anymore. The boy looked defensive to him now, perhaps even angry at his questioning.

“I will be honest with you, Lysono,” he said, as softly as he could muster in himself, “I was of the mind to dismiss you when I heard of it, we fucking had to change plans and leave Pentos because of your shit. Think not that Blackheart would mind my decision about you either. He minds order above all else and he minds men who hide no shady business from their captains and obey their orders, and he cares not in the least for squire boys who disobey their superiors and climb down walls to sneak away to whomever in the night. He definitely disapproves of fucking around in the camp and if he saw Gorys now, he would not think twice about it either. Speak up if you mean to keep your place.” Or call my bluff for Ashara wants me to not dismiss your arse and I don’t have it in me to argue with her even about your sorry arse, Griff added more to himself for he would not say that to the boy, at least he hoped himself sane enough not to.

“Gorys told you,” the boy whispered, his eyes shining in anger.

“Gorys told me nothing,” Griff remarked, “Quick to point at the one who would stand in your defense.”

“He would?”

“What were you doing,” Griff returned to his earlier question, for in truth it was not Gorys’ predicament that he meant to see to the end of, most of all. He knew well Gorys’ predicament, he understood it perfectly. He lived it for a few years himself when he was a boy coming of age, spending every single day of his in Rhaegar’s company before he turned into a miserable copy of a man but Rhaegar’s company became something more akin to his liking. He wished for no reminder of the misery of those early years on top of what he now lived in. Gorys was a man grown, naïve as that boy was, he was ought to learn how to manage his own business. Not that Griff ever learned to manage his own business of his heart, he knew. “Who was so important to visit that you had to sneak out? Who was the girl on the pier?”

“My sister,” the boy said, somewhat resolved now to the conversation, “She was mice. Not my sister, I went to see my sister. I had to tell the mice somehow that I want to go so I gave the coin the way I did. I could not be there and not seeing my sister.”

“You have a sister,” Griff remarked.

“My twin,” the boy whispered, “She is all the good in me… I had to see her.”

“What is she doing in a mansion in Pentos,” Griff asked finding himself at a loss facing the boy’s revelation of what he in truth suspected for Howland Reed theorised as much. Only Griff didn’t expect the boy to be forthcoming about it so easily. The boy gave him no reply though, again, and so he looked. The boy seemed visibly broken by his question. In truth, he was to leave it be, he could tell. Would he have a sister, he would want to see her as well, at least he was sane enough to figure that much.

“Mice, you say,” he changed the topic.

“That is how they are called in Pentos,” the boy said. “I was one once. Then I grew and I look the way I look so I had better uses.”

Fine, Griff thought. The boy has been a bedwarmer just as he predicted. Perhaps that is what his sister was doing in a walled mansion in Pentos. Perhaps the boy even belonged to someone now and had no free will of his own or however slaves would view the matter, though Griff knew, there were no slaves in Pentos, not by such a name. There were slaves in Lys, just as he told Gorys, they were bred to be beautiful just like this boy was. Perhaps in the end Gorys was proving to be right about the boy all along and there was nothing more to the boy, nothing sinister, just a sad and unjust past which the boy in truth had very little say in. Perhaps he was just as paranoid as Gorys seemed to believe him to be.

“Anything else I should know of,” he asked then. Once more he received no reply. The boy seemed puzzled, he seemed as if he had a lot to say and at the same time as if he wanted to see the end of this conversation without saying anything else, and do it in this moment. “Why join the Company,” Griff asked.

“Where else to go,” the boy asked in reply.

“Then why fuck it up so thoroughly, tell me,” he countered.

“What would you do,” the boy asked him defensively if not a bit desperately even, “Was it you in my place, what would you have done?”

“Not fuck around in the camp at my will once I got out of having to fuck around on order, for one,” Griff explained, “Not drawing attention by the wrong men on myself, and you know what I mean, you know it was no accident what happened to you for I know that you are smart enough to see that. I would think myself in your place just as smart enough to understand the respect I owe to my superiors and I would tell them whatever the fuck my problem is without sneaking out in the night and disobeying their orders. There you have it, all the wrongs that I know of. Add Gorys to this list and whatever game you are playing with the boy, and you really look less like a proper man in the making and more like… whatever you would call it. Up to you, Lysono.”

The boy only nodded at his words, but Griff could tell that the boy was troubled and deep in thought. “Will you dismiss me?”

“Will you stop your little games and your cockiness and your… whatever the fuck you call sneaking out in the night, and whatever else you are up to.”

The boy hung his head silently. “I messed up,” he whispered.

“You did,” Griff nodded, “Boy of fourteen that you are, you are not yet a man by a long shot, regardless of what uses you had to whomever, that you speak of. You are a child, so stop thinking otherwise, stop doing stupid things, stop whatever else you are up to. I mean it, you will be found out. If you think yourself getting away with anything, you are sorely mistaken and you will only fuck up your own life.”

“If you dismiss me,” the boy said then, “I cannot protect her if you dismiss me.”

“Then why screw it up,” Griff asked, “tell me, why not just tell someone? Tell me, or fuck that for I am not one to easily speak to so tell Gorys then, tell Tristan Rivers. Any of those options would have been better than what you did.”

“I would have told you,” the boy pleaded, “But then you would have gone there, would you not? You are a knight. I know you are honourable, protect the innocent and defend all women but what good would have come out of that? What could any of you do about it?”

“Who could tell after the fact,” Griff sighed, “Do you want to stay then? What do you want?”

“I know not what I want,” the boy protested, “I want you to stop being angry with me.”

“I am not angry with you, Lysono,” Griff declared, hoping he sounded believable. He didn’t lie, he was not angry with the boy that much. He was annoyed by the boy for the most part, he still felt that the boy was hiding things. Everyone was hiding things. He’s been hiding a great many things, was he not?

“Listen to me,” he said, “Nobody has it rosy. This is the world we live in, we all have it fucked up much as it can be, whether or not you can see that. You are in a good place now. Make it in the Company and you can do whatever you need to do, buy her out, buy yourself out from whatever mess this is you are in. You can fuck up and repay whomever wronged you and slice them to pieces and no one will do a damn thing about it. But you cannot disobey an order, if you want to get there you must fucking stay in line and act like you actually want it and stop messing around. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded, those big purple eyes of his pleading as they settled on him. The boy didn’t seem so cocky anymore, the boy seemed every bit like the child he was. “What a pile of shit,” Griff sighed, “Listen. You seem to know a lot about things you should know very little about, boys your age are not supposed to fuck around like that. The Gods know, they are not supposed to be used like that. Look at Denys, that is what a child is to be like. You are a child, Lysono. Whatever was done to you, whatever shit you were taught and used for, it was not supposed to be done. It is just wrong, slavery is wrong, breeding slaves is wrong, training children in such things as they do in Lys is wrong and the whole fucking Lys the Lovely should burn down in the fifth of hells for it is all wrong. But I am the worst fucker to tell you that, you should know it yourself.”

“You are doing well enough,” the boy whispered, his eyes watering up at his words.

“Good,” Griff nodded, “Now, here is what I think. The past is the past. You cannot change it, I cannot change it, whatever deities there are, they all could group up and do their damnest and they still would not change a damn thing about the past. So put it in the past where it belongs.”

“Do you put things in the past,” the boy asked, startling him.

“I do not,” Griff sighed, “But you could be smarter than me, you know? Be smarter than me and fucking leave it behind. Look at Gorys, he had nothing. He lost everything, and he kept losing whatever little he had left. So he packed up and left it all behind, and he stopped looking back. He understands it, so learn from his example. What’s done is done. Be smarter than me and leave it behind while you can.”

“And what if I cannot,” the boy cried. The boy began to shed real tears as he sat next to him and Griff felt truly at the end of the rope. What was he doing preaching to this boy, who was he to preach of things that he could not do himself?

“Try,” he said, “And since I am certain that you are still hiding things, do nothing stupid. Speak up if you need help. This is not what was, boys like you are not alone here. Look around you, every one of us would fucking fight and die before we allow anyone get to either of you boys. This is what you have, nothing is worth to gamble it away, not for a boy like you. Do you believe me?”

“It is not easy,” the boy cried, “What you say, it is hard.”

“It is,” Griff nodded, “you have a sister, you have responsibilities. All the more reason not to end up back where you came from, Lysono. That is not even your true name. Truth be told I am just as certain that you remember your true name despite of what you say, there is a lot more to you than you let on. Whatever shit you carry, whatever you hide, deal with it, stop messing it up for yourself. There is enough of that already, for the both of us.”

“If you only knew,” the boy swallowed.

“If you only told me,” Griff countered.

“If I only could,” the boy pleaded, “Will you dismiss me?”

“Would I waste my time and sit here if I wanted to dismiss you?”

“Thank you,” the boy sobbed, he wiped his face with the back of his hand then sobbed once more. Griff stood, the boy’s dagger once more in his hand.

“Sit here and calm,” he told the boy, “You would not want them to see you cry, I know pride when I see it. Now sit here, and if you find that you can tell, you know where I am. Shit as I am to talk to, you can talk to me still. The dagger you get back once we arrive, not sooner. You need no daggers on a damned boat.”

He turned to leave the boy, but the boy called out after him. “Griff,” he pleaded and Griff turned. “Can I be friends with Gorys?”

“Can you keep your breeches firmly on?” Griff asked, “Can you stop messing him up? He deserves none of that shit from you.”

The boy nodded. “So be it,” Griff sighed, “Who am I to tell otherwise, Gorys is a grown man and he can decide for himself. But you shall learn from this Lysono so heed my words. Now, try to calm yourself. The world did not end after all, we still have the same shit to live in for another day or two.” With that, he left, wondering what in the seven hells he just did. He was meant to find out what all the boy has been up to. He found out little more than what he already knew or suspected, and he made that boy weep like the child the boy was while he preached of things that he in truth could do little better in doing. He yearned for some peace of mind. At least somehow through all that preaching he ended up doing, his own mind seemed to calm somewhat. He made his way to his cabin, ignored anyone on his way. The sun was going down, it was time to face the problem he kept failing to even figure where to begin to sort. He would not admit to himself no matter how he knew; he needed the one company that he could find in the cabin, that is why he kept facing the problem and failing at it. Shit as that was for a man like himself, if he was a man at all.

He wondered if he was ought to knock on the door of his own cabin and so he did just to be certain, feeling like a complete fool for knocking on the door to his own bed, as much as that was true. He will never have a bed all to himself again, not unless he breaks his word and begins with the things again that he spent his time doing before. Before he said the words.

He opened the door, his eyes searching the candlelit little cabin. Ashara sat on the bed; she held her shift in her hand. So it begins right away, Griff remarked to himself sarcastically. “I could come back,” he declared.

“No,” she protested as he knew she would, while she stood. “Why would a man leave the cabin while his wife dressed?” She was full of questions like that. He had none of the answers. He only nodded, closing the door behind himself, his eyes following her in the small cabin. She crouched down beside their bags, she pulled his own shift from his own bag as if it was the most normal thing to do. “Malo is doing such a good work,” she remarked, “Truly, he is. He even looks after me now, did you know?” He gave her no reply and so she stood and turned. “You look troubled.”

“I am always troubled,” he gave her a smile as best as he could, “It is the nature of me. You married a troubled miserable excuse of a man, if I am to be one.”

“Will you tell,” she asked. She walked to the bed, set down his shift for him, set down hers and she began to untie her dress as if there was nothing unusual about her proceeding at all. Not the first time and this time she didn’t even turn from him, perhaps expecting him to turn like he always did. Five nights before this one, they had five nights alone in a room, and this was more or less the same proceeding. “Perhaps we ought to be more modest,” he whispered, cursing himself as he did.

“No need,” she said, “I am no maid, sorry as I am for that, I cannot change it. You are no innocent either, so what of it? We are man and wife.”

“That we are, for what it is worth.”

She paused for a moment, her eyes on his. “I did not mean it so,” he was quick to protest, “Not the way it came out. I just mean…”

“I know what you mean,” she said, her voice soft, while she let her dress fall. She took off the shift, she stripped naked in front of him without a pause. “I thought a lot about this,” she said, “I know my worth, Jon.” She glanced up at him, but she didn’t stop, she picked up her shift, lifting it above her head she tucked into it her hands and let it fall and the bundle of linen became one big cover on her brushing the floor, covering her arms, her shoulders, everything of her but her neckline, and he could make out her figure no matter how she was now covered in what seemed more like a curtain and less like anything else. “There. Now tell me, how am I to teach you your worth? How am I to help?”

The question startled him. “Truly Ash, I think not that you can do a damn thing about it. No one can. It is just what it is, what it always has been. The fuck we are talking about, even.”

“Well,” she sighed, “then change and come to bed. Hold your wife for she much prefers to sleep that way?” Her voice was soft, perhaps even playful and he knew, she tried to ease his mind. There was nothing to this, he began to free himself of his leather armour. She stepped close. “I would much like to learn how to free you from this,” she chuckled, “You know it looks like a prison?”

“Thought so when I was a boy,” he shrugged, watching her small fingers undo some clasps on his side. He raised his arms, letting her do it, wondering why he did so, but then she gave him a quick smile as she began working the clasps on the other side. He lifted off the studded leather he wore as armour these days. “Now I could walk around all day in plate and chain you know,” he said, “I would not even notice the difference.”

“I am glad that you do no such thing,” she laughed, “I would not figure the first thing about how to free you from that. What troubles you?”

He swallowed hard, though perhaps this time she could not tell for he was lifting off the chain mail over his head as he did so. He watched as her fingers began to untie his breeches. “Will you strip me naked?”

“Is that what troubles you,” she asked, but she stepped back. He wondered if he wanted her to, but he made do without further comment on the matter. There was nothing to this, for she stepped back some more. She is going to stand there; she will not turn. There was nothing more to this mess, the shit they now lived in, fucked up as it ever could be, just like he told the Lyseni boy. Lysono, the boy called himself, and Griff was just as certain as he told the boy that the boy had a proper name and he was hiding it with the many other things he’s been hiding from them all.

“I spoke to the Lyseni,” he said, his voice sounding like a confession regardless of how there was nothing he would consider worthy of the word about it. Being a hypocrite was not something he was unaccustomed to, after all, and neither was it a sin against the words he spoke with her. He proceeded stripping doing his best not to think of her standing there right in front of him, oddly enough for truly, that was not how men and wives did whatever they did. There was nothing about them though that was how he thought men and their wives to be, so what was one more experience added to it? Nothing, he stripped naked.

“What did the boy say,” she asked, and he knew, she asked just when she did to ease his mind from whatever this was they were doing as he stood there naked like on his nameday. “Did he tell you what he was up to?”

“He did,” Griff began to tell the tale, acutely aware of his bare nakedness while fiddling with that damned shift, trying to find the front of it. Malo may have done a good job with the washing but he had no maester to train him in the art of folding the clothing after. “He told me that he has a sister, a twin. She is kept there and so he sneaked out to see her. It is as Lord Howland said, the boy used the child on the pier to tell when he would go.”

“How would a filthy little child tell someone in a walled mansion when the boy would visit,” she remarked and Griff had to chuckle.

“I never heard you speak like that of a child,” he remarked, “you should have been the one speaking to the boy. I had no mind to ask such things.”

“In any case,” she began, “now you know what the boy was up to.”

“Now I know, and more,” he said, finally pulling that damned shift over his head, feeling it fall down on his chest, almost down to his knees. He was hidden once more as a husband likely should not be. “Methinks the boy is a whore, Ash. That is the truth of it.”

“Was a whore,” she stepped close, took his hand, “Hold me, would you?”

“You know I will,” he remarked, rewarded with one of her smiles. Her smiles were a reward. Damn, she herself was a reward, he knew as much. What other woman would put up with him like she did? None other would, he was certain. He was indeed the luckiest man in the world, for when he was to wed, he said the words to Ashara Dayne. He never had doubt of this in truth, his doubt centred not on her worth. He merely did not think himself a man at all by now, for what man would be the way he was? None other would, he was just as certain of that as well.

They climbed to bed, they settled as they did on all the five nights before this one, she tucked herself in his embrace with her back to his torso, resting her head on his arm. The bed was in truth far more comfortable than he expected, the mattress was soft, the linens smelled fresh. Ysilla must have worked on this whenever she did, though perhaps it was just as normal, expecting passengers on a boat like this and being at the ready to receive them.

“He is a whore no longer,” she told him, “None of us are what we were. Give the boy a chance.”

“I did,” he whispered into her hair. He liked to sleep tucking his face into her hair in truth, odd that it was. He thought it odd. The only man he ever discoursed about marriage in detail with was Rhaegar. He knew that Rhaegar never slept tucking his face into Elia Martell’s hair, for he never slept in the same bed as her, only the one time, the bedding night. Rhaegar went, he did what Griff was ought to do and then he left her for his own chamber and bed all to himself, for he had the decency never to spend time with Griff on the same night as when he did that. Griff would have hated that; he would have hated the princess even more for it. He had no reason for that hate either, he slept beside Rhaegar more times than he could recall, though he knew, that was no reward, no sign of love by his silver prince. It was mere convenience, Rhaegar taking what he needed just like Ashara did, tucking herself into his embrace. She took what she could from him, but he knew by now, at least he didn’t mind this much. No, this was good to be honest. This felt peaceful, her body felt warm against his, and he really was ought to stop thinking about Rhaegar at all while they did this, he knew.

“I am surprised,” she remarked.

“What was I supposed to do,” he asked, “The boy broke down weeping like the child he is. I ended up preaching to him about how wrong it all was, the things that he lived through, how he should put it all in the past where it belongs. The hypocrite that I am, when have I ever put the past where it belongs?”

She turned slightly, only enough to be able to look at him. “Here is what I think,” she whispered as she reached up, untied his hair, tucked it behind his ear. “I think you keep beating yourself up about things that you really need to leave where they are, Jon. If I cannot change the past, neither can you.”

He chuckled. “What is it?”

“I told the boy the same,” he explained. “And you are a smart woman.”

“Stop punishing yourself then,” she whispered as her fingers caressed his face. When she stopped, he felt clearly that he wished she didn’t. “Stop it, please.”

“And what I am supposed to do?”

“Put it where it all belongs,” she turned from him, she shuffled to tuck herself against his body even more, if that was even possible.

“If only I could,” he whispered, once more tucking his face into her hair. “Five times I have tried, five times I gave up on it. I keep failing you, I should just stop trying.”

“We both keep failing,” she whispered.

“I see nothing of how you…”

“I am a Dornish woman,” she interrupted him. “I used to think it good that we were raised so much alike you northerners, I used to be so proud of that. Now I think I should have been raised like a true Dornish woman.”

“I see little difference,” he remarked.

“You would not,” she sighed, “You keep troubling yourself with others to see.”

“I have reason to trouble myself with others,” he felt the need to protest, “Though to speak the truth, I worked myself up a right mess. I barely remember any of that training session today; I wonder how I made it through.”

“Then why would you not tell me,” she asked, “tell me, Jon, I will listen. Just tell me.”

“If I could put it in words few enough not to rant for half the night aimlessly then I would,” he whispered. “That is what it is like. Then there are the others to worry about.”

“The boy?”

“Fuck the boy,” he scoffed, “Let Gorys Edoryen worry about the boy. All the boys in truth, except Malo. Malo will be questioned in Volon Therys, no doubt.”

“Why,” she asked.

“Because Toyne will want to know things,” he sighed, “He saw it fit to charge Malo to serve me when he did, he sent Marq and Tristan Rivers with us… I never told you; I wanted you not to worry about it. I just think they are watching; Marq is always watching.”

“For what?”

“How would I know,” he asked, “Not like I could ask him. Gorys thinks it normal, says that Toyne needs to know if anything goes amiss. Toyne has put the Lyseni in my care knowing well that the damned boy as much as offered himself to me, for I was such a fool that I told him. I was too worried about little Jon and thought nothing of anything else, so I told him and the boy looks the part, that much is true. Now, here we are with a weeping Lyseni boy, and I even question whether his tears were honest for he tells me nothing of worth, not even his true name. And we have Tristan Rivers who reported on me before, and we have the worst of all, we have Marq Mandrake. The man is a fucking spy for Toyne for all I know, and he is always watching, he took the day watch and his eyes are always on us. Was that not enough, Gorys makes his damned remarks about how he expects me to share this damned cabin with you while he has his heart broken over the Lyseni so I cannot tell if Toyne would expect me to fuck that damned boy or he would expect me to dismiss the boy. As if I would touch a child anyways, as if I would touch anyone. That is the truth, now you know.”

“Now I know,” she sighed. She placed a kiss on his arm. He didn’t think much of it, he reached and pulled her close by her waist, not at all surprised when she reached for his hand. She held his hand on her waist. He should have pulled back, he thought. He said he tried, five times he tried. In truth, he did very little of trying, he thought about it and that was all for he never laid a hand on her like that, he didn’t touch anyone like that since that boy in Volantis that Toyne sent packing. He never even spoke about it, the Gods knew what made him speak about it now, about any of it. But she kept his hand there on her waist, and her body was warm, she was calming as she ever was, she had that effect on him.

“Tell me what am I to do about it,” he whispered in her hair. “Tell me for I fear I will lose my wits soon enough unless I figure it out.”

She took a deep breath, then another. He waited, but in the end, she said nothing. She never asked, she didn’t plead with him, didn’t try to get anything from him that he wasn’t freely giving anyway. All that made him feel even more a failure. Part of him wished for her to protest, argue, bicker with him, demand… she did none of that. She laid there in his embrace until he could feel her body relax and heard her breathing even. She fell asleep. He was still just as tense like five times before, and now the time came when he could just relax. He would lay here for long, and who knows perhaps the ghosts would come, Rheagar’s most likely standing by the bed, and hopefully not Elia Martell with that damned smile on her face that he should not have read anything into but he always took as her laughing at him. Sometime in the night he will fall into a restless sleep and his body will relax. And nothing else will happen, he will wake with the sun and he will untangle himself from this damned embrace he in truth craved every night, the only thing he found solace in. Then he would dress hoping for her not to wake and he would begin yet another miserable day of failing to deal with any of it, he knew.

Chapter Text

ASHARA

Eight. That discounted the nights spent on the Braavosi ship, when she cared for the two babes during the nights. Eight nights and nothing. Perhaps it was as Jon told her, have to stop trying. Not that she was trying. Whatever Jon meant by trying, said that he tried… likely worked himself into a mess in his head over it like he said himself to do about other things, for he never touched her like that, not once. She didn’t work herself into a mess over it, she felt as if she began as a mess and there was nowhere to sink lower. She didn’t think about it the way he did, that much she was certain of. She didn’t think at all about the ‘how’, every fibre of her being was focused on HIM. Get to know him, try to understand him, be there to support him… make him see that he could trust her. If only he talked to her, told her things. True enough, they conversed, most times they conversed about things that she would expect them to converse about. That was not her problem, it was that they conversed so little about the things that they needed to get to the bottom of. She sat and watched him as he showed a kind of move to that Lyseni boy, the boy trying to replicate, him correcting, showing it again, the boy trying again… swordplay. It didn’t interest her much beyond knowing by now that it was the one thing that set his mind at ease. No wonder why all the men, all the boys spoke of him as if he was the greatest swordsman that ever was, it was his escape, she could tell. She could clearly see how, see the young boy, little Jon Connington with his freckled cheeks and his red curls struggling with himself on so many levels, how to get on with others, what to do with his urges, how to catch the attention of his silver prince even, he probably trained and trained for it was something he seemed to excel in and so he pushed himself. It became the escape that it seemed to be ever since.

He came back to sit beside her once more, and she could feel herself alert. Reach for his hand, feel the touch of his skin on her fingertips. He responded as she knew he would, his fingers locked with hers. Why did he always do that? Did he even know? He didn’t know so many things. He didn’t know when he was courting her back in Kings Landing, he didn’t know that she liked it. He didn’t know how to talk to her, how to touch her, what to do with her, she knew. She didn’t know how to tell him, how to touch him, what to do with him, either. What a miserable pair they made.

There was a match to watch for Rolly set the Lyseni against Malo for a change. Normally, she knew for it was so the past three days, the Lyseni would have Yandry against him. Malo would have Quagg and little Denys would have Lord Howland, and that would be just right as much as she could tell. Rolly was smart, or perhaps Jon was, pairing them up like that. Yandry wasn’t so new to it; he could deal with the Lyseni. Quagg on the other hand was clearly new to it, though quite interested to learn, and that seemed to drag along Malo who seemed as disappointed in his own progress as eager Quagg was to progress further. Little Denys would need Lord Howland’s patience to learn anything, she could tell. All this was clear for her despite not knowing even the first thing about swordplay, just by watching them.

To her, there were more things. The little boy came to life, he became witty, chatting away, lighting up the mood of whomever listened. Except Jon, of course but nothing could lighten Jon’s mood, albeit he’s doing a decent job hiding it, but Ashara knew. Malo became more disenchanted the more he trained, but it wasn’t near as visible as how the Lyseni boy has changed. The boy barely spoke for he watched but barely mingled with anyone, and even worse, he barely smiled anymore. Sad that was, the boy was pretty and his smile she thought to be warm and even prettier, though Jon would tell her that the boy was probably faking it. Jon was suspicious of the boy still, and the boy as if he knew kept sitting by himself on the deck for most of the time when not attending to one of his duties of the day. Not once did he seek out anyone, not even the young paymaster. Though she could tell, the paymaster boy’s attentions were not returned by the boy and so perhaps it was better that way, for the paymaster also kept away from the Lyseni as much as she could tell – looking but never doing anything more, as if he didn’t have the guts to man up and at least speak to a boy of fourteen, no matter how the Lyseni showed no sign of being only thus.

She spent her days watching them. Watching Yandry and Ysilla as well, how much in understanding they were about everything. They would finish each other’s sentences even, and she envied them for it. Sometime at night she would wake, lay motionless in Jon’s embrace who by then would have finally fallen asleep, too tired to wake but she would wake to the quiet sounds and know it was the captain and his wife. Could be none else, for Dalla and her became close enough for her to know, Dalla did no such thing with the babes in the room. Just like she had no such notions on the Braavosi ship. Even Jon discounted those nights from when he counted his times of failure, when they were at five. Now they were at eight.

“They improved,” she’s heard beside her and turned toward Howland Reed.

“I know not the first thing about swordplay,” she smiled, “But I can tell, Malo is growing desperate, disappointed in himself.”

“He’s of Gorys’ age,” Howland nodded, “True, our paymaster has two years more in the company, and two years ago he was also not yet to be named squire of the captain-general according to Malo, and so I think Malo has nothing to worry about.”

“It must be hard for a boy to see one of the same age yet having reached so much higher,” she agreed. “Men are ambitious beings, such things hurt their pride. You know a lot about these boys, Lord Howland.”

“I spoke to them,” Howland gave her one of his kind smiles, “I find them quite interesting. For one, Malo Jayn’s father was an archer from the Summer Islands who served in the Company, Jayn was his given name and so was the boy named. He’s told me that his father’s skin was dark as sooth, like most Summer Islanders. He also told me though that his mother was a whore in truth, keep that to yourself my Lady, the others know nothing about it apparently. She allowed no notions of swordplay until Malo came of age and could decide for himself and then he defied her and signed up anyways. Hence why the delay there, he lamented to me how he should have joined when Gorys Edoryen did, how boys at that young age have better chance. He’s a dutiful smart boy, but perhaps he should try the bow and follow in his father’s footsteps, that is the word about it.”

“Gorys Edoryen, his father was a teacher, his mother a washerwoman and he grew up in a room near the harbour in Volantis. His father taught him his letters and numbers and the captain-general taught him the use of sword, and now he’s risen in the ranks. Tristan Rivers says the boy will be named paymaster next, for he is an assistant… Rivers himself was an outlaw who when his group was dispersed chose to escape to Essos. Another orphan, he is. Yandry, and Ysilla, they are the same, orphans twice over and outlaws as well, for they are orphans of the Greenblood and orphans who settled in the Kingswood. Then they left when Simon Toyne and the Smiling Knight really began to make waves, not willing their lives to be that. Good for them, I would say.”

Ashara found herself smiling. “What about Marq? He seems to set himself apart.”

“Oh, he was a harder one to crack,” Howland chuckled. “The scars on his face are from the pox when he was a boy. Except the one that looks like a hole, that is where he burned away a slaver’s mark. How he became a slave, that I know nothing about for Tristan could not tell me. You see, Marq is as you say. The man seems to set himself apart. Perhaps because he is on the watch during the day, I would expect him to not mingle while on the watch either.”

“He looks so sour all the time,” She remarked, for a moment wondering if she should share. But what of it, Howland Reed knew their biggest secrets already, perhaps he was to know what if any dangers Jon perceived to their secrets. “Jon told me that Mandrake is Toyne’s spy,” she leaned toward Howland Reed and whispered in his ear. The man turned toward her, surprise in his eyes.

“Careful then,” he whispered, “He is standing above us on the roof watching the training.” Ashara nodded. “What do you think about that?”

Howland seemed to think about his answer. “I think the man has eyes on our captain, your lord husband, my Lady. Just as he does on the Lyseni boy, Quagg and myself. He seems to have eyes for nobody else, that is my observation on the matter. Which, on my part and considering Lord Connington’s assessment, tells me that the captain-general is weary of my involvement. At the least now I know why we caught our dutiful guard’s interest.”

“Does that worry you?”

Howland raised an eyebrow, seemingly considering it. “No, not really,” he concluded aloud. “Let the man watch, there is nothing to see. Truly, there is nothing to see, for I have been watching as well, and there is nothing to see.”

The match ended, she missed the result, they both did. Yandry seemed to be gone as well, and so Howland remained by her side while the remaining four lined up once more.

“Swordplay may be a hard skill to learn,” she remarked, “But I must say, the trainings are boring to watch, so I am not surprised.”

“No, the matches are the interesting part to watch,” Howland nodded, “But it is this that makes it. Now that I took part for a few days, I can tell. Ser Rolly is a good teacher, patient and engaging the boys fairly well. Reminds me, where is Lord Connington?”

“Dealing with a headache,” Ashara whispered.

“A headache,” Howland raised an eyebrow, “Is that a synonym for a problem?”

She chuckled. “No, for once it is just a plain headache,” she declared, “He was complaining that he had a dozen drums banging in his head. I told him to take a flask of wine and catch some rest with it. He barely sleeps, it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“But wine?”

“He used to drink a lot these past months,” she explained, “Now he restrains. Let him get drunk by himself for once and sleep it off. He may be a bit worse for it for start on the morn but then surely, the drums will be gone and perhaps even other headaches will seem easier to handle after a good amount of sleep.”

“Strange advice from a wife to a husband,” Howland remarked.

“As strange as we are, I suppose,” she nodded, her smile fading swiftly from her face.

“You ought to know, the captain-general disapproved of his drinking,” Howland whispered, “With eyes on him, perhaps he…”

“Let me worry about that,” Ashara declared, “The captain-general is not wed to the man after all, but I am. He should keep that giant nose of his out of things not his business. If I say that my man is to be off with a flask of wine, then he better obeys and his captain better takes a blind eye to it, or else face me about it.”

“Well, my lady,” Howland chuckled, “You make me want to be wed to a Dornish woman.”

She laughed aloud. “Then you would have to deal with the dozen drums in your head, my Lord,” she jested.

“Perhaps,” Howland nodded, “But at least, my wife would draw sword on anyone taking offense to my drinking it away.”

“If only I could,” she said thoughtfully, “If I could, I would, I would take that Lyseni’s dagger in our cabin and cut down all of them, the ones that bleed as much as the ghosts of the dead, and be done with it. As it is, even a Dornish woman can do very little against the ghosts of the past, Lord Howland.”

“I see,” Howland whispered. “The prince?”

“I would not know,” she sighed, “He shares very little. Whatever it is troubling him, he shares little of it with me. Do yourself a favour, Lord Howland. Do your wife a favour even and after you wed, share your troubles with her. Do not carry the weight of the world alone on your shoulders, for what else is there a wife for if not to ease your burdens.”

“Perhaps Lord Jon means to protect…”

“Perhaps,” she whispered. “But I am not made of glass, I will not break. I will not break.”

Nine. Perhaps she should have stopped counting by now, she’s been wondering what she was counting for exactly. Not that there was much else to do on a boat sailing down the Rhoyne. Just this morn, she’s heard Jon praise Yandry for the speed they made, “despite you having us anchored every night.” Jon’s been trying to change that. Yandry kept resisting. He refused to risk the boat in the dark, kept explaining how the Upper Rhoyne was full of snags and sawyers. Any of those could pull the hull, rip it off, and then they would be going nowhere further. Best be cautious, Ashara could agree with the poor captain having Jon’s attentions for the right decision he’s made. The first time, after the fifth night that Jon himself counted to her, when she rose from bed, she found Jon arguing with Yandry in the back, so much so that young paymaster Gorys shook his head for her not to go nearer when she emerged on the deck wondering what the bickering was about. They could all hear it. The boys ate silently sitting beside Ser Rolly and the crannogmen while listening with fearful faces, clearly wanting to remain unseen during the whole matter. The sellsword knights both stood on the roof watching the scene, they no doubt found it more entertaining. She went nearer despite young Gorys’ silent warning. She went and she put an end to it by calling for Jon. If looks could kill, she would have dropped dead right there and then, for a split moment because as he turned Jon looked at her as if he’d cut her down right there and then. Before that look disappeared in his eyes, taking in her sight, and for that she felt relieved. Whatever fragile bond they were building link by tiny link between themselves, it didn’t include Jon unleashing his ire on her, not once, no matter how he’s been indiscriminate about who’s got it versus who’s woken it.

She was a Dornish woman, she reminded herself, she’s ought to handle this. So, she pulled her husband away from the captain looking as miserable as she felt, and she’s put on her most pleading face as much as she could. “Help me, please, I need to wash.”

“Ash, we are on a damned river,” Jon scoffed. “There’s water around you, wash like everyone else. No maid will appear to draw you a hot bath.”

“I know that,” she tried her best not to rise – or lower – to his level of irritability. “The knights… on the roof... and the boys, and… Jon, please.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

She lowered her head, before her mask would fall, before he’d see through her because she knew, Jon was no fool. Jon suspected the worst of people; he would have no issue with catching the smallest sign of a lie. How many tiny chain links would she lose with a lie, a discovered attempt at what was plainly manipulating him as she saw it? “You wanted no modesty last night.”

“They are not my husband,” she pleaded, “Jon, please...”

Jon laughed at her. Laughed as if a madman, but once he stopped laughing as if he truly lost his wits, he called out to Rivers and Madrake, “Off the roof in an instant, you two! MALO! Bring me towels and soap!”

The boy appeared in no time; Yandry disappeared even faster. In Malo’s hands were a towel and soap. “I said, towels. More than one.” Griff’s eyes shot a chilling glance at the boy, but he took them, and the boy ran before he got anything worse, Ashara knew. He appeared with three more towels even faster than the first time, said nothing, sheer dread on his face as he expected the worst punishment over some towels. Ashara wanted to laugh, but instead, continued her best impersonation of a damsel.

“Where did you wash,” she asked her husband, who in turn dropped himself to sit by the end, and pulled off his boots. Pulled his breeches up his legs, and jumped off the boat. For a moment it amazed her just how shallow the water truly was, she didn’t even realise.

“Come,” he reached out his hand, his other took a towel from the pile.

At least she’ll spend time with him. Make him calm. Figure how to wash in a river. Whatever this was to become, she obeyed. She sat down, pulled off her boots. Looked around like a modest woman should, fearful of who may be watching, then she untied her dress. Thanks to that boy now so scared out of his mind, Malo Jayn, the dress was clean and fresh and so was her shift underneath, and she wanted them to remain dry as well and so she stripped. At one point she wondered about it and truly began to worry about being seen, it needed no more pretending. But as soon as she pulled the shift over her head, Jon grabbed her naked body and without further ado pulled her off the deck and into the water. He stepped in her line of sight toward the boat, where the rest of them were out of sight at this moment anyway. None of them would have dared to risk it, anyway, she reminded herself of their faces. Though not the knights, no they were entertained earlier, they feared nothing of Jon’s anger. He spread out the towel in front of him, spreading it out with arms wide open.

“There,” he said, “The most I can do for you.”

She made a quick work of it, for the first time uncomfortably aware of him watching her naked form. This wasn’t like stripping down in front of her husband hoping that something in that would stir something in him. This was rubbing soap all over herself as swiftly as she could, it was washing her private parts crouched down in the shallow water while he stood holding that damned towel as much as to hide her as waiting for her to finish, and she could think of few things least appealing or possible to stir any manly notions in him than watching her washing her backside. Though there were worse things, she was washing it at the least, she reminded herself, trying to remain as graceful as she could while she rushed the act. They were growing stranger by the day. She finished and stood, and he stepped close, wrapped that towel over her and in the same motion lifted her to sit on the deck as if she was nothing more than a feather. The realisation of his strength came with the strangest of thoughts, the man she was somehow to get onto her could lift her up the deck as if she weighed nothing at all. She didn’t go further with the once-more strange line of thought because he pulled himself up beside her right away. “And now we better FUCKING MOVE!” he called out.

“Will you help me on the morrow,” she asked sitting there somewhat stunned to the planks of the deck. But clearly, he was still not calm enough. She still needed his attention on her and not on the rest of them.

“And so, my watch begins,” a grin formed on his face, “Never would of thought of you needing my help to wash.”

“Jon, I need your help to wash,” she declared, no pleaded, all the while testing if a smile would work. It did. He stood, reaching out his hand he helped her up. “Need help to dry yourself as well?”

“If I do, will you help?”

He rubbed the towel all over her surprisingly gently considering his not-so-formerly angered state, though his hands didn’t venture near the womanly parts of her even with that damned towel. The hands that grabbed her so the arms could lift her onto the deck as if she was made of nothing at all. But still, he chuckled grinning with clear disbelief as he did it. Finally, he calmed, she knew. “You should know, this is the strangest one yet,” he declared. No, this was the most nudity yet and there was nothing about it that could stir any hope in her that it stirred anything in him. Nudity was strange to him, her nudity was, she knew that well by now.

She finished drying herself, swiftly dressed, her attention on this hot-tempered, yet so restrained husband of hers pulling on his boots once more.

“Get used to it, Connington,” she told him, “We are a strange lot, you and I.”

“That, we are,” he nodded.

She leaned up and placed a kiss on his cheek, cursing herself for her lack of bravery to place it on the lips. Perhaps that was what she should have done, but she was raised like northerners, like he was. He used to lay with boys, not boys of fourteen but men of age so young that they would be called boys regardless. She has lain with Ned Stark. So much for being raised as they were then, so why could she not try… but she didn’t. “Thank you, husband.”

“Anything for a damsel in distress,” he grinned. “It does not become you; I hope.”

“I doubt anything becomes me anymore,” she said, “or you.”

“I am to be the sarcastic one,” he laughed, “you are the good one out of the two of us, lest you forget. Someone needs to keep me in check, so best not sink to my level Ash. Else I may take Yandry’s head the next time he stops.” Yes, he calmed. This was the most he’d say to declare that he now saw the idiocy in his own tantrum earlier.

“Perhaps,” she smiled, “Perhaps you should be the swordsman you are, dear husband and try to allow him to be the captain he is. Then you both will do what you excel in and we may make it safely and sanely to wherever we are going. Will you give it a thought, for me?”

He must have done so, for there were no loud arguments with Yandry after that. When they returned to the front deck, all eyes were on Jon, fearful eyes and stunned eyes and disapproving eyes as well, she could tell on Marq Mandrake’s pox-scarred face. Though perhaps the man disapproved more of being ordered off the roof for now he was making his way up there once more. Perhaps because of missing her naked sight washing her backside, she thought, for she knew the looks that Mandrake gave her very well. Countless men looked her up like that before. She used to hide behind Lord Jon Connington once to address them, but now she knew as well, hiding behind her sellsword husband Griff was not near as effective when against other sellswords, even if lower rank.

She handed her towel and soap to Malo Jayn, and then the three clean towels the boy had to run back for, as well, “I only needed the one towel in truth, thank you Malo,” she told the boy with a wink and that resolved the boy’s dreadful face, as well.

There were no more arguments about their night stops but there were attempts to persuade, to achieve compromise… Jon would have them boys watch out for whatever dangers if it would mean that they could sail in the dark, Jon would have all of them on the deck if that was what it took. Jon clearly wanted this journey to be done with, and he made that clear. Later the day when Jon was wherever he disappeared to time to time, Ashara pulled aside Yandry and apologised, explained that her husband had a lot on his mind to deal with and that left some of his manners in tatters. The man needed no explanation in truth, just as he said, he’s had worse. Though he never had it from swordsmen, he said, neither from prestigious Westerosi lords. The man and his wife gave Jon all the respect due to the Lord of Griffin’s Roost, no matter how many times others reminded them to just skip it.

Nine it was, now. Jon was nursing a headache, a different kind of headache, but last night after he skipped supper, no doubt drunk out of his mind, she found him fast asleep on the bed, clothing and armour and boots all on him. She took the boots, she loosened the armour clasps, and she let him be. She slept so little without his embrace; she gave up and spent the second half of the night sitting in the chair facing that damned bed and watching the man on it. Strange was not a word that could describe them, but it was what it was. She could not help it, exactly like he said she could not do a damn thing about it. Like he said, they should just stop trying. She’s spent the day sitting with the babes, trying to make sense of her own thoughts. One Connington had to begin to think straight, she decided. Out of the FOUR Conningtons on this ship two would think only of mother’s milk, and the third was nursing a hangover she urged him into. Only she remained, so she had to figure how to get ahead, before they start to visibly lose it altogether.

Eleven. She should stop counting, she kept reminding herself. Now, her two hands would not be enough to count it if she was counting it like a child would. A child, like the child she will never have, for as Jon said she could not to a damned thing about it. She sat watching the two babes sleeping soundly in their makeshift cots. She’s sent Dalla to their cabin to sleep, this was now the order of things – it wasn’t like they soiled the linens. Though Ysilla dutifully changed them linens, the past two days the boys were washing linens. It only told her that by now if those boys knew what to look for, they knew. Ysilla knew. Dalla knew. Perhaps Yandry and Ser Rolly knew as well, for she didn’t think for a moment that other couples were as strange as they were, she thought them converse about anything and everything and especially about such things as them Conningtons not soiling their bedlinens. Other couples would have soiled the linens with the things that soil linens when couples come together in them. Like Yandry and Ysilla when she’s heard in the night, not that they were loud. They weren’t, they made no sound themselves. Their bed creaked. Ashara’s bed didn’t creak. Marq Mandrake sleeping on the roof would not be woken by her bed creaking. Or Rivers. Or whomever watched for her bed creaking if anyone. She was becoming paranoid like Jon was thought to be paranoid by young Gorys Edoryen, or Jon so believed. She wondered when was the Lyseni’s turn to wash the bedlinens to come, for that boy would know for sure, and if they began washing linens two days ago then by today for sure, the boy will be on this particular washer duty. That boy would even know things that she had no idea about. Surely, that boy would have soiled the linens with her husband the very first time, Jon said that the boy wanted to, though how that knowledge, the so-called ‘offer’ by the boy came about, she’s kept wondering about that at times. Did the boy just tell him or did he do more than that or what in the Seven Hells did the boy do for Jon to be so certain that the boy offered himself? How do bedwarmers offer themselves even? She didn’t want to know; she didn’t want to think about the boy like that. The boy was a child. But she had eleven times and she did nothing of the sort of what the boy surely would have done, and perhaps, small chance considering her knowledge of matters, or complete lack of, but perhaps then her husband wouldn’t be constantly at the boiling point either. What would a boy – not this boy, not this child – do to her husband? She knew not the first thing about it in truth, the one time she had she was just lying there and she did very little else than holding the man above her, and she didn’t even do much of that for in truth it wasn’t a very pleasing experience on the whole, it started off down right awful to a point that she wanted to put it to end. She should have. Perhaps Catelyn Stark did more than just to lay there. Catelyn Stark likely had a proper bed though. There was a knock on the door, and the Lyseni’s head appeared. She wanted to laugh aloud, but instead, she smiled at the boy, nodding.

“May I come in,” the boy asked quite fearfully.

“You may, indeed,” she said kindly, “Lysono, that is your name?”

“The name I gave myself,” the boy said as he closed the door slowly, visibly carefully not to make a sound. “My mother gave me another,” the boy turned, “I wanted to thank you, Lady.”

“Thank me?”

The boy nodded, “Griff wanted to dismiss me, I know it,” the boy said solemnly, “I know now, Gorys had nothing to do with why Griff kept me around, so I figured, it must be you. I wanted to thank you for it.”

Ashara was stunned, shocked even. This boy had a sharp mind. She caught herself and nodded, winning a moment to think of what to tell this boy. Jon said that the boy must’ve been a whore, a slave perhaps, perhaps bred for that life even. What a miserable case, a despicable thing to do to a child. The boy was a child of fourteen, she reminded herself again.

“Come, sit with me,” she said then.

“Griff will take my head if he finds out,” the boy said, standing by the door, but she could read on his face, he wanted to. Perhaps he wanted company, the boy sat by himself for the most part of the days ever since Jon pulled him aside on the first evening on the boat. Boys of fourteen should not be sitting by themselves, they should be with their peers, making mirth and having little care for the world.

“Let me deal with my husband if it comes to that,” she declared, “Now, if you have the time, I could use some company. My little ones give me little of it in truth, they prefer snoozing over mother and even if not, it would be hard to have a conversation as you can guess.”

The boy stepped closer, finding his guts slowly he walked to them crates, and crouched down beside them, watching the babes. “She’s grown,” he said, in his eyes wonder. “She seemed so little. Soon she will grow hair like mine, Lady. I know, I saw many babes.”

“You did?”

“I watched for them time to time,” the boy said, “In Lys. I enjoyed watching for them.”

“That is strange for a boy,” she remarked, “Sitting for babes.”

“It was where I could be alone,” the boy whispered. “Like you say, Lady. Babes give little conversation. They make an awful lot of soiled linens, though.”

Ashara thought about it for a while, watching the boy. Gods, the boy was a handsome one, pretty was an even better word to describe it and beautiful even more fitting. Many thought prince Rhaegar to have been the most handsome one. This boy would have put the prince to shame even, if the boy grows into a man.

“Then it is sad, not strange,” she said softly. “It is true, you know. What my husband told you, it is true. The past is the past, whatever is there, we cannot change it so we should leave it be for our own sake.” The boy looked up, straight in her eyes. “Why name yourself Lysono? Why name yourself after a city where they made you do such things?” She asked.

“I look like a Lyseni,” the boy shrugged, “I could name myself anything, and people would read into it. I named myself Lyseni, so it says nothing more about me than what they could already see.”

An honest answer if there was one, Ashara thought. The boy will converse, she concluded, perhaps the boy will open up a little and perhaps that was what they both needed, for her to take her mind off the counting for once and for him, to take his mind off the past for once. Perhaps. Jon was right, it should have been her speaking to the boy before.

“I find,” she began, “Sometimes it helps to speak about things that are heavy on our minds. If you want to speak about it, I am a trained listener, you know? Westerosi Lady, I was taught to be beautiful, suffer their looks but never say a word… I know beauty is a hard thing to live with, Lysono. I can understand.”

“Beauty is a curse,” the boy almost spit the words.

“It is, sometimes,” she nodded, “and sometimes it is a weapon.” The boy frowned at her and she chuckled. “Forgive me, there is a Dornish woman in me somewhere. The Dornish speaks in me for Dornish women would use their beauty as a weapon, not lament it as a curse.”

“Lyseni use it as a tool,” the boy sat down beside the crates, now firmly focusing on her. “It is a tool, they say and were you born in Lys, Lady, they would have trained you how to use it to get what they want for them.”

“Is that what they did to you, then,” she asked, “Took the child who looked pretty and showed him the ways how to use his prettiness?”

“If you put it that way, Lady,” the boy said thoughtfully. “You know what Lys is famous for?”

“Bedslaves; everyone knows that,” she sighed. “I meant not to say it. I meant not to be insulting you that way, for I think you worth more than that.”

“You know me little, Lady,” the boy whispered.

“True enough,” she smiled at the boy, “But I know that any child would be more worth than to be trained in ways how to seduce men.”

“Or women,” he chuckled, “It goes both ways. Though it is true, mainly there are men. But the training, that goes both ways.”

She laughed silently at the remark. “True, and just as true that some men prefer men and some prefer women and some want it both ways even, or mind not what it is as long as their lust is attended to, I wager. But I doubt that those wise Lyseni who take young children to train them for such things consider the preferences of those children. I doubt they even care and I doubt the children even have preferences at such a young age, I know I did not. And so, they make it tenfold harder for the children methinks, for I am certain that regardless of what they would prefer once they know what to prefer, they get both ways like you say.”

The boy watched her intently as she spoke. “You go around it very considerately, Lady,” he noted.

“I do,” she chuckled. “Is that what they did to you?”

They boy’s eyes were keenly searching hers. “They did many things,” he said, “Depending on who ‘they’ were at a time,” the boy swallowed, as if swallowing the end of his sentence and Ashara sighed a heavy sigh, for she found, she could not loosen the boy’s tongue.

“You mean not to speak about it, I understand,” she concluded.

“Griff would dismiss me,” the boy whispered. “Griff would be angry with me, perhaps so angry that he would raise his voice and then the whole boat would hear it, like when Yandry woke his ire.”

“Told you,” she smiled, “Let me deal with my husband, Lysono. Seems to me that you have enough to deal with, without my husband adding to it.” No, she didn’t intend to loosen the boy’s tongue and tell on everything the boy said, she hoped the boy’s sharp mind to work that out. She wanted the boy to speak up and let it out of his system, and then perhaps the boy would go and mingle with the other two boys and make mirth like children should.

He sat in silence as if thinking about it, once more watching the babes. Little Jon woke, chuckled like he always did, and the boy reached for a tiny hand, touched his pointing finger to those tiny wiggling fingers that clasped onto it immediately. “He likes you,” Ashara said softly.

“I like him,” the boy said, his eyes on Little Jon, “Both of them, but I like him more. He has purple eyes and pale skin and dark hair like you. Once he is grown, he will be a big man like Griff, a handsome man and a man to be feared for he will look fearsome like his father and you both look… if I may say, you both look pretty. Handsome. What the word for that is. They will swoon over his eyes but they will dread his strength and so nobody will dare to mess with him.” Push him down onto tables to force their male parts into him, Ashara almost heard the boy say and it lifted the knot in her stomach.

“Gods, I hope you right,” she replied even before thinking through what the boy could have meant, though the description could only be as accurate as all the lies allowed. The boy will never be built like Jon, for it wasn’t Jon’s blood running through his veins, it was prince Rhaegar’s. But the boy would hopefully grow to be a feared dragon, tall like his father, strongly built like the wolf brothers of his mother perhaps. The boy will be a dragonwolf. There likely never be a griffin with starlight in him, because she couldn’t do a damn thing to bring it about. “I hope the whole damned world will dread his strength.”

The Lyseni looked up at her surprised. “You are a fierce mother,” he said.

“Or just a mother who wished for the children to grow up in their rightful home,” she sighed, “Instead, we are sailing on a river in a foreign land to find a new home for ourselves. Was it not so, they would grow up to rule over lands and people, Lysono. Hold not against me my lamenting what we have lost, what we all lost.”

The boy nodded, “Would you want your children to take it back?”

She smiled, “Never tell my husband that I told you, but I would, very much so. I would and once they did, I would want them gut those who took away what was ours. But that is wishful thinking by a scorned woman, a woman who had to cross the Narrow Sea to make a life so they could grow up safely, for it was here where they could have a father to protect them. If your mother lived, she would have protected you, I am sure of it, she would have taken to the end of the world with you if that was what it took. I know your mother passed when you were small. I pray to the Gods to see them grow up, for if not, then how would I protect them? If Jon fell in battle in this land, how would he protect them and teach them who they are? But a mother would never leave a child behind at will, a mother would never accept wrong against a child, Lysono, your mother would have done all I did and more for you.”

The boy’s purple eyes returned to the babes, and she realised, talking about his mother will not be the way to make the boy speak. Perhaps he had no memories of his mother at all. “I think he will do it,” the boy mused. “He is not like the babes I saw before; those would cry when they wake. No, I think he knows that he has better purpose than to cry for mother’s milk. And her, she will be a beauty with purple eyes and silver hair, it is true like they say that Valyrian women are the most beautiful. I hope she will think it a weapon, not a curse.”

“I hope so, too.”

The boy sat in silence for a while watching the babes intently as if there was anything to see on them, but the more she watched the boy the more she realised that the boy’s thoughts were elsewhere. Suddenly, the boy turned to her. “When I was little, I was taken to Pentos. I was mice, I lived on the streets, I begged for food and I climbed down chimneys and walls, and I stole things for others like mice do. That was training, but only I had it, my sister had none of it. Then later we were sent back to Lys, my sister and I, back to the same magister. I remembered him, he told them not to let me see mother when I cried... When she got the pox, he would have her in the room with the others who had the pox and he would let none in there, and he would lament over the coin it took, I remember that. He told us that we grew very pretty. He sat us down and called in bedslaves and told them what to do, show us things, he told us to watch. One of them kept talking and talking about it, what to do and how, while the others kept doing it to show, that was all they did for a time. Then later the magister told us to do it, go and do this and that with the bedslaves and I told him, I do it. Not my sister, a maid is a maid and once she is not then it is gone so I do it. She was to be a maid you see; I was told she was to be a maid until we come of age. They told me that being pretty is a tool and I should learn how to use it. That magister, he is proprietor of a pillowhouse of high repute in Lys and I know, I believe that he was told that we were not to do those things, my sister was to be a maid, but he saw only the coin, I know it. He told me that we were so pretty, what if we made a coin or two, how would we learn otherwise. I persuaded him to let me do it, I would do it all, I told him that I wanted to, I wanted to learn I said. Leave my sister for she needs to be a maid but I want to do it, and so he would leave her, and she would…” the boy swallowed. “She hates me for the things I did. But then she had to do none of those things for I did them. The magister tested me for he wanted to be certain that I was learning he said, he could not send me and lose coin over me, I had to be tested you see. He would have his feasts with his guests and he would show off his property for them to make use of but then he would show us sometimes, and then I would have to deal with it so they leave her be. So I would do what it took to deal with it. The magister, he would be asked after me and he would send me off to their houses, and he would tell me, take this or find out that, use what you know and do it. And so I would. He would never try to send my sister, because I would always do it and there is certain coin in that. He would point at a man sitting at a table and tell me, the man has coin or the man knows this or hides that, get it and I would do the work. That is what I was trained to do. They say I can wrap a man around my fingers in no time if I set myself to it. That is what they trained me to do in Lys.”

By the time the boy finished, Ashara was fighting back her tears. She wanted to go and hold this boy who so factually explained to her what she saw as horror. The boy was fourteen still even now, she kept reminding herself as she listened. She caught her lips trembling as she watched the boy, looking wide eyed at her, his pretty face unreadable.

“They made you,” she sighed, “Gods... Good Gods... They sent you to seduce men is what you say, they told you to make men want to use you, put their... thing in you… Gods.”

“That is what bedwarmers do, Lady,” the boy said, “Half the men who enter a pillowhouse would not think of taking more than a horn of ale with their friends there and watch. Looking is for free, so there is no coin in that. Anywhere in the world in every pillowhouse, the customers are persuaded, seduced, aroused, the bedwarmers will sit and drink and laugh with them, touch them, arouse them with their talk, read them and then decide how to seduce them. If they are good at what they do, they seduce them, and then they earn the coin. The work is to make them want it, what comes after, that is…”

“Laying with them.”

“Easy. I would turn off my mind,” the boy said, “Unless I have a task, to find out something or steal something, because then I would work for men are their weakest when they are feeding their lust, so sometimes there is work, sometimes there is only feeding their lust and I would turn off my mind and just do it, read what is good for them and do it, talk them out of what I want to avoid. I’ve been taught how to make them done and how to do it fast if I want that or avoid what I need to avoid. I would do it, then they pay and it is done.”

“Avoid,” she repeated, “What in the Seven Hells…”

“Most common are bondages, candles, whips or belts, but I man once cut marks into one of the bedslaves while I was in Lys because he knew not how to talk the man out of it. No one tried to cut marks into me. The rest is best to avoid, candles and whips leave marks at best, make one unable to work at worst, especially the belts, and they would want the bondages first so I would have no control over what they do and where and how long… once they have control, they change, they would not listen or look in my eyes so I could not reclaim it easily. Crying does nothing but make it worse, so if it is bad tell them how good it is and urge them on to finish faster whatever they are doing. Never lose control. The work is to make them done fast with what they pay for, they would want to make it last so best be in control and make it fast. But it really comes without thinking about it once one learns how to control them so I would switch off my mind for the most of it.”

“You talk about it as if it was selling potatoes,” she remarked.

“It is selling,” the boy chuckled.

“You talk about it as if it was normal, is what I said.”

“It is what I know how to do,” the boy countered, “I know westerosi lords are trained to use sword and lance and play harp and whatnot. They know that, I know this.”

“It is still not normal,” she sighed, reaching out her hand she caressed the boy’s immaculate porcelain skin on his cheek, she tucked a lock of loose silver hair behind his ear. “Whatever they told you, it is not normal, it is not who you are, you must believe me. See, I cannot even wrap my head around how you would do such things, it is so not normal.”

“I would…” the boy thought for a long moment, “Well it depends. I would really just figure out first what kind of man I am dealing with. Some just need to be told and they want it, some need to be listened to and eased into it until they grow bored lamenting whatever they chant about and realise what is in front of them. But some need more work, sometimes they just would not, so I need to get them started.”

“Get them started,” Ashara cried out in her shock, “Gods have mercy.”

“Not that hard,” the boy declared, “put their hands to places, or touch them, depending, say things they seem to want to hear, sometimes need to be quite descriptive with them and that would arouse them, that works most times and it works for me for I tell them what I am willing to do, not what they would really want. Then they will want what I told them instead.”

“Lysono I am not asking you for details,” she protested, once more reaching to caress the boy’s face whose eyes turned confused. She got so stunned into the chair that the boy literally described how to be a whore and she didn’t stop him. The worst of it though was how factual the boy was about it all, how it seemed most natural to the boy that he knew such things Ashara didn’t even hear about before. The Gods help her if Jon would only be aroused by burning candles on her skin or whipping her with his belt but it was best not to follow this chain of thought now, with the boy in front of her. No, Jon would want no such things from anyone. Not Jon. “I need no convincing. I am shocked that there are men in this world who send little boys to seduce and lay with men and do all these things... You had to do that, whether or not you wanted it or liked it, and you are a child! Good gods, you are still a child. Do you understand me?”   

“Your husband likes boys; he paid boys who laid with him for his coin.”

“No, he does not like children for that,” Ashara protested, “I tell you, he does not. He would never touch a child; he absolutely detests touching a child like that. I know my husband.”

“As if it mattered,” the boy said, “ten or twelve or fourteen or even sixteen, it matters little. The younger the better, the younger the higher the price would be.”

“Where we come from, there are no slaves,” she tried to explain her reasoning, to try and snap the boy out of this factual recounting of such shocking things to her for this way she will never find a way to the boy. “There are whores, of course there are. But you see, there are no slaves, so those who do these things are doing it for themselves, not for a master, or a magister. How would I know, I never even spoke to one…” until she spoke to this boy, Ashara thought. She never spoke to a whore before. A bedwarmer, that was a somewhat nicer word for it, if that was possible. A bedwarmer in Westeros was a bottle of hot water wrapped in linen and placed under the duvet to actually warm the bed before one gets to sleep in it, she thought, or hoped. Here they were children to feed the lust of men. “But since they are grown, I suppose they work for their own, of their own free will.”

“Men like what they like, everywhere in the world, Lady. They are the same everywhere,” the boy said, “If men like boys in Essos, they like boys in Westeros just the same. It is their nature.”

“It is wrong,” she said at last, “Gods. You should tell the name of that man who trained you to my husband and I swear to you, he would go and gut him for what he did to you. Do you know his name?”

The boy looked at her silently, with knowing eyes. “You do know,” she remarked, the boy’s reaction shocking her even more.

“There is nothing good in gutting any of them,” the boy explained then.

“Where is your sister, Lysono?”

“In Pentos,” the boy’s reply came without pause, “Griff wanted to dismiss me for I went to see her, that is where I went when I sneaked out the inn. I wanted to see how they treat her.”

“And?”

“She seemed well enough,” the boy whispered, “She was asleep. It was late.”

“And?” Ashara felt herself fill with anger, not at the boy of course, but at whomever wronged the boy, whomever ‘they’ were that the boy referred to when refusing to name ‘them’.

“And nothing,” the boy said, “I wanted to do nothing. I was told if I… I did nothing. I left and climbed back up to our room. If I did what I was asked for, the hour or two I was asked for then I could have woken her and spoken to her. I could have persuaded the magister to allow me, give him what he wanted and while I do it, I could have persuaded him to give me what I needed.”

“But you refused to give yourself, and that was the right decision,” Ashara nodded.

“It is what Gorys told me once,” the boy whispered, “he said that sometimes we ought to say no. I said no and I’ve been forced down against a table while two men had a go at me. Then I said no and I could not speak to my sister. Saying no does little good to me, in truth, now that I think of it.”

“And still you should say no,” Ashara remarked. “You are not a tool to be used.”

The boy gave him a forgiving smile, “Beauty is a tool, Lady. A tool and a curse to those who have it, it is not a weapon.”

Ashara stood, walked away a few steps to collect her thoughts. She wanted to console the boy who in truth didn’t look at all in need of her consolation. No matter how resolved the boy looked though, she knew, the boy was deeply broken. He was resolved, resolute, factual as if anything he told her was ordinary. But it was ordinary for the boy for it was the only think he knew, Ashara reminded herself. The boy was so broken that no consolation could ever put him back together, it was not consolation that the boy needed. But she couldn’t tell in her shocked state what the boy needed; she only knew what wanted out. So she said it. Later on, she will confess to Jon this much if anything wrong comes out of this, she will reason and she will stand for the boy if needs be, like she stood for the boy in Pentos when Jon wanted to send the boy away.

“Here is what I think,” she said as she turned, “Beauty is a weapon. You were taught how to use it. They broke you; you may not see that but I see it, they broke you and installed in you that this is how you should be so your beauty become THEIR tool instead. They twisted you and they used you, no doubt they kept telling you that this was all that you were ought to be until you believed it yourself. But you are here now, you are safe and nobody in the whole damn world shall ever lay a hand on you again unless you will it. My husband will not allow it, he would sooner cut it off for them than to let anyone use you like that, that much I am certain of. You are soon to be a man of your own, I heard you work hard, I saw you put yourself to training, you could make a fine man of the Golden Company. Do it. Then take what they taught you and turn it into your weapon because your beauty is yours and you choose what you use it for. Use it and bring them all down and gut them. Take your sister from them and then gut them. That is what I think you should do. Damn them into the fifth of hells, I am so angry at them now, I would gut them myself if I could!”

The boy watched her intently as she spoke, but looked away toward the end as if she said something that the boy struggled to hear. He looked at the babes in the crates, she could see that Little Jon was snoozing once more, holding the Lyseni’s finger still. “Griff said to put the past in the past.”

“Can you put it in the past?”

“Can he put his past there?”

“What is the relevance…”

“They say he loved the Targaryen prince,” the boy raised his eyes to her, “they say things about him. That is how I know that he likes… men. Not boys, as you say.”

“In an army camp,” she thought aloud, “I suppose they talk about his drinking and whoring. He lost a lot, Lysono. He lost everything, he needed to forget and so he indulged himself. If you know men like you say you do, then you understand.”

“Not everything,” the boy said, “He has you and the babes.”

“Because I defied people and crossed the Narrow Sea…”

“I heard,” the boy smiled, “Gorys thinks it the most wonderful love story. But surely you can see, Lady, the past cannot be put into the past. You are here, sailing to find a new home in a foreign land like you said because of what happened in the past and Griff lost his name and lands over it. It is not the past and so he cannot put it in the past, neither can you, that is why you would want your son to take back what you lost. I cannot put the past in the past because it is in the present. It is in the future.”

“The future is what we make it, Lysono,” she declared defiantly. “I sail this river in a land foreign to me to the Gods know where because I made the choice to be with my husband, wherever that is to be, I made that choice for the future to be better together. You also have a choice to make.”

“That, I do,” the boy said solemnly. “But you are right, Lady. I talked about it and that gave me a clearer head… and now I think that I will need to think more about it for there is a lot to think about. What you told me, beauty is a weapon, I need to think about that.”

They didn’t speak after. Ashara sat back in the chair and watched the boy watching the babes. The boy seemed so unnaturally calm to her, so calm that she felt even more sick at the thought of the things the boy told her, seeing the boy’s beautiful face, the scar on one side set to heal finally. Was the boy a man grown, was it his choice, Ashara would not have cared. She would have despised the Lyseni for that choice, because that was what she was taught, that was her nature, she knew that. But the Lyseni was a child, and judging by his story he didn’t start this yesterday either. Gods, the boy spoke of ten and twelve years olds to her, the younger the child the higher the price will be, he said. Grown men sold him and sold him again if she understood it well, whenever there was a buyer willing to pay, they sold him, grown men forced him to indulge other men’s lusts for their gain. That the boy spoke of how protective he’s been of his sister didn’t escape her either. The boy had it harder because of protecting his sister, no wonder then that he sneaked out and risked his place in the Company to see her. But the boy was growing up. From what she’s heard, the boy was finding his voice. Thank young Gorys and his likely lovestruck advice to this boy, to learn to say no. The boy was learning it, from what she could tell, with little success thus far but he’s been trying. She thought that a good sign, perhaps not all was lost with this boy. Jon thought the boy sinister, hiding things. Ashara felt that the boy hid things to protect his sister as much as he hid things he knew of not to make his case even worse, perhaps after what happened to him in the camp. He was willing before to give his body to protect his sister, hiding things from Jon was really nothing compared to that in her eyes. The boy suddenly stood, “Think they must be looking for me,” he said, looking out the porthole. “Training should be soon; I hope not to be late. Then Griff would surely take my head, or even dismiss me.”

“Go then, best not to be late but not for my husband but for you to keep learning,” she stood. But she reached for the boy’s hand. The boy looked at her startled. “I want you to come to me, if you need to talk about this some more. Say nothing to those men outside, the knights, even the crannogmen, nobody at all but come to me.” The boy nodded though it didn’t convince her at all that the boy would heed her words, and she wasn’t to let go yet. She was wondering what else to tell the boy to make him feel, for so far during this conversation the boy seemed to feel very little. He seemed as if he needed to talk, share all those gruesome details to be able to look at them head on and so he did that, but as he was taught to switch off his mind as he called it, he switched off himself while he spoke about it even. Once more she tucked that stray lock of hair behind the boy’s ear. The boy was her height but clearly not yet near grown to his full height, young and wide eyed, still very much a child. She pulled the boy in an embrace, knowing well that she must have stunned the boy doing so for the boy didn’t return the embrace, though after his sudden tension he relaxed into it. That assured her somewhat that later the boy will think about their conversation, and then the embrace will matter. “You are not what they told you,” she whispered. “You can be anything you want to be, and you are making your way out. Keep going. Always keep going ahead and never look back. If we look back, we are lost. Just keep going ahead.” Then she let the boy go, his face full of confusion. He only nodded, then swiftly left the cabin, only watching for the door, closing it carefully to avoid it make a sound.

When Jon came to settle for the night, once they were past the ugly procedure of changing into their shifts and the awkwardness of it all, she told Jon that she spoke a little to the boy. She told him to give the boy a chance, and please, protect the boy. To her surprise, Jon didn’t argue, didn’t protest, didn’t speak about his misgivings and his assumptions about the boy being sinister and hiding things from him. “If you want so,” he said. That was all. If she wanted so. She wanted not to wonder whether Jon ever did any such things that she’s heard of, or Artus, or any man she knew. She didn’t want to even consider Jon’s belt or the burning candle on the table nearby and what other men, surely not Jon but other men would use those for against little boys even and likely against anyone they fancied. Likely they cared little if the one they fancied said no either, no they likely pushed the one saying no down on a table and took what they wanted anyways.

She didn’t think Jon’s agreement a sign that Jon was interested in the boy’s situation, and definitely not that he had any interest in the boy himself like a man preferring boys would. Jon was too messed up to be interested in anyone, by now that’s where she arrived with her counting, now adding the twelfth night to those nights counted. Though perhaps one should have been deducted, the one when she sent Jon to drink his headache away. No, Jon had simply no room for the boy, in truth, and so perhaps he didn’t even get to the point of thinking about the boy’s age, though he professed his disgust over such things before enough. Jon had the two babes and the two knights and Gorys Edoryen to worry about, and Toyne, and how the hell to settle them in the town they were sailing towards, how to pay for it, and then how to live in this marriage that Jon struggled with so much that the man who was said to have paid for manwhores and make use of their skills has become more akin to the most shy maiden than a man of his own will when it came to being wed. How to make something of his squire, she added to the list for she forgot that. The things that she pried out of Jon in small pieces, issues upon issues. She didn’t tell him what she learned about the boy. She hated herself for it, keeping things from Jon was not what she wanted to do, but as she laid there in his embrace, she thought about the details she didn’t ask from the boy. How ironic this was, Jon thought the boy here to seduce him, prove whether he was true to his word to Toyne, at least that was how she understood it. The boy seemed to have no inclination of that task assigned to him, for the most part the boy seemed to be lost in his own misery after Jon’s scolding of him. As if with his dagger Jon took his confidence as well, the boy seemed lost in figuring out how to be after being disarmed and scolded. Jon abhorred at touching a child like that, she told the boy, for that was what Jon told her and by now she knew her husband enough for it to be the truth. But there was something the boy said that also was not letting her be and she hated that in herself for she felt it abuse of the boy’s confidence. Sometimes men only needed to be told and they wanted it. Sometimes they needed to be listened to until they stopped lamenting and realised what was in front of them. Sometimes they needed more, to be touched, or to make them touch, sometimes they needed to be told the things they needed to hear. To get them started… ‘just figure out first what kind of man I am dealing with’, the boy said. Ashara felt sheer hatred toward herself for it, but she went through the list one by one.

She never told Jon what she wanted, whenever she wanted something. She didn’t even tell Jon that she wanted him to agree to raise little Jon, or Dany, for she began to call the girl Dany, one of her problems was how to make the girl’s Targaryen name work in her new life until she can take back her own name without feeling it completely alien to her once she’s grown and without giving her away. Dany was the best she came up with, and she needed to think of a name that it would fit with for it was not a name on its own that she knew of, but she didn’t trouble Jon with this either. She tried the listening, multiple times by now, the only time she really asked Jon something was asking him to tell, again and again. She got little further with that, she had to admit. Sometimes it was harder, the boy said. Well, figuring out the man, that was hard enough. She gave up. She has not been taught how to get what she wanted. Perhaps Jon was right, she’s just to give up trying.

Thirteen. The Gods knew why she kept going, Ashara thought. The small space on the boat has become suffocating. For some reason she didn’t see it affect any of them as it affected her. Bathing in the mornings became her favourite activity, she began to take her time with it as well, no matter how eager Jon would be to get moving ahead on this damned river with the scarily large turtles in it swimming past them as she washed. She would be off the boat and in the cool calming water, Jon would be standing in front of her, and such things were by now reason to celebrate. Today morning was even better for Jon had to bathe with her. He rose as he would, much earlier than she did. But the little one, Denys, fell off the ladder in the night. Neither Rivers nor Mandrake dared to wake Jon, or anyone else, instead Mandrake slept with the boy on the deck, though there was little sleep in it for she’s learned that the boy was in agony when the rest of them woke. She’s heard that there was a lot of weeping by the boy, that Jon woke to the sound of the boy screaming. It was Howland Reed, for the boy’s knee dislocated and Reed apparently scolded the knights for leaving it be for so long. He was said to have slammed his fist against the bone stuck out on the side of the boy’s knee after he investigated it as much as he could. He did that to force the legbone back in place, and that made the boy scream instead of the whimpers. It was the talk of everyone that morning, and Jon, he jumped as he could, even woke her in the process but told her to stay and he shall sort it. He then got out there to see what happened, he told her while they bathed how it went down, that she wasn’t there to restrain him. Once Reed told him what it was, how the wait made it much harder to see what injury there was to the boy’s knee, he let out all his anger on the two knights who were now sulking, so much so that Rivers didn’t retire to sleep yet, he sat with the still whimpering boy who could not stand on his feet. Apparently, Jon also had a few words spared for the boy, climbing ladders half asleep. Choosing to sleep on the roof knowing that he couldn’t keep his bowel under control at night. He scolded Rivers for not speaking up against it, he had the nights watch, did he not know of the little one needing a piss at night to allow him, Jon agree to the boy sleeping on the roof and not speak up about what he knew. Not that the cabins would have been better, Ashara knew, for the boy would have surely fallen down the steep stairs to below, and if not, he would have stumbled and fell over when he walked into a sleeping Gorys Edoryen who took to make his bed outside their doors at night. Jon told all the boys, once they are set to sleep, if they need to piss then they piss themselves and they clean it up the next day for there shall be no more ladder climbing at night and there definitely shall be no pissing off the roof and soiling the deck. Little Denys Strong could not get on his feet to even relieve himself now. Today there was to be no training, and not because they couldn’t make the pairs. The Lyseni took all the washing, volunteered even to do so, and he will be busy with that for a large part of the day, Ashara knew for it was by far the larger half of the work the boys had on a day to day, the work of two done now by the Lyseni alone. Malo ended up with the kitchen duty which now included assisting in making potions as much as assisting Howland Reed care for Denys Strong. The whole boat was in a dire mood, so much so that Ashara cursed herself for she knew, she should not have found joy in the bathing today. But Jon was there, and he was nice to look at, washing even his hair while naked in waist deep water. He was a nice man to look at, her husband, he had muscles of the like that in truth she’s never seen before, not even on Arthur as much as she’s seen Arthur with his shirt off even. Perhaps that was what she was ought to tell him, that he was really easy on the eye, a very pleasing sight indeed. That those short moments when he would be naked in front of her before he would be changing to his shift were treasured, that she wanted to count the freckles on his shoulders no matter how that would take her long hours, and other things she liked that she dared not to linger on in her thoughts. She never saw a naked man stand in front of her like Jon did in those short moments and for all she could tell, finally it began to bother him less and less that she looked. She wondered whether Jon treasured her sight the same way.

Breaking fast was just as dire. The boredom would really begin after, there was nothing to look forward to today. Denys Strong grew silent, Ysilla’s potions began their work along with Reed’s bondage on the injured knee that she saw grew three times the size of the boy’s other knee. It was why Reed could not inspect the injury and worried about his chosen action, but as he said, the longer he waited now the worse it would get and the longer it would take for the boy to get back on his feet. They could only hope that the knee remained intact while the bone left the joint for else the boy may even have to kiss goodbye to ever becoming a knight. Cripples were forbidden, Ashara knew. She also knew that nobody told the boy of this, but of course Jon told Rivers and Mandrake whom he considered most responsible for the boy’s misfortune. Jon cursed his trust in them, cursed himself for not questioning the guard, not knowing what was going on when he himself was not watching, and Jon was working himself up into a proper mess over it, she could tell. She’s told Jon to go back into the cabin and sit by himself for a while to calm for no good will come out of it if they lose their leader now, do it for the boy. Reed had taken some of the boiled herbs Ysilla used to make the potions for the boy, wrapped those around the boy’s leg under the linen bondage. The boy’s pain was sorted by the potion no doubt for he grew silent. Rivers was beside him, made the boy a bed there on the deck, and soon the boy was fast asleep, Rivers even kept tucking the boy into the blanket which was proving a task in itself. The boy would toss and turn, and even whimper in his sleep for all the tossing did little good to keeping that injured leg still. He kept wrapping himself in the blanket, Rivers kept trying to unwrap him and cover him with it. The care and the worry as much as the guilt of Rivers was plainly obvious. They talked even less, everyone worried not to wake the boy. Rivers finally retired in Howland Reed’s cabin once he gave up on the boy’s blanket.

That was also an arrangement settled into. They were so loud once they all woke that Rivers had very little rest on the roof during the day, and Howland Reed sent him off to take their cabin. They used it in the night, Rivers used it in the day.

The day progressed, no, dragged on, seemingly going on forever. Malo Jayn got pulled into a one-to-one session by Jon. Lengthy explaining of movements, slow showcasing of how-to’s, the boy attempting to learn them, trying them. Ashara never saw Jon give so much attention to Malo, but by now she knew, the boy was one of Jon’s main worries despite how little Denys may have taken over his place today. How to make sure the boy finally improved was one of those things Jon struggled to figure. The boy seemed to catch on with Jon’s hands-on method of the day, perhaps the result of his own guilt over Denys Strong and his perceived lack of attention on the boys whom he called now his charges. The boy was clearly appreciating the attention and putting in the effort, to her it really seemed that he was replicating everything that Jon showed her, if not taking a few tries at it. The Lyseni boy appeared a while after, having finally finished washing twice the load of things that he otherwise would have, he sat by himself on the deck watching the session intensely.

Young Gorys also appeared a while after, standing by the way down to the cabins, Ashara thought him watching the training. Caught him glancing at the Lyseni a few times. Jon was right, the young man was smitten with that boy. The boy didn’t need such attentions, Ashara felt adamant to put an end to it somehow for neither did this one swoon over something that he could not have and work himself into a heartbreak.

“Gorys,” she called out, “Come, sit with me.”

The man looked startled, but obediently he came and sat down next to her. “What could I do for you, my Lady?” he asked and made her smile. This boy had impeccable manners. In truth, he heard nothing but good about this boy, not just about his nature, but about his resilience and how he made it to be a serjeant of the Golden Company at just eighteen years of age, not even four bangles on his arm to show off his years of service. She made a mental note to stop calling Gorys Edoryen a boy.

“How much are we in your debt, you could tell me,” she whispered, “My husband tells me nothing about it.”

“I would need to see the chequers,” Gorys looked at her apologetic with wide black eyes. The boy had hair like Jon and yet he was so different from Jon, with his naturally olive skin more akin to the Rhoynar than to a northerner like Jon. Gorys had no freckles on his nose or cheeks either, his eyes were black like the nights out here on the river. He was also young, looked so very young when compared. Five years looked more like fifteen between these two. “I left them with Blackheart… the captain-general. I just brought what he said we may need, and we are good with it so far. Spent more than expected for the journey from Pentos cost us, but we made up for it and more with this journey as it is.”

“And how are you handling it,” she asked then, “this journey. It didn’t start well for you.”

“It is as Lysono told me,” the young man said, before he seemingly caught himself.

“I am not my husband,” she whispered to him mischievously, “Worry not. What did he say?”

“I will get used to it, but it may take a day or two. The potions helped with it though,” the boy explained, his eyes on the Lyseni who seemed as if nothing in the world mattered but the training in front of him. He was even mimicking the moves as he sat with an imaginary sword in his hand, completely lost in listening and trying to pick it up as if it was a session for him.

“You love that boy,” Ashara remarked and Gorys once more looked at her as if he got caught but then his eyes narrowed.

“Why is everyone talking about me as if they knew what they know nothing about,” he said, before he really caught himself. “Forgive me, my lady.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she nodded, “I was the one prying, after all. I just… I think that it does no good for you, or for him, if I am honest with you.”

“There is nothing,” Gorys sighed. “Truly, my Lady, there is nothing. There will not be anything.”

“You seem certain.”

“I am certain,” he declared. Ashara wondered whether to ask further, watching Gorys’ gaze settle on the boy. She should have disturbed him, not have him stare at that boy while sitting next to her, she knew. She needed to make this young man, most likely having his first encounter with a proper fancy over someone, that it was nothing but a little fancy. She thought so at the least. But she needed Gorys to see for he was the grown of the two and not the one with other problems to deal with, Gorys had to be made to realise what this was looking like. She hoped the boy to progress from there to stop, after all he must be a smart boy to rise so high so quickly.

“Gorys,” she spoke the name softly, “Gorys, let me tell you a story.” The boy turned.

“A story?”

“A story,” she confirmed. “The story of my first love.”

“I think not that Griff…”

“Oh, he knows of it,” she whispered, “So does your captain-general. You shall be the third man of the Company then to hear it.”

“I shall keep it to myself,” Gorys declared.

“I know that,” Ashara assured the boy, “I know you are keeper of many secrets; I am certain that they are not just our secrets but many men left their private matters in the care of the one who handles the gold just as I am certain that many tried to win favours and such from you because of your position, and you would not be where you are if you gave in to such attempts. So, listen. I went to a tourney. I was young, I never thought to have loved anyone before. Sure enough, I knew Jon for quite a time by then, I spent my time with Jon. Think what you will, I enjoy his prickliness and his curious ways with people. People feared to wake his ire, they used to stare at him all the time and whisper behind his back and I used to make up jokes with him about people passing by staring at us…”

“Jokes with Griff,” Gorys looked at her in disbelief, “I wish I had that skill.”

“Seems to me,” Ashara laughed, “Only I am blessed with that skill, Gorys. Anyways, my brother used to jest about it, Lord Jon will soon ask for my hand in marriage, make our jesting permanent… even Princess Elia told me about it, told me that prince Rhaegar expected it. Jon didn’t ask, and so I went to that tourney a free woman, and there was a feast. Most of it I spent sitting between Jon and my brother, in truth, and we laughed so much there, the three of us, it is a fond memory for me. I even managed to convince Jon to dance with me, with my brother’s help. Please, tell him nothing of it, I doubt he ever asked for dances from other ladies, only me for he absolutely hates dancing. Then I danced with Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper they call him, he’s brother to Princess Elia and a quite funny man when not dangerous. Then a man came to me, son of a lord. Told me that his brother would like a dance, too shy to ask for it himself… I noticed the boy already, looking at me puppy eyed. My brother noticed, even Jon noticed… I gave him a dance. I swear to you, by the time it ended I was smitten. So smitten that by the end of the tourney I promised myself to that boy. Young man, for he was no boy, he was of your age at the time. He promised himself to me, and so I thought myself to be wed off soon to this wonder of a man whom I thought to love me and I thought myself to love him, like the loves in the songs. You know what he did? His brother, the one who asked me died. The man who promised himself to me saw it fit to honour the arrangement made for his dead brother instead, and took his brother’s betrothed as his wife, and I learned of it later that he was among those who defeated Jon at the Stoney Sept, he was in the relief army that caught Jon’s army there searching house by house for Robert Baratheon. He was one of those who made that happen, with that marriage securing more allies and armies. Then he went and he’s slain my brother Arthur. He thought at least honourable to return our sword Dawn to my lord brother after. He told to my face that he did what honour demanded and yet he questioned into my face Jon’s honour. Truth to it is, when I learned of his marriage, it broke my heart. I thought to have loved that man and he broke my heart.”

“He fought against the Targaryens, then,” Gorys digested what he’s heard, “Fought Griff, and so he was responsible for Griff’s exile, I take it?”

“The mad king was responsible for Jon’s exile,” Ashara sighed, “He named Jon, no doubt to arouse the prince’s ire, to make him return to his mad father who burned other lords alive for insignificances. He used Jon for his own needs. Jon never fought in a war before and he got named Hand of the King, commander-general of the armies tasked to win against a growing rebellion led by his own liege lord, all that at one-and-twenty years of age. How is that right? He did what any good man would do, he tried to spare a town, find the rebel and be done with it, that is what I think, that is what my brother thought of it. He fought the stag there, he almost ended the same way as the prince after, I know it, for were his men not quick to drag him away once he was hit by the stag’s hammer he would have been lost there. But this is not the point I wanted to make.”

“Forgive me then,” Gorys spoke, his voice hesitant, “I am yet to see where you are taking me with this.”

“I thought I loved that man, Gorys,” she said, “I had my thoughts all about that man for a while. Set aside all my time with Jon, and filled my own head with thoughts and ideas and made a right mess of myself thinking it over and over. Made excuses for the man, dug myself deeper and deeper into that hole and so when the news came of his marriage, it broke my heart. All because I thought that I loved the man, I thought that was love. I thought a dance and… I thought love could come from a few nice words and a dance and doing such things… I thought that love like in the songs could come in a few days, you know it when you see it and it will be perfect. It cannot, Gorys. It is not love.”

Gorys swallowed hard, his eyes firmly on her.

“In truth, I think now that I broke my own heart with it, I went into it and I dug the hole for myself and I jumped in and buried myself there, then crying for my aching heart and my being unable to climb my way out. All the while, there was a man who not once, not even once disrespected me. Not once did he have a bad word for me, not once did he break his word to me. All my fault for I could not stand for someone who I knew for long, I knew him steadfast and honourable not just from his words but from how he followed through with actions after his words, and I knew him favour and trust me just as I knew him being a man of few words when it came to such matters. Yet I could not stand for him. Do you see where I am going with this?”

“Griff was that man,” Gorys whispered.

“He was,” she smiled, “He not once held it against me. No, he took my actions with that lord on that tourney as only he would, as his own failure for not asking me. No man would do such a thing, only Jon Connington. We cannot love someone from spending a few hours with them, Gorys. That is the point. We cannot grow to love someone by spending such little time with them, for anyone can say what they want. To love someone, you need to know them, see what they are made of. Love comes slowly, you need to be sharp to catch it before it goes past you else you miss it and you can only lament it lost after. Your thoughts, the hole you can dig yourself into just by your own thoughts and knowing one for a few hours, that is not love. That’s just your mind wishing away and digging you deeper into the hole of your own daydream, the deeper you go the farther away you are from the reality of it. You put the one you think about on a pedestal, thinking it perfect. But nobody is what they first seem in this world. Words can be spoken and they matter little, it is the actions that count, it is the time and one’s steadfastness to always stand by your side. That is what feeds love, not fancy words and other fun things.”

Gorys nodded, his gaze fell on the boy.

“So, I tell you again, you love the boy,” she whispered, “Because that is what you think, I am certain of that. But you cannot really love the boy, for you know little about the boy. I heard of you spending time with him before…”

“That was a mistake,” Gorys protested desperately, “I should not have. He is underage.”

“That, he is,” she nodded, “But that is not the point. One night does not make you know him either. The rest of it, that is all your wishful thinking. Set it aside, what happens if you set it aside? He is a boy you spent some time with, you both had fun I’ve no doubt. I would think him to be far from the only one you did that with, either, for you are a handsome one, there would be many wishing for your attentions, I wager. The boy is only one of those who you had fun with before but know little else about.”

Gorys’ head fell for a time. When he looked up, he seemed shattered, yet resolute. “Thank you, my lady,” he said. “Methinks, I needed to hear your story.”

“You did,” she nodded, wrapping an arm around the young man’s shoulder. She couldn’t care less if Marq Mandrake was looking down on them from the roof, if anyone saw, this boy was in need of consolation, and she could give it this time. “Now I tell you this as well. While you climb out of that hole, keep the boy out of it. You are a man and he is just a boy.”

“He came to me,” Gorys declared defensively.

“I believe you,” she assured him, “And what do you know about the boy?”

“Not much,” Gorys admitted, “I just… I assume Griff is right. Not about Lysono being sinister, I know Griff is wrong about that. I think I know... I know nothing really. I think Griff is right, about…” he sighed. “I think he knew what to do because it was what he did before. Forgive me, my lady, I cannot call him that.”

“I am glad that you cannot and I would not either,” she nodded. “Now think on it this way. If the boy did that in the past, it was not of his own doing, surely, for he is just a child. No, he was made to do it, and surely, those who made him do such things did so not out of their kindness toward the boy, but to use the boy, to sell him for he is a pretty boy who no doubt was seen a good investment because he is so pretty. He could not have grown up cared for like children should, all because he is pretty which he truly had no choice over, he was born to be pretty like that. But he had to then give himself to receive gentle words at least from those he had to give himself to and I have no doubt that he could receive tenderness and gentleness only if he did what he was told to do. And if I am right about this, then it is the only way he learned how, Gorys, the only way he would know company that is not miserable or cruel to him.” Gorys’ eyes grew wide at that.

“I am such a damned fool,” he said.

“You are not a fool,” Ashara assured him once more, “You are a young man who was lucky not to deal with such things growing up and so you would not know. I would not know had I not seen this boy and how he is since Jon gave him a scolding. While you climb out of this hole, leave the boy out of it. He needs none of that on his shoulders for he is now in company where he is cared for, and all this must be hard for him to learn. He has been told that he cannot do the one thing he knows to do to receive some of the attention that every child needs, and still, he receives more attention and care for nothing in return. It must be hard for the child to understand that.”

“It is,” Gorys whispered. Suddenly, he looked up at her, “I mean…”

“I need to know nothing about what you mean,” Ashara interrupted. “I need to tell you, either leave the boy, or if you think that you can just help the boy and be good to him without expecting him to give you any such things that he was taught to give for it in the past, only then should you mingle with that boy. Otherwise let him deal with his own problem and have yourself deal with your own problem.”

“It is not like that,” Gorys protested. “I told him before that sometimes we ought to say no and he... He said no to me already, my Lady.”

At that, Ashara’s eyebrow shot up surprised. “Did he,” she asked.

“The day we set sail,” Gorys nodded, “He came to me and we spoke about it, and… well to sum it up, he said no. Before Griff scolded him even. He thanked me for allowing him to say no. He asked if I would be his friend. He thinks me a good man, for whatever reason he has for that. I told on him to Blackheart when those two harmed him and he was caught first, and he was angry with me for that for a time. And I think, perhaps you are right. I worked myself into a mess over him being angry with me and my having fond memories of him.”

Ashara nodded to Gorys with a smile. It was as she thought it was, then. The Gods bless Jon, for he would not see it, he had no run-in with Ned Stark that left him with his own misery and hopes for months, he would not know. It mattered little how she left out the story of her own babe, she could not have spoken about that anyways. She still could not speak about her own babe; she could not even think about her – she tried her damnest to forget about her. But this young man, he did not rise in the ranks the way he did for being stupid. He had a good head on his shoulders, and so she was right. The young paymaster understood the message, saw the relevance in it. In the end she didn’t even need to spell it out as she expected to, only half as much. Now hopefully Jon will have one less problem to worry about, the boy will mend his heart after knowing how it was all in his head, and the Lyseni boy will have nobody giving him looks to stir him to fall back into the ways he knew. At least she hoped it to work out that way.

“Now I need your help with something else, if you would,” she remarked and Gorys nodded. “I need your help with my jesting partner, Gorys.”

The boy looked wondering for the moment before the realisation set in. “With Griff?” he asked surprised, “I know little about Griff, he is… forgive me to say, he is hard to know. Or to speak the truth, he is hard to bear.”

“I told you,” Ashara chuckled, “Only I am blessed with the skill to make my husband laugh.”

Gorys nodded, his eyes settling on Griff, still practicing moves with Malo Jayn, the patience he showed was becoming impossible to ever existed in him. “It is hard to believe that you spoke of the same man, my Lady. That is the truth of it.”

“My steadfast, honourable bull of a husband,” she jested, “The only man who would stand by a woman the way he stood by me, without a doubt. You know him a prickly, hot tempered, perhaps even annoying captain for you. I know him a man weighed down by all the responsibility for you all. No doubt he will speak to me tonight of worries for little Denys. Look at him, spending the afternoon with young Malo. He feels responsible for the boy to earn his spurs from him, it is clear to see. He worries for you lot.”

“Blackheart told me that he went house by house looking for the stag king in that town. I think that was honourable to do, to spare that town.”

“The stag was no king then, he was a filthy rebel who spread rumours and hid in brothels to win his rebellion against his true prince and then took the throne wading through the blood of the prince’s little children,” Ashara declared so spitefully that Gorys turned at her stunned. “He is no king of mine Gorys. I wish nothing of his Seven Kingdoms for me, I wish no part of it. He took the Connington lands. He had no reason to, Jon’s cousin switched to his side as he was their liege, and still, what did he do with his new crown? He stripped House Connington of its ancient lordship and its lands, far older than even before the first stag could have been a thought.”

“Griff has a cousin,” Gorys asked stunned.

“He does,” Ashara whispered, “And I would surely win his ire if he knew that I told you. You see, there is more to men than what they let on. Would you help me then and go easy on him? For my sake.”

“I have few dealings with him in truth,” Gorys protested.

“And still he won your ire,” Ashara remarked, “Be honest, he did. You avoid him, he avoids you, of course you have few dealings with each other. I know we need you, Gorys. You handle the gold, we need you on our side, you know why.”

Gorys nodded. “I liked it not that he was meddling in my… business. With Lysono. Not really a business... The hole I dug myself into, as you call it, my Lady. But that is all to it.”

“I see,” Ashara nodded, “So will you help me and go easy on him?”

Gorys gave him a smile, “I suppose, something for something. I could try.”

“That is good enough for me.”

“You need not my word…” Gorys wondered aloud.

“Young men and your knightly words,” Ashara laughed, “No, Gorys, one less oath for you to worry about. Jon would tell you to be scarce with your words, not to give them out easily for you ought to live by them all and if you give too many, they will start to begin contradicting themselves sooner or later, and your honour will be tarnished by the end of it.”

“That would be sound advice,” Gorys noted thoughtfully.

“Two for one, then,” Ashara laughed.

“I will owe you one, then, my Lady.”

“Well,” she grinned, “I like to dance, and my husband chafes at it. Next time there is a feast somewhere with you and I, ask me for a dance and we shall be even.”

Gorys looked at her like a puppy who lost the bone. “I know not the first thing about dancing.”

“By the Gods,” Ashara laughed, “You redheads! What is it with you redheads… Once we have a house, come by to see the babes and me. I shall teach you to dance then, and we call it even.”

“Is that a turtle?” They heard young Denys ask pointing at the water wide eyed. The boy not only woke, he rolled away from his mat to the edge and sat up there without anyone noticing. They all seemed a sorry lot to care for an injured boy, Ashara felt the guilt of that suddenly set in. She watched the Lyseni jump and ran across to see.

“It is huge!” he called out with excitement, “A giant turtle!”

She stood at once with Gorys, both of them made their way to the boys, so did Malo and Jon, Quagg and Howland Reed. They all watched bewildered as the turtle surely larger than the whole boat passed by beside them.

“The fuck does a turtle like that eat to grow so big,” Jon remarked.

“Must be a cannibal turtle,” Marq Mandrake declared, arriving next to them, “Are there turtles who eat other turtles?”

“Maybe they eat people who fell into the water,” Malo Jayn’s voice betrayed his shock.

“Good I caught you then, Malo,” the Lyseni laughed, “Else you would be feast in the tummy of a giant turtle!”

They laughed at Malo’s sour face, before the boy burst out laughing again, and as he did, turning toward the Lyseni he slipped on the edge. Jon caught him in time before he fell in the water right atop the giant turtle.

“That’s two,” little Denys declared, “Stay off the edge Malo, odds are next time you swim! Now, someone help me up? I want to piss on the giant turtle.”

Ashara laughed as carefree as she rarely did by now, but she turned away, leaving them to the business at hand giving Denys privacy from a woman’s eyes.

Later that evening Jon spoke worried about the boy. Worried how they all failed and for certain Blackheart won’t like it, but even worse, the boy will not train now, that was certain. There goes the time wasted that the boy should have spent learning, without his brother Duncan smothering him in his protection. They were lucky if the boy wasn’t crippled by his fall, and that made Jon absolutely miserable. Ashara didn’t tell him about her talk with Gorys Edoryen beyond it being exchange of a few words, just like she didn’t tell him about her talk with Lysono Maar before. When Jon mentioned to her, she only told him that the boy was nice company whom she shall teach to dance, for Jon would never again ask her for a dance. As she expected, that made Jon leave the topic without further ado. And as she knew they will, they laid down to sleep as they always did, and there was nothing to it. She considered the list by the Lyseni once more, regardless of how she despised herself for doing so. Sometimes all it takes to tell them, but she didn’t find it in her to speak about it at all. Sometimes it would take to listen, but she listened all this time, whenever Jon shared what little he shared, and still if she kept listening to the end of her days it still would not be enough, she felt. As for the rest, she didn’t think to consider those. She didn’t think to touch the man for she didn’t know how to begin with such a thing, she knew not the first thing about making him touch her either, and in truth, she concluded that she knew even less about figuring out how to deal with it. Just like Jon said, she stopped trying. The thought of this being the fourteenth time didn’t even come to her before she fell asleep in her husband’s embrace.

Chapter Text

GRIFF

He sat in the darkness, his mind growing numb to everything, even the presence of the firepit next to him. The coils shone in all shades of amber, the fire already out, they still gave some warmth. Rivers was long gone by now, to wherever he chose to spend what remained of his watch duty, until the sun will finally rise, and Mandrake will climb down the ladder after he wakes the two remaining boys on the roof, does his washing and takes over from Rivers, right there on the roof. With his eyes on him all day. At least Rivers had some decency and left him alone. Perhaps it was on his face that he meant to be alone, because when he emerged Rivers made no attempts to converse with him after he dumped himself on the other side of this damned firepit. No, Rivers gave him a few looks, then stood and left him to his own thoughts. Indeed, it must’ve been on his face that he needed time spent with nobody breathing, only his thoughts.

His thoughts in truth didn’t seem so keen on being sorted. For the first time since ever, his thoughts were leaving him be. Here he sat, giving them the time and place and they hid away in the maze of his mind refusing to show up to this meeting with him. He truly became a poet; Rhaegar would enjoy this. He couldn’t even drag forth the sense of irony that should’ve come at that notion. He tried to force away the suspicious, fake sense of peace that seemed overwhelming on his mind.

Every move he made, every step he took, every blow he tried to land has been replayed in his mind, and once more he could hear those damned bells. Of course, if anything he’d be able to easily pull on his mind no matter what, it was the sound of those damned bells. Even recalling the dream he’s had earlier made the sound of those damned bells ring in his ear again as if he was sitting not here on a poleboat called the Shy Maid anchored somewhere under Ny Sar but likely closer to the dreadful place called the Sorrows on a river called the Rhoyne in a foreign land called Essos. No, he felt sitting leaning not against the wall of the cabins but against that damned sept and the bells kept ringing in his head. He forced himself to ignore them despite knowing that now that he pulled them back, they’ll stay for however long they wish. He did what he always did with them, he set himself to ignore them. Defy them and refuse to acknowledge them.

He took the steps up from the town square to the sept with the intent to enter the sept just as Robert stormed forward in his usual fashion, showing off his presence, this time with that ludicrous helmet of his over his head. Perhaps he lost his wits when he rebelled and thought himself a real stag, to have such a thing on his head. In his hand was his warhammer. Nothing to do about it, settle it here and now, he recalled his thoughts from when he took the last steps. Every single move he remembered, now even more so after reliving all of it in his dream, now he could recall it all. His body tensed as if he was there in the fight. IT went on for long, and he recalled every moment of it, just like he dreamed of once more living through every single moment of it. He remembered how clear the opening was. Perhaps he should have taken it for the ruse that he now thought it to be, Robert turning to side lingering a moment, his neck showing between the helmet and the armour, as if inviting his sword and so he went for it. Wide swing this was leaving him defenseless on the side but damn, he will take the shot. He felt his sword slide on the pauldron for he could not correct the swing, once he saw the hammer fly his instincts of course kicked in and he turned to avoid the blow but his arms were locked in motion, fingers as if forever locked on the handle of his sword for if not, he’d jump a step back and drop the sword at this angle. A trap this was, then. The turn was not enough without it, his side was defenseless with his arms holding out the sword in motion. Rookie mistake, Ser Willem would say. He felt the hammer hit before it registered that his own sword slid on the metal of the pauldron with an awful screeching sound for Robert turned as he swung that damned hammer, he turned to save his neck. Or perhaps the blow he took changed his own aim, and that blow crushed ribs, those loose pieces of bone pierced the lung – Griff knew that immediately, even before the pain of it kicked in. He knew because he’s been exhaling and the next breath was as if his chest forgot how to rise, then the sharp pain hit burning in his side, The lung was now unable to take in the air he needed to inhale. He fell on his knees from the force of the pain in his side. As he gasped for air in sheer panic at his inability to properly breathe, he could see Robert raising that damned hammer, getting ready to swing it once more. He needed to move, he knew that much, but all he could think of was to duck for he couldn’t move from his legs. He was breathless, the armour felt hundred times heavier now. He saw the dagger fly, Robert smarter than he’s been jumped back just right as he swung his hammer. The hammer flew past inches from his face, for he didn’t duck, he didn’t have it in him anymore, it registered in his mind. That hammer would have crushed his skull to finish him off, spare him the agony of breathing with his lung now useless, the other desperately trying to make up for what it could never make up for, not under mail and chain in the middle of a fight for his life. The dagger would have done nothing to Robert, not with that ridiculous helmet on his head and not from the side. No, it was the motion in his peripheral sight that instinctively made the coward jump. Robert was no smarter than he was, he was just more cowardly. Griff would have never gotten startled by a damned dagger in his peripheral sight, at the least. The dagger saved his life, Robert cursed for his moment of glory now gone. Griff heard as much as well, in the next moment he saw in his own peripheral sight, his own men were rushing up the steps just as he’s heard. Robert began retreating from him, coward that he was he chose not to face more than one, Griff concluded as he knelt there still fighting for enough air to make a move, for control over the damn pain that felt immobilising just as much as the lack of air. Or perhaps it was the pain itself that made him motionless. He felt the hands reaching under his arms, pulling him backwards. He spit blood, the pain growing and growing until he wanted to scream. No, he did scream and then he spit blood. Or during the scream, it was now becoming hazy. His lung has filled with blood then, he may yet drown in his own blood, he remembered the clear thought of that. He remembered as well how his mind began to focus like anyone’s when trying to survive, one thing, find one thing to keep you alert. Strangely enough his one thing became to read the faces under the helmets for he could barely see past those helmets. He wondered if Myles was one of those dragging him down the stairs. He didn’t know at that time yet that Myles Mooton fell before he was to fall. Rhaegar’s last squire, Griff should have seen his death as a sign of doom that was to come for them all. He didn’t. And as he was being dragged away, lifted up, thrown some place with the helmets disappearing from his line of sight, he saw nothing soon enough for despite his best efforts, he passed out.

The way to the throne room he recalled in all its agony, for that is where his dream took him next, standing right there in front of them all, listening to their whispers. They weren’t whispering around ‘sword-swallower’ now at the least, he remembered himself thinking. The way there, he recalled the way there just as he did while standing there with Aerys in front of him sitting in his chair of swords on his pile of swords. He recalled the agony it was to crawl there in his half-dead state for Aerys summoned him. You didn’t ignore a summons from Aerys if you wished to not get acquainted with a cauldron of wildfire, though in this case, that was likely at the end of that journey, and he knew it well as he stood there. Aerys kept measuring him up making his hateful faces under that mottled and tangled uncut beard of his, Griff knew what he could expect. Pycelle just declared that he shall live only the day before. The stupid rat that Pycelle was, he knew nothing about anything. It was Griff growling at the grandmaester to get some bamboo sticks at the least, he’d like to start properly breathing for once they laid him on the bed, Pycelle just stood there murmuring inaudibly about misfortune. Pycelle kept standing by murmuring more half-inaudible instructions while leaning over Richard Lonmouth, another former squire of Rhaegar’s, for it was Lonmouth making the cuts on his side, it was he who positioned the broken ribs one by one in what seemed another endless agony. Lonmouth drained the blood, he remembered the sound of that flowing into the bowl wondering at how much it was. Lonmouth stuck the bamboo sticks in the cuts before sewing them closed around them. Pycelle didn’t even think enough to at least bring him some milk of the poppy against the pain. By now, there was only a neatly cut and neatly sewed line on his side that he even forgot about since, all thanks to Lonmouth having a skill to such things for Pycelle surely knew not the first thing about what to do with a few crushed ribs and a pierced lung under them. Griff had Lonmouth to thank for himself not becoming a crippled exile losing his breath at the slightest of exhilaration, like in a fight or even a joust for training. Or a fuck, he could still make use of both his swords in his exile thanks to Richard Lonmouth. Lonmouth was dead, said to have fallen at the Trident defending Rhaegar. Perhaps even to that damned hammer, Griff knew nothing about the manner of his death in truth. But on that day, the day after Pycelle so cheerfully told him that he’s got no need for Pycelle’s non-existent services anymore, pulled those damned bamboo sticks as if there was no pain to be had, did nothing to hide his grins over Griff’s distorted face while he was doing his damnest not to scream while he pulled the sticks from his flesh one by one, he had to somehow get himself to the throne room, preferably on his own two legs and nothing else, to at least retain some of his dignity. Aerys was clearly not interested in wasting time on his recovery, he didn’t need to be hale to burn, that is what he thought standing there.

He stood in front of Aerys in his dream as he stood there right on the day. “You are a man of one-and-twenty years, a life ahead of you. You shall live a long life in exile, never again to see this land, stripped of your rank and lordly wealth. That shall teach you how you failed your king.” The words were the same with which Aerys pronounced his fate on the day, though before he spoke them, Aerys ranted about the mercy of kings lengthily, how he was the king, and he was oh so merciful to his subjects who kept defying him and failing him despite all the love and care and mercy a king could give his subjects. “Where’s your mercy in that, give me to the fire instead,” he said in his dream. He never said those words in truth, not on that day standing in front of the madman listening to his fate of long life pronounced. He thought them countless of times in the months after, but on that day, he took the judgement silently, he didn’t protest. Being one of the very few who got spared of the fire, he didn’t feel it mercy either. He felt it the other way around, the fire would’ve brought him the mercy, the exile brought him the punishment in all its wrath.

Ashara’s calling of his name, that definitely wasn’t the same as on that day. He arrived at the strangest part in recounting the dream that got him to sit by the firepit in the quiet night. Whenever he dreamed of the battle before, or even the day of his judgement, the end of it was always a completely different affair, him waking and drinking himself into a stupor before falling back asleep. This time it ended in a tongue tracing the squares on his stomach, he could tell immediately what it was and then it was circling around his nipple and he thought the things he would had it been REAL; linger on the nipple some more. Then there were those lips that felt as if they sucked the very life out of him, and his growing need to be able to see who it was that worked him so thoroughly but there was nothing to see. Complete black darkness. Nimble fingers grabbed at his chest, and he knew, he sunk into the heat of someone’s body but there was no grip, no familiar force to fight through just the waves of sheer pleasure by someone with the blackness around him hiding everything else. Only feeling it all and craving it all and then Ashara called his name. And he woke.

There were quiet sounds of bumps, perhaps a bedframe against the plank wall of a cabin, in steady rhythm but it was not the frame of HIS bed. No, he found himself on his side, his shift soaked from the sweat he worked up during the dream. She laid in his embrace with her back pressed against his chest as she always did. Not just that though and it registered with him now as his mind cleared, how her arse pressed against that damned boner he gained from the dream and the craving it gave him. He shuffled, tried to get space between their bodies, ease around his hardened flesh but he knew that it won’t work. He untangled his hand from hers on her waist to become able to at least get himself on his back, get his cock away from her flesh that felt so hot against him even through the linen of their shifts. Listening to her breathing for a sign that she woke, but he found it even, she must’ve slept through his ordeal. Caught his own hand reaching for his flesh to make a quick work of it and resolve the problem, for he won’t do that lying next to her, he can’t sink that low, even he can’t… so many men, he recalled in Kings Landing their looks on her, as if devouring her, stripping her and taking her right off his arm even, so many wanted her. He knew now, any of those would have been better at knowing what the heck he was to do with her. Be a husband. Forget the damned bells ringing in his ear still, forget the soft bumping sound, or perhaps pick up its pace if that was needed but just damn be a husband. He swallowed hard, he never even tried to be a husband. This was Aerys’ justice; this was his long life in exile never to see home again. He was bound to a woman who any other man would gladly make their own. Mandrake would, Rivers almost as much, even Toyne would, Griff saw it on Toyne on the day of his own wedding.

He recalled now sitting by the firepit how in the end he didn’t even think about it that much. He needed release, that’s how he explained to himself that he turned back to her. The boy in Volantis has been too long ago now and the shit just kept on coming since. There were no pirates, he’s done a good job the few months ago when he sailed up here to the ruins of Ny Sar and hunted down the group, burned their boats and such. They didn’t regroup yet it seemed, others had no interest in dirty paint peeling old Shy Maid to attack it either it seemed, none of them seemed willing to give their life so he could gain some release from the pressure he felt on himself, he had no way of shedding blood to release the tension in him. That’s why, he thought, that’s why he had to turn back to her and damn do it the only way he knew how.

He pulled her body close once more, in truth already moving into position as much as he could, while trying to be gentle about it, trying to not just take what he needed. He tried ‘gentle’, and he knew very well that he never really managed to learn how to be gentle. But he tried, his free hand kept caressing her through that curtain of a shift of hers, to try to wake her, not go at her in her sleep and turn this into something he definitely didn’t want it to become. She did wake, held her breath for a moment before it quickened, and he gave up on being so modest about it. He dragged up that damned shift on her, sent his fingers to explore what he had in his arms for he’s never touched a woman before, not once. He knew not the first thing of what to look for. But she seemed fine enough to let him do whatever, without a word just like he hoped for talking was the last thing he felt he could manage. His fingers figured it out, he always had useful fingers. His fingers worked Rhaegar into a mess that time when he finally gave in to give Griff what he craved from him. Rhaegar kept refusing, kept taking what he wanted and refusing, until his fingers worked him into such a glorious whimpering mess that one time that he even asked for it, laid back and giving him access he even asked for it. Funnily enough, he was eighteen back then and Ashara already arrived in court, when he finally managed to work Rhaegar into such an arousal that he could claim the man he desired to himself. He was surprised now as he sat by the firepit how thoughts of Rhaegar didn’t come to him as his fingers explored Ashara, figuring what made her make those cute little sounds she made. Now sitting here, he could allow himself to think about the night he first fucked Rhaegar into the mattress and not just once, he thought it the best night of his life. Still, he didn’t think about it even once while his fingers seemed to make a fairly decent job of working his wife. Though to be honest, he should’ve given it far more time. The first time it was, he went about it way too directly, he thought now. A woman had other parts to explore not just between her legs, after all. He’ll need to figure later perhaps. If there was to be a next time, though that he didn’t wonder about yet. He tried to recall, for now he felt more need to be certain that he did a decent job about it at the least.

He liked how she kept shuffling and whimpering while his fingers worked her. That was now a very pleasant memory in truth, she kept rubbing against his hardness as well when she did that and that was giving him the tiny friction that could feed what little patience he mustered to even do what he was doing. Was she a mere boy he wouldn’t have bothered near as much. With her he bothered, he found where to rub her and how, he set his finger to feel out his way into her. He lingered at how moist she became, how she raised her leg to let that finger inside her, feel out the hotness and softness of her as if she knew that learning it will make him eager even more, for it made him damn eager to bury himself in it, feel it rub against his flesh as he'd move and know it… the thought stirred him even now, sitting alone beside the firepit.

He certainly should’ve been gentler when he took her. But he never took a woman before, he’s never been a gentle one anyways and his mind was filled with sheer need for friction. No grip to fight through and he was used to put into it the pressure enough to fight straight through and just ended up pressing himself into her with nothing to halt him. The growl he’s heard himself make sounded alien to his ears at the sheer pleasure of it, before his mind registered her body stiffen in his arms. He was inside her, part of him trying to formulate the question if he’s hurt her, not that he thought even now that he had it in him to pull back if he was told to. But what she did next completely sealed the fate of his celibate marriage, for she didn’t ask him to pull back, she grabbed at him, her hand landed somewhere beyond his hipbone near his arse, her fingers grabbed at his flesh and damn, that sent him into a frenzy. He didn’t think about who he fucked, he didn’t even think about the fact that he was buried in a woman’s most womanly part and definitely not where he’d be buried was she a man. He just went with it all the way. The sounds she made only registered after, while he was calming when his cynicism returned hoping that damned Mandrake on the roof woken by her whimpers, though that’d mean Gorys Edoryen by the door surely listened to it all as well. He didn’t linger on how her body shivered, shook even at one point. Perhaps she had a release of her own, he thought now, that wouldn’t be bad for what he took from her. The thought stirred him even more. He shuffled to sit more comfortably, closer to the firepit.

He needs to set this into perspective within himself. He fucked his wife. The thought itself sounded like it was the most normal thing in the world, for a man to have fucked his wife. It felt normal. It didn’t feel the insurmountable deed he felt it to be before. Perhaps the way he did it wasn’t the most normal, coming at her from behind like he did but that was how he had the access, and he didn’t think to complicate things further by finding a more suitable position to do it. Perhaps it wasn’t normal either how surprised he was by himself for not hating himself for it. He only found it hard to stomach that he did what he did to satisfy his own urge the way he did. What drove him was nothing related to her, and that was hard to stomach. He did it to get himself the release he craved. And it was good, truly, he could now admit to himself, it was far better than he expected it to be like, but if he ever wanted to make this proper, he will have to set himself to actually do it just as much for her.

Was it Rhaegar, he would spend the time, he would lick every inch of skin if that’s what it took to set him on fire enough for him to crave giving himself and he would take great pleasure just from doing that and listening to the rewarding sounds he’d earn with it. Rhaegar never spent even near as long on him, though he never needed it either, he wanted to give himself enough just by thinking about it, hearing Rhaegar’s voice change and hearing him ask would half do the work, only leaving the rest of it to whatever oil there was at hand. But he’d set his fingers to work for hours if needs be, not to do ‘just enough’ but to do the very best. He’d suck Rhaegar mindless, not that he needed that skill with Ashara to be honest. He will never need that skill for he’s foresworn the whores, he swore himself to her. But he had to sort this, sort himself enough to go properly about it. For the next time. That there was to be a next time, he was certain of. Because he foreswore the whores, and there was no way to ever again fuck Rhaegar into a mattress either. That he needed it, that much was now clear as the starry sky above his head, and now that he thought about it, if he was honest with himself, he liked it. He couldn’t place the thought of her being a woman into it, but it was her, so he lingered little more than a moment to decide that because it was her, he liked it. He liked the hot and tight and wet way he discovered in her, he wanted to be back there. He chafed at this for years, whinged about how he couldn’t understand why Rhaegar kept returning to Elia’s bed. He chafed even more at the notion of him having to tie himself, ever since his father began with the attempts of putting it into his head which really never ceased until the day his father passed and then he gladly set aside the idea for good, as he thought. He didn’t think about this when Arthur tried to discuss with him the idea that he should ask Ashara, and to be honest he despised it when Rhaegar tried to convince him of the same. Just put the damn babes in Elia and be done with it, that is what he told Rhaegar about this. Rhaegar called him a fool, he had no idea what he was talking about, that was what Rhaegar told him in response, beside musing himself over Griff’s continued jealousy of his wife. He really did not have the slightest of clues though, Rhaegar was correct about that, now he knew that. Rhaegar was right all along. He’d also want to return to it, he wanted it. Not because it was Rhaegar or it was a boy for those it definitely wasn’t, but it wasn’t just any woman either.

Her skin felt like warm porcelain under his fingers, soft and smooth and now he felt like he should’ve touched more of it. All those bits of her that he tried to see and not see at the same time whenever she stripped in front of him, either to wash or to get on with their strange ritual of changing into their night shifts after each other while the other was waiting. Watching. He should’ve watched more because now he felt curious. All the differences that made her, HER, he wanted now to know them.

The truth of it was that he felt himself a complete fool. He lost count of how many opportunities he wasted working up his mind about it and doing nothing, not a single touch to get closer to this point, being after the deed itself. Now that he was past it, he didn’t hate himself for it like he thought he would. He didn’t chafe at it; he didn’t despise himself for sticking his cock into a woman like he expected that he would. He didn’t even hate himself for it being someone else than Rhaegar like he did whenever the boys were gone from him. Not that he ever gave them boys what he eagerly would’ve given Rhaegar whenever Rhaegar wanted him, he’s never given himself to anyone else. There was the one man before he even turned fourteen, the first, some hedge knight he didn’t even remember the name of and the experience now seemed horrendous, at the time was agonising. Then there was Rhaegar much after and many times over, and then there was nobody else after. He believed for long now that there never will be another. He didn’t need to consider that with Ashara, either. She didn’t have a cock to stick into him after all, now did she. She had other bits. He chuckled at Maester Lumyn now. With Ashara, as he was mindlessly chasing his release, barely registering anything else about it but the body he’s held close burying himself in it again and again, just before it came on him Maester Lumyn’s voice came from when he was a boy. It was something about pairing the seed with the womb, and he cared very little about it because then his release also came and fuck Maester Lumyn he was the last thing Griff wanted to think about while he released. Now he found it funny.

Though perhaps he’s ought to think about it because they had two small babes to care for, they have no need for a third. He shouldn’t be pairing his seed with her womb, but that can be easily sorted. Surely the Essosi drank moontea just like Westerosi did for if he was honest, it wouldn’t stop him now. He wanted to be back.

He let out a deep breath. He wanted to be back inside her. For all the headache this caused him until this night, he should have felt now as the most miserable man in the world, as he felt ever since his agreement to raising Rhaegar’s son. He didn’t feel miserable. He felt as if the boat was anchored on a cloud, as if the world just took on a new colour despite the night looking every bit as black as it must’ve looked every single night before this one. He spent the past nights, ever since he said the words, he spent them as if banging on an imaginary door, not knowing how to pull the handle. How to unlock it, it opened in front of him now. He was on the other side, and it wasn’t dreadful here at all. He didn’t feel near as miserable here as he felt before he entered here. No, here it seemed peaceful. He didn’t feel alone here either. He felt like he could face the whole world. Though why, he couldn’t tell and more importantly, it was downright uncomfortable to feel so content.

The sun showed its first signs on the horizon. He stared in the direction of the soon-coming sunrise; his mind strangely clear. No worries came to nag at him. He thought to force himself and still he could not work up his mind over anything. Gorys Edoryen, as good to start with as any, that boy had clear animosity for him by now, his looks were first for Griff to face each morn as he emerged on the deck. Cold, proud look on him by Gorys telling him that the boy meant every word of his reminder that they were of ‘the same rank, as we ever were’ and Gorys could ‘speak however he wanted’ to him. He had no right over Gorys, he now learned that lesson from the boy, and he’s written down the boy for he had not even the first clue about how to fix it, even not how he screwed it up so thoroughly. Gorys handled the gold, he needed Gorys on his side. But now as he thought about it with a surprisingly clear head, the boy was as dutiful as he was truly good, as good as Griff rarely saw men to become. The boy had his orders to settle Griff’s lot ‘befitting the station’ of Ashara, and Griff knew, the boy will do his best to carry out the task, regardless of how he clearly despised Griff. Therefore, there was in truth nothing to do about it, he decided now. He’s newly cleared mind decided, without even beginning to work itself into a mess.

There was still the Lyseni boy. He still didn’t make up his mind about the boy, but he decided as much as himself reporting on the boy. What his report was to contain beyond the boy’s disobedience in Pentos and the reason for it, he was yet to decide. The boy behaved as if he knew Griff’s decision, or perhaps as if somehow Griff’s mindless preaching got into his pretty head. The boy changed, he kept to himself even more now and gone were the shoulder shrugs and the cocky remarks and the lectures to others. The Lyseni now focused only on the work, on the training. He didn’t mingle with Gorys Edoryen at all, not that he showed much interest before, whatever game he wanted to play with Gorys. Griff couldn’t decide if the boy was faking it while on the boat or if the boy lost confidence when he lost that dagger from his boot or whatever it was. He felt it fishy still, and so he couldn’t decide whether to report it as improvement or report it as something that underlined his suspicions. Just two days ago he heard the boy offer his help to Malo with the washing, now that there was double as much washing to be done each day because Denys was doing none of the work. Denys who yesterday the Lyseni sat with for hours, in his hand one of the training swords showing Denys moves they learned, the two of them discussing with eager faces. On all accounts, the boy seemed trying hard and perhaps that should’ve made Griff think about the boy differently, but it didn’t, it left him suspicious all the same if not even more so. But now, even the matter of the boy didn’t cause him to work himself up. Not even the notion of how he thought that Toyne expected him to get on that boy. He would never knowingly touch a child like that, even if it was a trained bedwarmer like he suspected this boy to be. But regardless all of this, he didn’t get on the boy, he got on his wife. Well, behind her. Same, really.

He chuckled to himself at the thought of Mandrake having to listen to Ashara’s sweet little whimpers. They were sweet. Mandrake would have to report them if he was indeed as Griff expected, set to watch how this marriage played out with the boy on the deck with them. The thought made him want to laugh aloud. Though perhaps Gorys was right in thinking that he became paranoid, and this was all in his head. He had no doubt that this was what Gorys thought of him, this was why the boy looked at him as if he’s been looking at a madman.

All this didn’t seem troubling enough now to work himself up about it, not at all. In truth he wondered why he gave a damn in the first place. Mandrake will report what Mandrake wants to report, he really had no control over it. Gorys he had even less control over, the boy made that abundantly clear with his ‘same rank as we ever were’, ‘I speak however I want’ comments.

He also had other things to worry about. So far, the journey was clear, no issues, no pirates. Yandry and Ysilla proved to fit into their little travel party like lost and found pieces into a puzzle, they provided everything the group lacked, from a cook to someone to make up the numbers in training, at least until Denys made his way down that ladder the wrong way and removed himself from the training sessions, after which Yandry also withdrew. Now Yandry was more focused on what lied ahead, and Griff was ought to begin thinking about that as well. He didn’t want to bring Ashara and the babes this way with reason. Toyne may dismiss it all he wants; he was said to have sailed this route back and forth a dozen of times and apparently had no issues. Toyne must have been the luckiest piece of shit in the world. Griff sailed this route back and forth ONCE. He lost a man. Though the loss had very little to do with him and all to do with the man, in truth only a boy, being stupid enough to think that pushing a stone man off the deck with his bare hand was a good idea. With his bare hand. Well, the boy cried that it was instinctual. He was fighting that thing, he cried. It mattered little, it was done. By the time they reached Selhorys it was also visibly certain, though they knew it as soon as they cleared the fog. They knew as soon as they all sat on the deck piercing their toes and fingertips with their daggers, and then there was no reason why to keep up with telling the boy that perhaps it shall be all right. The boy’s hand was numb, Selhorys only came in sight, and it was already black. The boy was done. As they expected, the guard took the boy from them, and there was no way to argue for the boy was done and either they all chose to share his fate, or they said farewell the boy who was to be sent right back whence they came from. Nineteen, the boy was. Nineteen and a life ahead of him for whatever life that could have been, and he was put in chains in a cell like a criminal until the next mercy ship. That ship crossed their path just before they reached Valysar. What a bad luck that was for that poor boy, at least the Gods could have been merciful enough to let him sit in the cell and go mad or something in the months ahead, at least give the boy time to accept it all, and even better if they let it take over him enough to reach his mind by the time someone pulls on his chains to drag him onto that damned boat. Not to have to live through the ordeal of being put on the mercy ship, to watch them dock wherever they dock those ships in the ruins and row away back to Selhorys leaving him there with the food aid and the rest of the unfortunate ones having caught the greyscale. He was never to leave the Chroyane now, like a prisoner. Poor thing had to deal with that within a week at most from when he was stupid enough to touch the thing that caused his downfall, fight or no fight.

Griff had reason to be weary. They had children on this boat, they had a fairly immobile Denys Strong, they had Malo and the Lyseni and Dalla, and they had Ashara here. His Ashara, with the two babes. He swallowed hard at the thought of having to sail through accursed Chroyane with his lot. Toyne was a mindless moron for sending them this way. He would’ve sat in Braavos for weeks if that was what it took to ensure that Ashara never even learns about what was here. He would’ve even done the same in Pentos, have the Lyseni climb down the wall at nights and do whatever he wanted, fuck half of Pentos if that was his wont. Perhaps that was what he should’ve done but he knew, Gorys dutifully did his job and so Griff knew, there was to be no ship expected for weeks yet. The way it looked, it was faster to send a messenger forth to hire a ship in Volantis and sail it up to Pentos for them. Perhaps even faster to set out on the road, face whatever, the bandits and the lingering sellswords who spent their free time being thieves and worse, even the Dothraki if one of those hordes was on the move nearby. Griff hoped for no issues, surely the Gods were kind enough to let him take his woman and the dragon babes across without any issues, and so he’s set out. When Ashara said to set out instead of dismissing the boy, he agreed, and they set out to here. Now, it didn’t seem such a good idea. Griff sighed remembering that nineteen-year-old young squire boy, squire to one of the knights who volunteered for the mission with him. Yes, he could definitely work himself into a frenzy to feel more like himself if he thought enough about Ashara’s hand turning black, her flawless pale porcelain skin taking on the black before it began to crack and take on the look of stone. It could not be a process without pains either, without agony. Yes, he will definitely work himself into a mess wondering how to keep his wife from that fate if they jump the boat, how to make sure that they’ll never ever can get to her. He’d fucking fight each of the who knows how many thousands of them if that was what it took to get her safely across. He even toyed with the idea now of setting them all to walk around the damned ruins. He didn’t even know how wide it was, it was said to be a mighty city once. No doubt it would take a while to circle around it, and at proper distance and clear from the fog as well, and even if they attempted it, this was no man’s land. There was no law here, just there was nothing to keep those creatures confined in the ruins either. No doubt they are roaming the land around them. Gods. The best way, the quickest way was to sail across.

Yandry emerged from below. Griff nodded to the man in greeting, trying not to think about how if he could hear Yandry’s bed against the wall last night then no doubt the captain could hear the sounds of his own actions this past night. Gorys came up right after, not even looking at him as if he knew that Griff didn’t bother anymore with his cold stares. Slowly they all emerged, Mandrake climbed down followed by the boys, they all went to the back and washed with Mandrake and Gorys, after lining up on the side toward the river to piss. Griff never came up this early, he’s never seen before the amusing sight of them all pissing into the river in the mornings, laughing as they did so. Malo was trying to hit a turtle. Yandry told them to be respectful to which Malo defended himself by telling Yandry on Denis having pissed on a giant turtle, larger than the boat even. Griff laughed aloud at Yandry’s face, the captain told them that they were lucky to have seen the turtle, for it was the Old Man of the River, the Son of Mother Rhoyne herself. Griff shook his head laughing. He was ought to wash as well but at the thought his mind came up with the most practical of excuses to wait. He’d be climbing into the water anyways when he provides guard to Ashara. He can wash then, won’t even be the first time washing with her. The boys finished by the time Ysilla emerged, and the Lyseni reported for kitchen duty once Ysilla returned from the back as well. Rolly will take time to show for he won’t come up from below until Ashara takes over from Dalla and Dalla retires in their cabin to catch sleep. The crannogmen were last to climb the stairs up from the cabins. Rivers duly went to finish his shift which now included sorting Denys Strong’s washing and no doubt pissing needs by bringing him up the deck, taking him into the river in the back as well, no doubt. Rivers was completely given into looking after that boy, Griff took it as a sign of the man’s guilt over the boy’s misfortune on the ladder. He felt sorry for his scolding of Rivers after how the man took on himself to sort the boy day by day, he kept carrying that boy around, at the ready near the boy when he wasn’t below sleeping in Reed’s cabin. He left Denys on the deck after the boy assuring him of having no further needs to sort and disappeared on the stairs below. Smell of biscuits and bacon began to fill the air and Griff began to worry for his wife, but soon enough she also emerged. Griff took towels from Malo, the boy at the ready already with towels and soap. That boy just knew whatever he needed even before he thought about needing it, he thought as he set himself to the task of washing. In his wife’s company, trying not to feel awkward knowing what he did last night. What they did. She was perhaps quieter than usual, he kept wondering. For some reason he kept being surprised at how she looked the same as ever and yet as if he’s never seen her before. He kept catching himself paused to watch her. She said nothing about it. They finished and then it was time to break their fast and for the day to begin. It all seemed as it ever was, and yet he couldn’t feel it more different than all those days previous.

“He’s improving,” he’s heard the voice beside him, and glanced aside to see Gorys just dropping himself next to him on the bench. The comment regarded Malo who was sparring with Rolly, as much as it could be called that. They were slowly practicing, with Rolly giving detailed explanations of the how and what. And yes, the boy was improving. He was delivering the moves Griff taught him the past days, now listening keenly to Rolly’s advice about how to connect those moves, when to use them, and the boy kept delivering. Finally.

“Finally,” Griff said aloud.

“The training alone with you seem to have done the work,” Gorys elaborated on his earlier assessment. “He was quite worried, you know? Mandrake even asked him if he considered the bow instead. Because of his father, you know.”

Yes, Malo’s father has been an archer, not a swordsman. The thought of Mandrake talking into the business of his squire only seemed to fuel him against that damned man. “Malo is far superior material than to be left to the bow in the Company and Mandrake would never see it even if it screamed into his face because he is made of far less than that boy.”

Gorys chuckled beside him. “A compliment to Malo, then,” he said, “As much as he would get it from you.”

“What’s that to mean?”

“Oh, just a jest,” Gorys was quick to defend himself, his voice hesitant as if he meant to be careful of what he said. Why, Griff wondered, he wasn’t so careful telling him that Griff was no better when he spoke about how they were ‘of the same rank as we ever were’. “It is just… it is known that you give no compliments.”

“And what would be the point,” Griff began to protest, for the remark seemed to be more to him than a jest. It felt like an attempt to highlight yet another shortcoming of his, and he couldn’t agree. “The fuck would showering them with compliments do for them. They are to become soldiers not fat drunkards full of their own fake sense of worth.”

“True,” Gorys nodded, surprisingly. He glanced aside but Gorys’ gaze was ahead on the session in front of them. Or perhaps on the Lyseni on the other side of it, sitting just in front of the till, though at least Gorys didn’t stare swooning like a dog after a bone. “Lord Howland said that Denys will have no need for bondages after today. Saw it myself, his knee looks normal now. He stood on his legs this morn after washing, took a few steps even. Said it pained him less.”

Change of topic then, Griff raised an eyebrow at this continued attempt to make conversation. Gorys kept surprising him today. The fuck was Gorys doing sitting beside him on this bench anyway, trying to make him talk. “Thanks be to the Gods,” he declared. “Imagine if Denys became a cripple, Toyne would not take it well at all and we would all lose a leg over it, I wager.”

“More than a leg,” Gorys laughed, “Methinks we would all spend the rest of our days begging in the harbour in Volantis and being able to do little else.”

Griff nodded and then left it be for he couldn’t figure what else there would be to be said about the matter. Seems Gorys couldn’t either, for he sat beside him silently, watching the training session. He ran out of reports to deliver, Griff mused to himself. The boy seemed as if he had nothing else to do but sit beside him on the bench, something he never did before. Though he likely had little else to do in truth. Still, it entertained Griff to wonder what in the seven hells would Gorys want from him to make such an obvious effort.

“You are very lucky,” the boy said after a time, “I mean, with the Lady. You are lucky.”

Griff raised an eyebrow. Perhaps young Gorys had a talk with Ashara and a promise to learn how to dance, and now he no longer stared puppy eyed at the Lyseni for he found a new target for his affections. The thought wasn’t near as amusing, even less so considering his very pleasant experience just last night after all the agony he’s put himself through before it, and because simply, Ashara was his. She was his. But then the stone fell. He wanted to laugh. Of course, the boy had a talk with Ashara and it wasn’t just about dancing, the boy received some of Ashara’s wisdom about his matter with the Lyseni most likely and was grateful for someone enlightening him that he was making a fool of himself. Or perhaps more, for the boy he sat beside him and not in the cabin with Ashara and the babes. Though Griff liked it much more this way, considering Gorys’ known preference of purple eyes. Gods, when did he became so protective? Or was he jealous?

“I am well aware, Gorys,” he declared, immediately regretting the spite in his voice. The boy was sitting beside him on the bench and not with Ashara in the cabin. Perhaps Ashara even convinced the boy to fix the unfixable and try to manage a conversation with him. If she did that, it was quite a feat for Griff wouldn’t even know where to begin with such a thing.

“How did you know,” the boy asked.

“Know what?”

“I mean,” the boy seemed lost for words, “I mean not to pry, I just… I was thinking that perhaps I should set myself to find a girl and stop playing around with boys, you know? Try and find myself a nice girl but then I would rather she was more like your lady wife and less like Laswell Peake’s. How did you choose so well?”

Griff wondered about it. He didn’t choose. Rhaegar chose for him when he died on the Trident leaving behind a newborn son and heir. Ned Stark chose for him when he took that boy to Ashara, of all women. Ashara chose for him when she delivered the boy to him with her offer to stay. No, Griff had no choice to make. “I think it just happened,” he said then, “Besides, you are only eighteen. Perhaps you should stick to your fun with the boys. Or girls. Whatever you fancy until you had enough of it for once you said the words, you foreswore such things.”

“I know,” the boy nodded, “Hence why I would rather she was less like Laswell’s wife. One hears stories.”

Yes, Griff’s also heard those stories. He couldn’t care less about Laswell Peake’s marital problems, in truth. The man was wed to some servant girl from Volantis. Laswell took a fancy to her, courted her for some time, and the girl bit. Got knocked up as well, Laswell seems to be a potent man to have done that from the one time, for word was that it was a one-time for the Company were to march out for an actual fight. When they returned Laswell found that his fancy now had a swelling belly. It was his choice to make an honest woman of her, story goes he was completely smitten with the idea as well. Now he’s got a wife who, if word is true, wants none of his attentions in case another set of twins result from it. Word is the girl has regrets; the Gods know why for Laswell was said to shower her with all that gold can buy and the man wasn’t hard to look upon either. He didn’t get scarred in battle, either, at least not on the face, he didn’t lose ears or limbs either, and he was clearly set to be true to her, for he wasn’t whoring either. No, Gorys was right. Griff also didn’t wish one like that girl upon himself. He was indeed lucky with his Ashara, putting up with him and she didn’t tell him to pull away last night. No, she grabbed at his arse to make him move. It worked, Gods know it worked, it always would.

“When you were my age,” Gorys began to push the matter, he obviously was set to discuss marital things with Griff of all people. Griff wanted to laugh. “Did you think to marry when you were my age?”

His mind counted back the years, the months, just as much as the story they gave to Blackheart. So be it, he can discuss with the boy. Perhaps even the boy was spying, the Gods knew by now. Perhaps he truly became paranoid to think such thoughts. When he was of eighteen years… he chuckled. He got Rhaegar when he was eighteen. Took him a time, too, and how ironic it was to bring it up now, he’s just thought about it this morn. “Truth be told I spent my time on the yard,” he said then. “I had a lot of shit to deal with. Ashara just arrived around that time as well. So no, I thought nothing about it. Truth is, I thought I would never wed and I loved another.”

Yes, he did, he loved his silver prince.

“What made you change your mind?”

“Loss,” he almost spit the word, without even thinking about it. Loss it was, loss of his name, his rank, his status, his home, his honour… loss of Rhaegar. “Truly Gorys, the fuck knows. Perhaps I grew up to think the world is more than fucking boys.”

“But then how would I know,” Gorys pushed further, and Griff realised that the boy actually meant it, he wanted the guidance, he wanted knowledge. The boy thought to gain advice from him, of all people. About marriage, of all things. He would be laughing if he didn’t feel it start weighing on him to make something of it. At least it was conversation, the boy made the effort, he was to at least do the same.

“Know what, Gorys?”

“How did you choose, I mean,” Gorys seemed clearly trying hard to explain where he was trying to get with this. “I mean not to pry, truly… I just want to know, I mean… better know when I meet the right girl. Not to miss it.”

“Suppose so,” Griff nodded. What a situation he found himself in, he mused. “I tell you as it is, Gorys, I am the worst shit to ask for advice. I know not the first thing about women.”

“Still, you chose well…”

“I am lucky, you said so yourself,” Griff tried to figure what guidance if any he could give. None, truthfully, he still didn’t know the first thing about any of this. He was ought to make something of it, for the boy, but how? “I tell you the tale and you shall see that I had little to do with any of it. It was Ser Arthur Dayne. Arthur asked me if I would show her sister around the royal gardens, said she was weary of the attention on her by people, she wished none of that upon herself. He said he trusted me with his sister’s honour, whatever we are to make of that now. I took her to see the gardens and truly, that is all I did. I enjoyed her company; she seemed fine enough to put up with mine, there is nothing else to it. I was to ask for her hand, Ser Arthur tried to convince me a few times, even Rhaegar… tried to convince me to man the fuck up and ask her. I hesitated, shit happened, and now here we are. You were there, I need not to tell you the rest of it. But truly, I am the worst to ask about women. I have the one I said the words to, and I know nothing about the rest of them.”

He wondered what other impossible questions Gorys could come up with, but the boy seemed thoughtfully considering what he’s heard. Rolly finished with Malo, called for the Lyseni into the circle.

“I shall go check on my lot,” Griff declared as he stood, “Do me a favour and stop them when Rolly’s about to lose his balls. My wetnurse would not take it kindly if her men got turned into a eunuch.” Gorys only nodded and so he left swiftly taking the steep steps down to the cabins. To check on his lot as he said, his wife and his ‘children’, unusually for him for he did no such things until now. He thought to ask Ashara what kind of magic spell she’s put on Gorys, but he found her asleep in the chair. He ended up sitting by the two crates, watching them babes.

Giggly wiggling little things, he never really spent time to watch them, there were always so many other things. Or so he told himself, for now as he watched them, none of those things seemed to really mean much. They were awake, two small sets of Rhaegar’s purple eyes kept looking around themselves as if looking for something. He leaned closer, and those eyes fixed on him.

The girl finally began to take on a healthy shape, he concluded, she wasn’t that much smaller than the boy now, though the boy still seemed to outweigh her. At the least that scare has passed, for the time being. They worried for this girl not to make it, Ser Willem worried, Ashara worried. The first days on the Braavosi ship, she was feeding this one on her breast every three-four hours or so, said the girl needed more. She was so immersed with the girl that he didn’t even begin to consider that he should do anything about the rest of their problems. The biggest of which got sorted last night. He glanced aside at her, but she was sleeping peacefully. One of them babes giggled at him, as if they knew that his attention was elsewhere.

Perhaps he should’ve spent more time with them, for whatever reason for they truly wouldn’t know much about the world around them anyways, he thought. They had no worry, no care in the world. That shall change soon, though. Soon they’ll begin to climb around on their hands and knees, they’ll need tiny little clothing for they’ll be climbing around. They’ll be giggling louder, too. Not for long, for soon after they’ll begin to walk. And after that, they’ll begin to talk. His lips curled to a grin, he remembered little Rhaenys shouting ‘red’, ‘red’ pulling on his hair while he prayed for dear life that the girl stops wiggling before he drops her, princess of the Seven Kingdoms that she was. That was until Rhaegar thought it a suitable gift to him and taught the girl the word ‘griffin’. After that, she was shouting something more akin to ‘grishin’ while she pulled on his hair even harder, wiggled in his arms even more whenever he came around and dared to take her in his arms. Rhaegar had a curious understanding about how gifts worked, and to be honest about Griff’s nature as well. But the ‘grishin’ became ‘griffin’ by the end of it, and then it became ‘my griffin’ for Rhaegar didn’t call him just a griffin, no the girl heard Griff being called ‘his’ griffin by Rhaegar and so in her mind, what belonged to papa belonged to her. At least that was how Griff explained the development to himself at the time. The girl won herself a place in his heart with it though. He didn’t want to continue with this chain of thought, he didn’t want to recall the end of that little girl with her big dark shining eyes and her carefree laughter and the dark locks on her head. How she would call out ‘my griffin’ whenever she caught sight of him.

These two won’t be calling him anything akin to ‘griffin’. They’ll be shouting ‘papa’ when they pull on his hair, and no doubt he’ll still be praying to the gods that they stop wiggling in his arms before he drops them, last dragons that they were. In his mind, they were the last pair of dragons in this world. He wrote down Viserys long before Viserys arrived in Braavos, cocky little thing that boy was, and thus in his own eyes he now had the responsibility to raise the last pair of dragons. Aerys was wrong, Viserys was not the true dragon. But these two were to be true dragons. And still, they’ll be calling out ‘papa’ whenever they catch sight of him. Give it two years at most, and they will for they won’t know anything about dragons, they will grow up as griffins. Perhaps they’ll be like him when he was a little boy and think that they themselves can turn into griffins. He heard the stories enough to know that he was a curse for his father for a few years with his inclination to try to climb through windows and jump, for then he would surely become a griffinbird and fly. He thought the ancient Conningtons to have been griffinbirds themselves able to shapeshift and fly whenever they wished, and he wanted to be like them. He wanted to fly away and see the ‘griffin land’. He had no idea that there was a world beyond ‘griffin land’, he thought father was the king of kings. Sure enough, he knew of the Rainwood off the beach, and the bay. There was a patch of land there he later learned to be Tarth and not at all part of the ‘griffin land’ for father took him to the Sapphire Island as it was called, to meet the new lord there, Lord Selwyn of Tarth. He thought the word ‘lord’ then surely meant ‘king’ and Selwyn became a king. He was told that Selwyn’s father passed, and he told father that he would rather never be king then because he wanted father never to pass.

He wondered if these two will think of him like he did of father. Before he grew and saw clearer, before the world became what it was and the ‘griffin land’ became just land next to other lands. The grey stone pile to the north that was hidden by the fog most days became Storms End and he grew to hate the place for he never got along with them stag boys. Robert was loud and boasting all the time and Stannis was stiff and he whined a lot, no doubt because Robert enjoyed playing stupid tricks on him that in truth were never funny. Renly was not even a thing back then.

Gods, best not have these two doing such things to each other. Please make them good natured and good to each other. If he ever had a brother or sister, he’d never play such tricks on them, he always thought so, but he was an only child. Thinking about it now, he didn’t think mother particularly happy with her marriage either, but he didn’t want to think about that because he definitely didn’t want that to lead him to considering whether Ashara will ever be unhappy with her own marriage.

He won’t be like he saw Stefford Baratheon to be, blind eyed to everything, spoiling his first born like father never spoiled him. Father was strict, made use of the stick whenever he stepped out of line. Later on, he did so less, for he only needed to put the stick by the door to Griff’s chamber and Griff knew, he better changed his ways. He will be strict like father, though he chafed at the thought of the stick. There shall be no stick, but he will make sure that they sit through their lessons. He hated that when he was a boy, listening to Maester Lumyn’s endless monologues. He wanted to be out in the yard. The boy will want to be out in the yard. Add five more years at best, at seven Griff will tell Rolly to start teaching the boy. Rolly seemed to have a knack for teaching, it has shown with the squire boys. Truly, Rolly was like a goldfish caught among all the ugly turtles of the Rhoyne. The man was the man indeed, proved his worth with the boys for certain. Hopefully he’ll prove it more once they arrived, but Griff didn’t have many doubts about that. No, Rolly will train his boy the use of a sword when the time comes.

Except, this boy wasn’t his boy. Sure enough, these giggly little things will grow up thinking themselves griffins but they will never be griffins. They will have to grow into dragons. There’ll come a day when Griff will have to sit them down and tell them. Once they are old enough to understand that there was a world around them, he will have to make them understand. How, why, all of it. Then they will think themselves griffins no more, they’ll have to become dragons.

The Gods knew, in his heart he wanted them to grow into dragons. Last pair of hatchlings that they were, he will have to make sure that they know all of it. And then one day, once they are of age, for the Gods knew as well that this was what he wanted, these two will cross the Narrow Sea and take back what they lost. He will gladly ride ahead of whatever army to make that happen, for Rhaegar. For Rhaegar and for little Rhaenys. For the babe Aegon, and even for Elia Martell, the mother who had to suffer the sight of her children’s murder and then die in agony. No matter of anything else, she deserved none of that either. Even for the griffins themselves, take back all they lost, the griffin land and the rank and the honour. And for Ashara’s honour, for one day once they are done with all the taking-back, Griff knew that he shall gut Ned Stark to reclaim his wife’s honour. What man would not want to do the same?

Then there shall be a King Jon, named after a griffin. Or perhaps a Queen Daenerys, though this girl will need a different name for none would believe her to be a griffin with that name. Who knows, perhaps these two decide to be Targaryens in every way and wed. The thought made him chuckle. The boy chuckled in response. He wanted to laugh; this was truly the funniest conversation he’s ever had.

He should really spend more time with these two, he decided. After all, he should be ‘papa’, he needs to begin figuring out how to do that, and in truth the task didn’t seem as hard as before. Perhaps his actions during the night gave him a lot more than resolving the problem of being a husband, then. Strange as that sounded, it was now his responsibility to be ‘papa’, he agreed to it. This was to be the next eighteen-or-so years of his life. He shall make sure that they are ready, by the time they come of age, they shall be ready. By the time they are eighteen, Westeros shall burn. Yes, that is how it shall be. Westeros shall burn, those were the Targaryen words, Fire and Blood. These two shall show them Fire and Blood, anyone who defies them. He didn’t mind it in the least, from his perspective these two shall burn the whole fucking world if that was what they took, that was how he truly felt about it.

By then he will be an old man, though let’s not exaggerate. He will be past his fortieth nameday, past his prime, though not yet ‘old’. Who knows how many times he will have marched across Essos from Volantis up to Braavos. How many missions he’s completed, how many skirmishes he took part in. Perhaps there are battles that he shall fight, to live to see that day when these two first set foot on Westerosi soil. There better be hundreds of ships behind them; there better be an armada the like of which Westeros has never seen before. There better be armies on those ships, armies that none on Westeros shall be able to defy. He shall lead them, fuck Aerys he shall show them how to fucking win a war, a rebellion, a conquest. For these two. For Rhaegar.

He was wrong, he could still work himself up into a frenzy. But this one, he didn’t mind. He sat watching them babes, thinking about landing a whole fucking army in Cape Wrath. Yes, in Cape Wrath, storm the Stormlands, Robert’s heartland, first of all. Take back the griffin land, elevate Griffin’s Roost to what it was before fucking Robert saw it fit to reward Ronald with reducing him into little more than a pauper just to send Griff a message. He'll deliver the reply, just wait for it. Robert, do us all a favour and live, try not to drink yourself into an early grave, for we have surprises for you. Just sit and wait, enjoy Rhaegar’s throne of swords, keep it warm for Rhaegar’s son, would you? And we’ll bring the storm to the Stormlands, a storm unlike any you’ve ever seen before, one that will definitely not end at Storms End, no. We’ll wipe the whole of the Seven Kingdoms if that is what it will take. And I shall see you on your knees, Robert. I shall place the bloody bodies of your own children at your feet, an eye for an eye, and I shall see you on your knees as you weep. On your knees.

His attentions were drawn to more immediate problems though, for soon after he finished musing over images of revenge and a fat and old Robert, as he expected him to become, kneeling weeping and lamenting over the bloody corpses of his brood, an eye for an eye, he’s been called onto the deck. As soon as he emerged, he could see himself the reason why. Yandry told him his plan to anchor, wait for sunrise to gain the most of daylight, and he agreed. There was little left of the day, two hours perhaps, not more than three. The others didn’t even notice anything amiss, only Rivers grew visibly disturbed at the sight ahead. They sat in a circle for supper, yet another stew with Ysilla’s biscuits that just as she told them, were the best, but still it was yet another stew. This one with pork in it, in neat squares. With potatoes, in even neater little squares. He circled his spoon in the bowl. The carrots and the parsnips were like perfect little circles, all of them the same. He looked but they were even the same width. All of them very neatly carved to the same shape and width. They seemed like pieces of a puzzle swimming in the thick brownish liquid.

“The fuck makes this one so brown,” he thought aloud.

“Pepper,” he’s heard Ashara beside him, “Methinks pepper and the pork. Eat, it is delicious.”

“Did you see, they are the same size,” he mused. Ashara raised an eyebrow, her lips turned to a wide smile. “Look,” he raised a spoonful on his spoon, “All of them. Perfect cubicles and circles. How the fuck does he do that?”

Ashara almost spit the food, she laughed so hard. The sight made him want to laugh as well, and there was no cynicism in this one. Perhaps he didn’t lose the ability to laugh like he thought he did.

“Perhaps this is what he’s hiding from you,” she said once she managed to swallow her food, “He’s really just a cook’s apprentice from Lys. This is his way to tell you, stop suspecting him to be anything more because really, he is just a cook’s apprentice who cuts the potatoes into neat cubicles in your stew.”

The stew was indeed delicious, but every time he looked up, he could see the trouble ahead for he couldn’t see the river ahead beyond the fog, and his thoughts soon turned from neat cubicles of potatoes toward the task tomorrow, clouding his mind with worry the way the fog ahead wrapped the river into invisibility. They anchored at distance and still, the thought of what lied ahead gave him chills, every time he thought of them anchoring here for the night, he felt it more and more dangerous.

“Listen to me,” he turned to Ashara. “When you go back into the cabin, lay them babes with their hands and feet out of the swaddle. Keep them that way until we cross the Chroyane.”

“The Chroyane,” she repeated, looking ahead, “Is that what is ahead of us? I cannot see, there seems to be fog.”

“That is it, Ash,” he nodded, “Just do as I said, please. If something happens, I want to see it on them.”

Her eyes filled with worry, so he added, “I expect nothing to happen. We’ve enough swords, you’ll be down in the cabins with the babes. I just want to be certain, that is all.”

He lied. For some reason, he didn’t think this to be a straight sail through the ruins.

“Listen up,” he called out as they all finished their supper. The Lyseni was already collecting the bowls, despite how no call came yet for him to do so. Now he stopped and turned to listen, just like the others. “Tonight, sleep at the ready. Make sure you sleep, you may not get much sleep the coming night and you all need to be rested, up on the deck before sunrise. The men, I mean… the women are to be in the cabin with the children and the boys. Before sunrise, and you stay there until you are called upon. May take the next day and the night.”

“I already packed the biscuits and some sausages,” Ysilla nodded. Of course, Yandry and Ysilla knew how to handle passengers on this journey. Though Griff wondered how they sailed across with only the two of them on the deck. Perhaps they were even luckier than Toyne. He nodded to Ysilla, before his gaze settled on Yandry.

“We raise anchor at first light,” Yandry nodded, “With current we shall clear it by the hour of the wolf at the last, but we shall aim to pass the bridge before sunset I would say. That is how I do it, enter the Sorrows at first light and clear it by the day’s end. That is the way.”

“And I agree,” Griff nodded, “So all the men, be on the deck with weapons at the ready before first light. There’ll be no washing and the like on the morrow, none of you shall enter the water here.”

He thought for a moment about what else he should say. He didn’t want to scare the boys, and he definitely didn’t want to scare Ashara. Though, she already seemed terrified, and he didn’t even share whatever it was ahead of them, of what he’s seen here before.

“I stay up,” he said then, “Tristan, you shall have the back. I take the land side from the front.” Rivers nodded solemnly. Ashara just looked at him bewildered, but he continued. “Also, if anyone falls into the water from now…”

“Nobody fell into the water,” Malo remarked.

“Because we pulled you back, young man,” Rolly laughed.

“Again, if anyone falls into the water,” Griff emphasised, surprised at himself not feeling furious at the interruption, “You climb back on deck on your own, call out and then keep to yourself where you are, touch no one else. I mean it, not one touch. Sit and wait.”

They looked puzzled, but still, he continued. “We shall sail through fog on the morrow, it may enter the cabins. Just sit tight. If you hear sound of fighting, lock the door, and from then on, not a touch of anyone, not even in the cabin. Same on deck, as soon as we enter the fog, not a fucking touch of anyone. The rest we shall discuss once you are all back on deck. Now off with you all to rest.”

They slowly dispersed, there was little talking as they visibly wondered about his curious orders. His paranoid orders, Toyne would laugh at his orders. He considered whether he should have ordered the boys off the roof, as he heard them climb up there. But where would they sleep then? There simply was no space. They could go down the hold, but Griff had a glance down there, it was not a place to sleep in with the barrels. They would get no sleep there.

“I will be awake,” Mandrake told him as he went past.

“Marq,” he called after the man, “Take a pair of training swords up with you. The boys have nothing on themselves.”

“With those they will still have nothing on themselves.”

“I saw the Lyseni sharpen them today,” Griff argued. True, the boy asked for their swords, said himself bored and he sharpened the swords. He sharpened the training swords as well. He even asked Reed for their tridents, but Reed told him that he did enough. “Take them up, better than nothing. They are better than you think.” They were, in truth they weren’t so bad once one got used to the off-balance. They were all the boys knew, anyways.

Mandrake just shrugged it off, but he went and grabbed two of them swords from behind the firepit and took them with himself up the ladder. Soon the whole ship quieted. The sun began to set, and Griff felt as if the weight of the task ahead was setting on his chest with it.

Hours must have passed. He sat leaning against the wall on the side, his eyes kept scanning the darkness. Normally, he’d grow more lax on watch duty, and it was a long time since he’s taken watch duty. Months, in truth, many months because Toyne pulled him off the duties of men freshly signed up within the first two weeks. No doubt he waited just long enough to see whether Griff could perform like any man, questioned those he could around him about how Griff was, and then he pulled him off duty and got him a tent and a proper sleeping mat, began to send him around with tasks instead as was his way with anyone he decided to put effort into. Then came the journey to Lys and then the missions, one of them was the sailing up the Rhoyne to clear Ny Sar from what was fast becoming a pirate colony here, putting a dent into Volantene trade upriver.

Tonight he seemed alert like never before. So alert that he jumped at the ready when he’s heard the steps. The skirt.

“The fuck you doing up here,” he whispered as Ashara emerged. He sat back, knowing well that she will sit down beside him. “Keep yourself on the deck, pull up your legs. No hanging legs above the water.”

“You really are worried,” she whispered.

“Why not sleeping, Ash,” he asked instead.

“Why not lying awake alone in a cabin,” she countered. “I stepped on Gorys’ arm on my way out. Did you know he sleeps there?”

“He does it since we set out,” he shrugged. “Why can’t you sleep?”

“No husband to hold me I suppose,” she said after a moment.

“Husband is on guard duty,” he declared, though her words felt like soothing balm on his heart. She missed him. After last night, that was something to take note of.

“Are you really,” she asked then.

“Why else would I sit here?”

“Thought you wanted away,” she whispered hesitantly.

“I definitely want no such thing,” he chuckled, “Is that why you came up here?”

“Your orders made little sense.”

He took a deep breath. Perhaps they made no sense to any of them, his orders bordered on paranoia. Aerys would be proud, no doubt.

“Greyscale,” he whispered, “There is a city ruin ahead of us, and the men there suffer greyscale. Here they are called Stone Men for this is where they live out their lives, everywhere in the world if one catches greyscale this where they dump him off, even from Westeros. Once it spread over them, they look as if made of stone, and one touch from them is enough to spread it. So yes, I am on guard, in case one of them thought to wander around the ruin, finds the boat and tries to climb aboard. In case one of them hides in the water and decides to grab whatever hangs off or climb on deck. That is all to it. We shall sail through the ruin on the morrow and then everything will go back to normal.”

“Normal,” she repeated.

“Yes, normal,” He thought he will never be able to wipe the grin off his face, “Well, normal and more. I hope. I have ideas.” No, he didn’t. Have ideas. He had the one idea, or more like, the one thing he knew he would definitely want. Be back where he was last night. Perhaps he would need more ideas though, he will need to come up with some things if he wanted to go about it properly. He still didn’t know the first thing about a woman. Though, he didn’t need to know every woman, he only needed to learn this one, he couldn’t care less about the rest of them. He was certain that they would never be able to stir anything in him. This one, though… He will learn her so he can go about it properly. As elaborately as he used to go about such things when it wasn’t with whores. Or when the whores were inexperienced like the boy in Volantis was and he didn’t want that in the way of what he wanted and even then, he only did what was enough. He needed to learn her and do better than that.

She sat up beside him. “So you liked…” she whispered.

“What kind of question is that” he asked, trying not to laugh. She didn’t seem to be laughing.

“I thought last night,” she began, “Before we settled to sleep, I thought to tell you something.”

“Tell me once I am back in that cabin,” he declared as much as a whisper could be a declaration. “There is guard on the roof and in the back as well. Whatever it is, it is for my ears and not theirs.”

“Fine,” she nodded, seemingly relieved. After a time, she stood. He stood as well, walked her back the few steps to the stairs. In front of the steps down, he pulled her close to him.

“Did you like it,” he whispered in her ear, and she looked up at him wide eyed. Even in the flickering light of the dying fire in the firepit, he could tell that she began blushing. “Thought it was better than I thought it…” she trailed off, biting her lower lip. She was modest, he decided, because he didn’t want to think himself compared or wherever her words trailed off to. He placed a kiss on her forehead.

“Go to sleep now,” he said, “And remember what I told you. About the babes. And… take the boy’s dagger, hide it in your pocket. Just in case.”

She nodded. He waited until she safely made it down the steps, he heard Gorys shuffle, no doubt moving aside to give her way. He waited until the cabin door closed. Then he walked back to his post, looking around. He looked around in the front, the other side. There was nothing to see. Truly, he couldn’t see anything but the black night. He sank back to his former place with a sigh.

Why he kissed her forehead, he wondered about that. It wasn’t like he didn’t kiss her on the lips before, though that kiss was more akin to a lip-touching nothing like thirteen-year-olds do it, the one kiss he gave her because it was part of the wedding ceremony. He could remember still how soft her lips were. He never kissed her properly. He should kiss her.

He should do a lot more than that. If he wanted back to where he was. If he wanted to get on his wife, he needed to figure out the rest of it. He can’t leave it to be some rubbing and pumping and nothing else, he knew that much. Because he saw whores at work before, because he had whores before, even if those were boys. He didn’t want it to be like with whores, he wanted it to be the way it used to be with Rhaegar. All the intricacy of it, the touching and the kissing, the tongue tracing on skin and… well perhaps she wouldn’t like the idea of what came to mind, perhaps she wouldn’t want to do it. Perhaps he shouldn’t think about such things now either, because his mind began to roll with it and to his surprise the thought of her sucking him dry began to stir him. No, he’ll just have to leave all the figuring-out to later. He sighed, leaning back against the wall. At least now his problem wasn’t that he didn’t think himself to ever be able to do it. Now his problem was to make it something worth doing more of.

The air was warming. His mind remained alert all night and now morning was almost upon them. Apart from one wailing sound from the direction of the river that made both him and Rivers go around the boat, Mandrake stand on the roof, there was nothing. They found nothing. He thought of his words to Ashara, perhaps one was hiding in the water… But there was nothing. They didn’t search the water around the boat, for they didn’t lean over the water either. An hour passed since the sound, and still there was nothing. Only the sound of someone taking the steps from below. He stood.

Gorys emerged, looking every bit like someone who had very little rest. Perhaps because Ashara woke the boy when the boy needed the sleep, but there was nothing to that now. He knew he won’t ever scold his wife for it. The boy was a soldier, he will take it. Reed and his sidekick emerged almost right after, as well. Soon they were followed by Yandry and Ysilla.

“Women in the cabin down below,” Griff reminded her, but Ysilla shrugged it away without a word. On her back was a bow and a quiver with arrows. Not much against stone skin, he wanted to say but she didn’t even stop beside him to discourse the matter and so he decided, surely, she’s sailed through the Sorrows before, she knew what she was doing. She wasn’t his charge; she was Yandry’s to worry about. The two emerging boys were his charge. Malo merely seemed sleepy like Gorys. The boys seemed hesitant for a moment then lined up on the edge, visibly further in than the day before, and relieved themselves without any of the mirth of the day before. Malo nodded to him and then he went and tucked a training sword away behind the firepit.

“Take it with you,” he called after the boy. Malo gave him a wondering look, but took the sword once more, and then he disappeared on the steps.

The Lyseni was again a whole different matter. He had the sword in his belt for the time being, he carefully tucked it in there before he began to braid a lock of his hair on the side. Griff watched amused. The boy braided a lock on the other side as well and then he tied the whole lot of his silver hair behind his head. Griff wondered about it, watching as the boy with his braided and tied hair now carefully removed the sword from his belt, his eyes scanning the horizon, clearly unwilling to move.

“Lysono,” he called for the boy, who jumped immediately and rushed to him. “Down below.”

“I will stay on deck,” the boy announced to him.

“Doubt it a good idea,” Griff countered, “And it was an order.”

The boy startled at that. “Please may I stay on deck,” he asked then.

“This is no journey for children.”

“I know what is in the Chroyane,” the boy declared, albeit lowering his voice. “I know of the curse; and I know of the stone men. There is a bridge ahead of us in the ruins, they will be waiting there. You want the men on deck in case they jump the boat. Or perhaps they are in the water and would climb aboard… I would like to stay on deck, please. I can be of help. Please.”

“Let us hope Mother Rhoyne see us nothing worth of Garin’s Curse,” Yandry said toward them. He passed by; he’s heard the boy.

“So be it,” Griff shrugged it off, his eyes on Rivers who stood nearby as well, listening to the boy’s reasoning. He didn’t seem to mind, on the opposite, Rivers seemed to favour the idea for whatever reason Rivers had to be willing to allow a boy of fourteen on the deck. “You follow orders, from now,” Griff concluded the matter.

The boy only nodded. They began to group on the front deck. So it begins, he thought, setting his mind to the task ahead. Hoping the boy wrong, hoping there to be none of those creatures on the bridge and even less in the water. Hoping Yandry right, though he didn’t think much of magic. But this fog, it was nothing natural. He took a deep breath, his eyes on the way ahead, the river disappearing in the fog. And so, it begins.

Chapter Text

GORYS EDORYEN

There were the two crannogmen, Tristan and Marq and Rolly Duckfield, Yandry and Ysilla who Griff didn’t seem to mind much, there was Lysono who Griff minded more but still, there was no argument about, and there was Griff and him. Ten people on the deck, surely, whatever was ahead, they could easily deal with it, Gorys decided. Surely, if one guard was enough for the nights when they expected the pirates, then ten would be enough to sail through some city ruins. Even if there was fog.

They sailed through Ny Sar before. Gorys thought it beautiful in truth, there were a lot of finely carved statues under the water and even among the ruins. The ruins covered both sides of the river and shone in pink and green stone, said to be marble, and there were arching bridges that no doubt once ages ago were all the way crossing the river. Now they were standing only on the two sides. There were small islands and arches leading onto them, though Gorys doubted that they were islands before. Even the wooden remains seemed to once have been finely carved. As much as it was eerie and dead, it carried a certain beauty and Gorys admired it. The reminder of bygone times, as well as how old stories felt as if coming to life, proven to be more than stories, than legends when seeing such places. Gorys was glad to have seen Ny Sar, very glad.

Ysilla told them that it was Princess Nymeria’s city once, she had a palace in the city. The pink and green marble structures were said to be the remains of her palace, and there wasn’t much else remaining, besides the things under the water and the wooden structures and some arches to those now-islands. The palace was raised long after Garris the Grey expelled men who refused to shave, Yandry told them. He told them that the city controlled the Noyne, and men who remained later founded the great city of Norvos up the Noyne. Which told Gorys, then the logical conclusion was to be that there were Rhoynar living in Norvos, it was a Rhoynish city. He’s never seen Norvos, but he’s heard stories. He didn’t think the Rhoynar like that, in truth what he’s known about Dorne clashed with what he’s known about Norvos very, very much. That made it even more interesting, to learn the histories of people and places. In a different place, the same ancestors chose to take a completely different journey and develop into a completely different civilisation. That was much to ponder about, if he didn’t waste his time pondering about the poor Lyseni boy who was so pretty, prettier than a girl, he could’ve paid more attention. He regretted that now, because all these things now felt really intriguing to learn much more about. They saw the Noyne flowing into the Rhoyne where the tiny islands were with their arches, and Gorys thought at the time that perhaps next time he sails here, it will be up to Norvos, then he’ll see how Rhoynish the Norvoshi were in truth. Now he’s only seen one small galley, the Norvoshi flag flying high on its mast. Griff told him it was a guard, now the Norvoshi guarded the length of the Noyne to as far south as Ny Sar, from where they spawned.

Ysilla told them that Princess Nymeria gathered all the ships and put their women and children on ships after the fall of Chroyane. She feared that they’ll be enslaved by the Valyrian dragonlords. She sailed them all down the Rhoyne, and to Westeros where they became the Rhoynar who settled in Dorne. Gorys wondered how the princess managed it past the Volantene towns and Volantis itself, and then there was Old Valyria as well for Ysilla said, they sailed passed the ruins of Sarhoy. How Ysilla knew, Gorys didn’t linger about that, after all it was her history. Gorys knew little about his own history, he felt himself lack. He also wasn’t the best with his geography, but he’s known about Sarhoy, as much as he remembered Sarhoy was a city of Valyria south of Volantis. But Ysilla told them, Sarhoy was in truth a Rhoynish port city. The dragonlords sacked the city, they killed all the men and sold all the children into slavery and then they burned down the city and salted the earth so nothing would grow there. Gorys wondered what Yandry and Ysilla would think of themselves being Rhoynish, as they declared themselves despite coming from the Greenwood wherever that was, but when he tried to mention it, they all laughed.

It was Greenblood and not Greenwood, as he now learned, and they called themselves Orphans of the Greenblood for those who descend from Nymeria’s people having sailed from Ny Sar to Dorne called themselves that. He must’ve looked as confused as he felt, and so Yandry told them, they made their home near the Kingswood having liked the woods and the people who dwelled there. They liked how those people were with each other, Ysilla said, supported each other, they were welcoming to people. It was a good life, she said. Until things happened but they didn’t go into more detail. Gorys felt a fool, though he tried to remember and as much as he recalled it was Yandry who tricked him so thoroughly. Then he settled with it, thinking it Yandry’s caution. Or it was truly just a jest at the expense of an Essosi who wouldn’t know better. They didn’t have green blood flowing in their veins either, it was red blood like anyone else’s Ysilla assured him.

He thought to ask someone else, perhaps Lord Reed or even Griff about the Greenblood and the Kingswood especially, because of that, he’s heard before. He’s heard it mention in Blackheart’s house, by the women, he could clearly recall it, albeit not much else. There was a fight there, before the woman arrived, she escaped from there. He should add the Kingswood to the list of things he could converse about with Griff, or try to. It was called Kingswood, Griff lived in Kings Landing, and without any of the geography of it, it sounded like the two were close to each other so Griff would know. If Gorys will ever manage to get it out of Griff.

His first attempt at conversation with Griff didn’t go overly well, he could tell. He was collecting a list of things, he chose the one that was most on his mind after having been woken by… well, Griff was making love to his Lady, it was plain obvious. She wasn’t exactly silent about it. Though, Gorys chuckled at the thought, she was still far from when Blackheart was randy with his woman. That one was so much louder. The Lady was considerably modest about it when compared. Still, he woke, and since he surely could not sleep while they were at it, he thought about things. Things like, how easy it was now for Griff, he had his beautiful lady wife who seemed to support him in everything, and he could get randy every night if he so wished. Perhaps he, Gorys simply didn’t wake every time they were at it, like he didn’t wake every time Yandry’s bed was banging on the wall. The Lady was a beauty and a kind goodhearted woman, as well. One who would talk of her misfortunes if it helped Gorys to hear.

He's put two and two together. The lady went to a tourney, Griff didn’t ask her yet to wed him, so she was free, and there she met a man. Gorys had time to think about it, how in Griff’s story in his tent he told himself having been with the lady there and put a child in her. No, Gorys knew now, the other man put a child in her, that was the thing Blackheart found fishy, then. True it was strange that Griff would do it twice over. It was still strange that the lady gave herself to Griff before he said the words after he gave herself to that man and was left like that. Moreover, there was no child anywhere, she brought only Griff’s boy with her to Braavos, and that boy was way too young to have been sired on that tourney, because Gorys knew which tourney this was about. He’s heard the story of the rebellion enough times from Blackheart, even from Laswell, though Laswell always thought about what the Reach where his family came from had to do with it. Perhaps the Lady lost the earlier child in her heartbreak over the man having wed another, then. Gorys knew of stories where women lost the babes in their bellies after such things, in a company of ten thousand, there were many men with relations and many of those weren’t exactly straight forward. The Lady emphasised how no man would’ve stood beside her like Griff did, and Gorys understood now, the Lady referred to Griff wanting to wed her despite that misfortune. He knew, such things weren’t looked upon kindly in Westeros. Not that they were considered a fortunate outcome in this land, either, but there people were said to be far more old-fashioned and quicker to dismiss a woman over such a thing, especially a highborn Lady. These Westerosi still wed, for one, and they didn’t consider a woman like that good to be wed to, he understood. Essosi didn’t consider wedding to be the key to any of it, in many places there were no such things done, though it depended on one’s faith Gorys presumed, for in the company, with their faith of the seven, even many Essosi who converted to the cause ended up saying the words to a woman. Gorys thought that he would like to be wed, he liked the idea of it ever since he learned of it, he liked the promise in it, promise of loyalty and staying by each other’s side, like his father did with his mother even after his mother was long gone, he reasoned. In any case, perhaps the lady gave herself to Griff because Griff still wanted to wed her after her case with the other man, there was love and trust between them, they knew each other from well before. Even Griff said so, they were for each other even before that misfortune. At least that was how Gorys understood what Griff said.

It was interesting to know that Ser Arthur Dayne arranged it. There were stories about Ser Arthur Dayne even in the Golden Company. Griff knew the man, must’ve been in his high regards as well. That elevated Griff in Gorys’ eyes for sure, that Ser Arthur Dayne trusted Griff with his sister, wanted him to wed her. But in truth, however they came together, mattered little to Gorys compared to how he saw them being quite good to each other. How they spoke and how they touched their hand together, they did that even more since their group set sail. And now he knew they also made love. Of course they did, they were wed. Marq was wrong about them; they were making good use of the privacy when they had some. Even that mattered little, because what mattered was that Gorys concluded, he wouldn’t mind having with someone what they had. It would be nice if he’s found someone who if needs be would even cross the Narrow Sea for him, and especially so considering what they were doing here.

Gorys wasn’t stupid, or so he thought. They were harbouring a dragon babe. Griff and the Lady were agreed to raise the dragon princess, and once she grows, they surely would expect her to want to take back the Seven Kingdoms. That she was a woman didn’t seem to be a big problem and even less so now, having seen Ny Sar and knowing that princess Nymeria was a woman, there were women who did things, changed history for men. Blackheart often spoke about the Company being Westerosi no matter how many Essosi sign up, they signed up for the cause as much as for the Gold or they never made it in the Company, that is what Blackheart thought about the matter. Blackheart took Bittersteel’s dream very seriously, Gorys knew. Perhaps this was then how Blackheart planned to take the Company back to Westeros, for that was Bittersteel’s dream, to return the men home. Of course, Bittersteel thought of that to be by crowning a black dragon, but Gorys knew, Blackheart had no such thoughts for there were no black dragons to crown. Blackheart just wanted to find the way to return them ‘home’. If that came about, Gorys would surely go, he never had doubts about that, and then the girl he’d be bound to would have to cross the Narrow Sea to be with him. After the fighting was over and it was time to settle, for there would be fighting most likely. But after they finished with that, the girl would have to come after him. He needed to find a girl who would do that for him.

Though Gorys agreed with Griff, he was in no rush, but still, Griff met the Lady when he was eighteen, same age as Gorys was now, and still it took years until they were wed. In truth, Gorys had little interest in girls thus far. He couldn’t really decide about it because in truth, he saw clearly why he lacked the knowledge he lacked, as well as the interest. The girls he had fun with before, they were whores because there were no girls in the camp, and he never fancied any of them. Like the Lady said, had fun, but knew little else about them and it was that one time then he moved on, had his fun with someone else the next time. There were boys in the camp. Gorys enjoyed with the girls, but he enjoyed with the boys as well, and in truth it seemed just easier with boys, not just because there were some in the camp who were willing but because boys simply just seemed to approach such things simply and women, even whores seemed to be quite complicated, even having some fun with them seemed more complicated.

Besides, being wed surely wasn’t all about the fun they could have with each other when they get randy. In Westeros it would be, for highborn like Griff and his lady, because they’d pair the seed with the womb that is why they would be wed, and Gorys wondered whether that took the fun out of it. Except those who like Griff and his Lady found love with a suitably highborn like they both were, so they didn’t need to be paired that way. But father and mother weren’t paired, although they surely weren’t any kind of highborn either. They were together because of their love for each other. Gorys didn’t remember much from his boyhood about how they were with each other, whether their voice softened when they spoke to each other and whether they kept touching their hands together. As much as he could tell, Griff and his Lady had something very similar to father and mother. What he could certainly tell was that he wanted to find the same for himself one day. So, since he knew what he wanted, he concluded that the next step was to start looking for it for there were a lot of girls in the world, but he didn’t expect many of them being to his liking because in truth he never met a girl who was to his liking and even more so, to whom he was someone to like, and so it seemed to be a rather hard task. And that will take him considerable time and even more so because he was now a serjeant of the Golden Company, and there was a lot of marching to do. He will only have the time of camping outside cities to find the right girl, and only the free time he would have while camping outside cities. Regardless of all these obstacles, he felt that it needed to be done, to get what he wanted out of it in the end.

“Listen up,” Griff called out, and they all turned. Yandry stood beside Griff, Gorys wondered how he may have missed an important conversation. He was honestly curious why Griff made such careful preparations, and his orders betrayed clear worry about these ruins ahead of them. All Gorys expected were some more pink and green marble columns and more beauty, this time perhaps covered in a little fog, for the way ahead was covered in fog.

“Marq and Tristan have the back. Lord Howland and Quagg will take the two sides with their tridents, only at the length of the cabins. Rest of us remain in the front, take the poles as needed and watch. Gorys, you have the till and the watch for what’s ahead. Yandry tells me that there’s a pole there, make use of it if you see us sail into danger. No leaning out the deck, though.” Gorys merely nodded. He received his position, as he expected. Now he also knew, they won’t be sailing in truth. They’ll move forward using the poles.

“Nobody for the roof?” Rivers looked disapproving.

“Nobody,” Griff nodded, “IF we get jumped upon, the roof is a likely target, I want nobody to be jumped on. We shall hear the sound if one lands on the roof, this shithole is silent as death itself if not for their wailing. Everyone watches for the roof, if there’s a jump then we sort it. They come for us, anyway, not for the boat.”

“Someone please tell,” Gorys spoke up, “Who are they? Pirates?”

“No, young men,” Ysilla remarked, “They are servants of the Shrouded Lord. They hate the quick and warm blooded, they are ever restless to make those to their own image.”

“The Shrouded Lord?”

“Aye,” Ysilla nodded. “Some say he is Garin himself, having risen from below to haunt those who invade his city.”

Gorys raised an eyebrow. “Garin who lost the war at Volantis? The dragonlords brought him back to the Chroyane and forced him to watch them destroy the city.”

“That, they did,” Ysilla agreed, “They hung him in a golden cage, and they mocked him. He called on Mother Royne to destroy the invaders and they laughed at him. But that night the waterwalls rose and Mother Royne took the invaders below the waves, young Gorys.”

Just then, he felt the motion of the anchor being raised.

“And so it begins,” Griff said, visibly weary.

“I still understand very little of his,” Gorys noted aloud. “We sailed through Ny Sar before, and we didn’t guard this way.” They sailed past the Dagger Lake, the only night they didn’t anchor, and they did that to remain unseen by the pirates. Pirates wouldn’t come into the Chroyane, either, Blackheart told him as much, “worry of the pirates north the Sorrows, they will not enter the Sorrows. Once south of it, you will no longer sail through lawless lands, you’ll be home in no time.” Blackheart always knows.

“The servants of the Shrouded Lord are in Chroyane, not in Ny Sar,” Ysilla explained.

“They are stone men, Gorys,” Griff added, probably because he looked as confused as he felt listening to this talk about servants of a legend, “Stone men are men who caught the greyscale, this is where they are collected and left to die. Anyways, all of you. If you fall in the water, you know what to do. Climb back on your own, call out then sit tight and no touching anyone. If we are jumped or climbed on or whatever, call out the attack, and from then on, no touching each other, at all. I mean it.”

“Seriously boys,” Rivers added, “Last we sailed here, we lost one to them. One touch is enough to end up like them, be careful.”

“You lost a man here,” Lord Reed asked curiously.

“Not a man,” Griff said solemnly, “A boy of nineteen, a squire, it was his first mission. He touched one of them in the heat of the fight after we got jumped on. By the time we reached Selhorys the poor boy’s hand turned all black. The guard took him, sent him straight back here to waste away among his new kin. Take it seriously like Tristan says, for there is no sailing south for whomever get the greyscale. The Volantene guard in Selhorys will take anyone who show sign of it.”

Now Gorys understood. He knew that they lost men on that mission, he didn’t know that one of those were lost to greyscale. This was no childplay, indeed.

“Once we clear the Sorrows, we shall check ourselves,” Griff continued. “Even those in the cabins, this fog can hold whatever shit for all I know, this is no ordinary fog.”

Gorys glanced ahead. Blackheart told him that Griff was just his usual self asking for knights to guard and being weary to sail through the Chroyane, said he sailed here many a time and nothing ever happened. Gorys wondered about it, what he’s learned.

They began their slow move toward the deep water. No sails were released just as Gorys expected, he thought to look around and memorise everyone’s post but instead he dutifully turned toward the way ahead, for his watch was to begin. He hoped for no sickness of the sea to come upon him, as they entered the fog that was the most worrying on his mind. Whatever was ahead, after all he would much prefer to not fail and carry out this watch duty properly like a man of the Company should. There were women and children onboard. He understood his position, his role. His eyes began to scan ahead, though there was nothing to see now. Only the fog, and he swiftly realised, this will be no easy task. This fog wasn’t just a little fog, soon he could barely see anything else, only the fog.

“This fog is unnatural,” Gorys noted aloud. The boat was just turning to the right to pass the remains of a broken tower that blocked half the river. The river was littered with them, headless statues, marble columns broken in, even a whole sunken temple bowing into the river. A stair rising from the waters toward the sky only to end in nothingness above most likely, because it disappeared in the fog. It seemed nobody bothered with clearing the ruins from the river here, and it seemed most treacherous to sail through this all veiled in fog. He didn’t dare to lean out to watch what was below the water, the order was not to. He obeyed; the eeriness of the place made him absolutely keen on following every word of the orders. It was silent like death here, just like Griff said. It was nothing like Ny Sar.

They were sailing in daylight and yet it seemed as if there was no sun in the sky. They were sailing for at least a couple hours by now, zigzagging around broken towers and arches and walls and stairs and statues, and there was no sign of the sun. It wasn’t pitch black like night, it was a cold dark grey everywhere, the place lacked all colour. Everything seemed grey, covered with white fog and so only shapes were revealed to the eyes, and only if those eyes really focused and engaged the mind to realise what was seen. All over around them, they could see no land, no sky, only the greyness and the shapes of ruins around them. It seemed as if they were sailing through nothingness, a doom, a place of complete destruction. And even that was covered by the damn fog.

“They say it is the spirits of dragonlords,” he’s heard beside him and turned toward the Lyseni. Just then, he heard the first cry.

“And that must be them,” the boy added.

“Have you ever…”

“No,” Lysono’s reply was swift as it was solemn as his eyes scanned ahead. For Gorys’ eyes were on him, he reminded himself, so he returned to his task. “When I was little, it was a story. Whenever we misbehaved, the magister told us that he would send us here if we keep misbehaving. Then we would be lost among the spirits of the dead until the servants of the Shrouded Lord would find us and give us greyscale to turn us into stone like them. Then our skin would blacken and then it would thicken until it begins to crack in scars deep into the flesh and we would also cry in agony like they do. We would go blind for we would never be able to open our eyes again with stone eyelids covering them, then gone are our pretty purple eyes.”

“That is not a story to tell children,” Gorys remarked. Another cry sounded, and then they truly began to cry. A creepy, dreadful chorus of wailing filled the air.

“By now I think we were told many things not for children,” Lysono remarked without looking away from the next obstacle emerging in the fog. A wooden structure, seemingly having been a carved arched gateway once, leaned into the way in front of them.

“Look, there,” Lysono pointed toward something at the root of the ruin. Gorys looked, he could only see more greyness. Grey wood, grey stones, grey… it moved. The grey thing, a lump of greyness, it moved, it slowly rose and emerged something shaped akin to a man. Gorys watched bewildered, his hand moving to grab the handle of his sword on his side. He glanced, the boy held one of the training swords in his hand, one of those he’s sharpened the day before. It dawned on him, the Lyseni knew what was ahead of them, this place he had no idea about until now, the boy knew well what it was to be like. The thing just stood there, as if watching them. As the boat turned toward the left to clear the ruin, the thing shrunk back once more into the grey stone pile Gorys thought it to be before. He reminded himself to breathe. They kept crying. He kept reminding himself to breathe. The boy handed him a biscuit and then left him to his task. He couldn’t stomach eating, so he tucked the biscuit into his pocket. Then he grabbed once more the handle of his sword and again reminded himself to breathe. They didn’t seem to tire of the wailing.

Hours upon hours, the slow clearing of obstacle after obstacle continued. Gorys looked but he couldn’t tell if there were any stone men around them, the damn fog was thick and he could only make out vague shapes for the most part. He suspected every lump of stone, but none of those moved. Still, he was glad for Lysono to point out that one before, for at least now he had an idea of what to look for. He had to keep reminding himself to attend to his thirst at the least, and he still had no need for the biscuit in his pocket. His stomach shrunk into a tiny knot when he saw the stone man move, and ever since it felt as if he himself had swallowed a stone. The thought filled his mind with dread and little else. He tried to think about other things, he thought about his room in Volon Therys and the calmth of the mornings whenever he woke there by himself. He thought of the harbour of Volantis on clear sunny day, loud and lively and filled with people, none of whom had thick cracked grey skin that would look like stone. He thought about the things he needed to do once they reached home. He couldn’t even list them all and put them in the suitable order of doing, he couldn’t split his focus for his dread was so great, he caught his own hand shaking more than once. He gave up and tried to just focus on his task.

Something fell in the water to the right of him, just a bit ahead the boat, near the arch they were clearing.

“Griff,” he called out immediately.

“I heard it,” Griff was already beside him. He glanced down, the man’s hand rested on the pommel of his sword. He wondered at how his own fingers grew tired hours ago gripping at the hilt. He released them, tried to move his numb, aching fingers. Then he rested his hand on the pommel like Griff.

“Did you see,” Griff asked him.

“No,” Gorys admitted, “I saw nothing moving. I heard it and by the time I turned back to it, whatever it was the water hid from me.”

Griff only nodded, his eyes keenly scanning the horizon. Gorys returned to that task as well. They cleared the arch, Griff left him, clearly following the source of sound as the boat passed it for Gorys heard his boots as he made his way toward Lord Reed on the side. Gorys glanced behind. Lysono sat on the bench, Ysilla stood beside him, by the tiller. Then he turned back to his task for he was on watch, he reminded himself once more.

The fog seemed to thicken if that was even possible. There were more things dropping into the water, and each time Griff showed up beside him. None of those times did he see stone moving before the sound, he never caught sight of what fell.

“Damn wailing,” Griff scoffed beside him.

“Do you think it them,” Gorys asked, “The things falling..”

“Must be them,” Griff declared, “If the ruins were falling apart at this rate, there’d be no obstacle to go around. It must be them. Be on alert.”

“I am,” Gorys nodded, his eyes scanning the next bent-in tower to cross. Must have been marble once, from the way the stone shone. It wasn’t steep, but it was wide. Gorys wondered how far it went in the river. Their boat began a turn, Ysilla turned them almost to the side way ahead of the marble tower. As they inched nearer, Gorys could see the lumps on it.

“Those must be them,” he thought aloud. Sure enough, some of the lumps moved. None of them stood. “They seem to care little for us.”

“They have nothing against us,” Griff remarked.

“Then why…”

“They are hungry, Gorys,” Griff explained. “There is nothing to eat here.”

“Volantis sends them ships with food.”

“Volantis sends ships upriver to deliver the newly afflicted,” Griff corrected him. “And there is food on the ship. Whether it can feed thousands, I am doubtful. There must be thousands of them lingering in the ruins I wager.”

“Can they hunt or fish…” Gorys wondered aloud, “The afflicted, are they able to?”

“What would grow in this damp waste,” Griff’s reply came, “Nothing good. That are hungry, Ysilla would tell you that they hunt the living because of Garin’s Curse and all that. I think they are just hungry; they would want to take the food. If they braved it, for most of them just watch and wail.”

“Sad,” Gorys remarked, “You catch an illness, and you live out the rest of your days in a place like this, alone with no care for your suffering.”

“An illness or a curse,” Griff nodded, “Opinions differ on that one, you heard Ysilla.”

“Still, they seem to bother little with us, like you say,” Gorys remarked.

“What could they do,” Griff thought aloud, “Ysilla is doing excellent taking us through. See how she steers clear well ahead. She seems to know the way. And them, they are not how you think. They are feeble creatures, they are clumsy and witless, for it gets into their heads as well. But there is little aggression in them. Until they lived long enough for it to eat up all their mind and then they go mad and become dangerous.”

“How long do they live like this?”

“Who knows,” Griff’s shrug was even audible in his voice. “Some are lucky, said to take a year or two. These ones, methinks five more likely. They say some stone men live for ten.”

Gorys swallowed hard at the thought. Ten years of your skin blackening then thickening then cracking deeply into your flesh, your eyelids turning to stone, your mind growing witless until it wholly turns to stone… in ten years madness must surely come, like Griff said. He swallowed hard again. Griff left him alone again. No doubt he was making rounds, Gorys thought. That was a good thing. Gorys was impressed, he admitted to himself. Griff didn’t seem so paranoid now, but he seemed in complete control of this situation, and he seemed to know exactly where to show up and when. The boat reached the line of the tower. Gorys heard a screeching sound, the boat steered left. After a time that seemed years to him, the screeching sound ceased. The crying didn’t. Wailing, like Griff called it, long, high-pitched angry and desperate and most of all, painful.

They seemed to get nowhere to Gorys, more hours upon more hours of going around things in the water in the nothingness. His mind began to look for signs that they were going around the same things, he watched them for signs that he saw them before. Even worse, the nothingness around them began to darken. Perhaps the sun began its way down in the sky, Gorys wondered, but he decided against it for the thought filled him with dread. But shortly after, Lysono appeared with two torches, tucked them into the thick metal rings on the edge of the deck that Gorys never even noticed before.

“If one comes, you can try scare it off with a torch, they say,” he said as he stood.

“Is the sun going down, then,” Gorys asked.

“Methinks it is,” The boy nodded. “Or perhaps there are storm clouds. Who could tell in this place.”

“No, it is as if even time stopped here,” Gorys agreed, and the boy left him. It must be storm clouds, he thought. No, it cannot be the sunset, for he really didn’t wish to stand here sailing through this place in the black of the night.

He didn’t get his wish. Ysilla lit the lantern on the till beside him as the white-veiled grey nothingness around them slowly began to turn into grey-veiled blackness. But as they passed the last arch, its legs holding it up proudly to almost beyond where Gorys could catch sight through the veil of fog, the way began to clear. There were no more ruins to go around. He looked and looked, but there was no obstacle ahead, only the veiled nothingness.

“We are done,” he sighed in relief.

“No, young man,” Ysilla spoke softly beside him, even patted his shoulder, causing him to wonder if he looked as full of dread and weariness as he felt. “We made good way, as we could. Now, there is a way ahead, and you need not to guard from what is in the river but what is above it.”

Gorys wondered about it. He also wondered about who had the tiller while Ysilla attended to that lantern, though he didn’t look back to see. He didn’t even expect to see it in this fog. There was no wailing now, sometime as the world gave into the darkness around them, the sounds died out. Nothing was falling into the river, no splashing sounds of water, none of the aching cries that by now were cutting into him deep straight to his bones.

They are not here, he assured himself. Nobody’s here, it was only death, the veiled black nothingness of death. But again, he was wrong. A light flickered to one side, then another, and another. He swallowed hard.

“The lights…” He turned to Ysilla.

“The servants,” Ysilla nodded, “They are not wholly witless, young Gorys Edoryen, they are men and women like you and me, some are more stone, some are more flesh. They light their own torches when the dark settles upon them, just like we do.”

“They see us, then,” Gorys remarked, aloud.

“That, they surely do,” Ysilla nodded. “Fear not. We are peaceful creatures; we came in peace. Mother Rhoyne carried us through the ruins, she knows we mean no harm. The Shrouded Lord will not send his servants against us, I know it.”

Gorys pondered on it, translated it to something he could understand. The servants, they were the poor greyscale-afflicted who now owned these ruins and Ysilla expected them to cause little bother, just like Griff said.

“The fog?” He turned to Ysilla.

“Angry spirits of invaders,” he heard behind him, glanced to see Lysono stop next to them. “That is how I know.”

“They are angry spirits,” Ysilla nodded, “Restless and aching for they are stuck here. Many ships lost their way on this path before, poleboats and even large river galleys and pirates, Mother Rhoyne saw the truth in their hearts and brought Garin’s Curse upon them. Now their spirits roam here aimlessly, for they shall never find a sun to lead them out. They are bound to shroud the river, the bound and tormented souls of invaders held in the water below them.”

“Valyrian invaders,” Lysono noted aloud, “They were dragonlords, were they not?”

“Very true,” Ysilla smiled warmly to the boy. These two seem to share a tune, Gorys thought to himself. “For Volantis has called on their kin against the Rhoynar, the dragonlords of the Freehold. When Garin took his army south, quarter of a million marched along with him it is said, to defeat the Volantene end the wars once and for all. They took Selhorys, Valysar, Volon Therys… It is said that three dragons came forth to defend Volon Therys, and still, Garin was victorious. But then, the dragonlords came north in force to protect their kin the Volantene, not just three but three hundred dragons breathed fire upon Garin’s army and against that, they could not stand. It is said that many sought Mother Royne’s protection, jumped into the waters, and yet, the fires by the many dragons burned so hot that the river boiled and steamed. Garin has been captured, but they showed no mercy to all those brave warriors who stood against the dragons and survived, they were all massacred. It is said that so many were put to sword, their blood turned Mother Rhoyne red from the Volantene harbour as far as the eye could see.”

“Then they put Garin in the cage,” Lysono nodded, “They brought him back to the Chroyane to make him watch as they destroy the greatest of the Rhoynish cities. They mocked Garin, who called on Mother Rhoyne for aid and that night the waterwalls rose the final time, and washed away the invaders, trapped them in the water below the ruins of Chroyane.”

“Indeed, young one,” Ysilla nodded proudly and Gorys wondered about it. Lysono knew a great many things that he had no idea about, he knew that now, and this story was shared today, but still, the boy seemed so immersed as he recounted it. Gorys knew, on a day with clear sky, if you stood out in the pier in the harbour of Volantis, if it was the right time of day, just before the sun would turn on its highest point in the sky toward its way down, if you looked toward the south-east, you could catch sight of the ruins of Sarhoy in the far distance. The great Rhoynish port city that was first to fall to the united Valyrian-Volantene forces, he now knew. If you knew what to look for, you could see it from the harbour. His father knew what to look for, pointed it out to him once when he was a boy.

“There are ruins at Volon Therys as well,” he said then, “The other side of the river.”

“Sar Mell,” Ysilla nodded, “The first two cities to meet in battle were those two, Volon Therys and Sar Mell. The Valyrians netted and butchered one of the Old Men of the River and that started the war, for you see, the Old Men are sacred to us. The dragonlords sacked Sar Mell, and in response the water wizards of the Rhoynar called upon the power of Mother Royne. Volon Therys was flooded, half the city washed away, it is said.”

Gorys nodded, trying to memorise the tale in his tired mind. Ahead, a light flickered.

“I must to my post,” Ysilla remarked with narrowed eyes. “Soon, young ones, soon we shall be south of the Sorrows.” With that she left.

“Where is your post,” Gorys asked Lysono.

“Nowhere,” the boy chuckled. “I was to stay with the women and the babes. Griff had me go around to bring food to the rest and attend to the fires, but he gave me no post.”

Gorys nodded, his gaze firmly ahead. Because a second light flickered right ahead of them, and he tried to place it, to see what the obstacle would be on the river. Yet the first light seemed to him as if approaching.

“I think…” he narrowed his eyes, even took a step forward. “Yes, I think it is closing in. Griff!”

Griff appeared in no time, stood beside them with stoic face, watching the light in the fog.

“Boat!” They heard, “Who are you?”

“Shy Maid,” Yandry responded confidently.

“Kingfisher!” the response came from the boat then, Gorys felt so relieved that he realised he’s had a wide grin on his face. He couldn’t see anything else of it but the light, but the Kingfisher must’ve been a boat, he concluded. Lysono chuckled at his sight. “Up or down?” They heard.

“Down,” Yandry yelled, “Hides and honey and good people returning to home, you?”

“Up; knives and needles and much coil for fire.”

“What news from the south?” Griff called out toward the boat.

“Nothing much,” the voice said, “New triarch in Volantis, Malaquo his name.”

Griff nodded, his face stern.

“You seem to not like the news,” Gorys remarked as the light passed by them.

“Malaquo is no friend of the Company, from what I heard,” Griff remarked, “Keep to yourselves and watch ahead.” With that he left them.

“I wonder what he meant,” Gorys remarked, “Surely, it means nothing. There are three triarchs, that is why they are called triarchs. If two are friend, then there is nothing to worry about.”

Lysono only shrugged it off, seemingly deep in thought. Gorys’ gaze returned to scanning the horizon as well, as much as it could be called a horizon. Steady row of lanterns with flickering lights now lined their way ahead. He hoped they were the riversides at the least.

“I wonder about them,” Lysono whispered after a while.

“About whom, the triarchs?”

“I know nothing about the triarchs,” Lysono’s response seemed thoughtful, “I wonder about the dragonlords. They brought war on the Rhoynar, they brought Fire and Blood.”

Fire and Blood. Gorys thought about it, trying to place for it sounded somewhat strange embedded in Lysono’s answer as it was. He glanced aside but the boy was looking ahead with a solemn face. He couldn’t place it, so he decided to let it slide. Instead, trusting in the boy’s eyes, he finally turned to see what was happening on the boat beside him. The deck was lined with torches, and he could see, there was fire burning in the brazier as well. He could see far more than he expected. Ser Rolly was pushing the starboard pole; Yandry was at the larboard. On the two sides of the cabins, on the narrow path stood two small figures, he took them as the two crannogmen, with the unique shape of their tridents in their hands. Light flickered through from behind one of them, from the cabin of the babes Gorys knew, there now Malo and Denys waited with the ladies and the babes until Griff goes to tell them that they cleared the Sorrows. For a moment he lingered at how they must’ve sat there all day without even as much as a glance on this world. No doubt they were reduced to the packed biscuits and sausages by Ysilla and the chamberpots, and their own thoughts during the long wait itself. No doubt the Lady worried. He knew, beyond the cabins would be standing Marq Mandrake and Tristan Rivers with sword in hand. Ysilla held the tiller with eyes ahead, though her gaze met his for a moment and she gave Gorys a nod with a warm smile. Griff, he was slowly pacing the deck. Gorys lingered on Griff, how stoic his face looked. How he kept touching the handle of his sword, stopped for a moment to look around before he resumed his slow pacing. The second time he stopped and looked, his pale eyes met Gorys’ before his eyes narrowed and Gorys swiftly returned to his task before a scolding, wondering why he worried for a scolding. As he turned ahead, he realised. Griff wasn’t giving the stern look to him, but in response to what lied ahead of them. A steady light now, clearly above the river. Soon a second appeared, and then a third.

“The Bridge of Dream, it must be,” Lysono whispered, his voice filled with a mix of awe and dread both. Lysono never spoke this dreadfully before, Gorys thought and swallowed hard.

“Bridge of dream,” he repeated, “A bridge… Ysilla said from above….”

“They wait on the bridge, Gorys,” Lysono explained. “They wait on the bridge and if the Shrouded Lord tells them to, then they jump on the boat crossing below.”

“Who is the Shrouded Lord,” Gorys asked aloud.

“I know only the legend,” Lysono whispered apologetically, “They say Garin rose from the river, he became the Shrouded Lord and he hunts the invaders still, hungry for revenge for what has befallen on his city. This was said to be the greatest cities of all, the richest, a festival city for the Rhoynar. But I believe the Shrouded Lord not to be Garin himself, for nobody lives thousand years. In Pentos I heard a story once, that there are many Shrouded Lords, something akin to that, for when one dies, another receives a kiss from a grey woman with eyes like ice; and then he becomes the Shrouded Lord. Mind you I remember little of it, I… I was working so I paid little attention to the chatter. In any case, the stone men are said to linger on the Bridge. That is why we are on the deck; I am sure of it.”

Gorys nodded, his mind focused on one particular piece of information. He forgot all about the story, only one thing remained, ‘I was working’ Lysono told him, working in Pentos.

Soon the shape of the ‘bridge’ emerged. It was a bridge no longer, for in the middle, between the two highest arches, the way caved in, preventing a crossing over it. However, the two sides, they stood proudly, looming high above the nearing boat, and atop of them Gorys could see, there were many lumps of stone. The wailing began again, this time from nearer, clearly from above the bridge, and the lumps moved, many of them moved. Gorys tried to swallow down the knot that rose in his throat.

They slowly progressed toward one of the arches just next to where it caved in. Gorys felt the urge to look back, to tell them to push ahead faster, and at the same time he could not take his eyes off the stone lumps atop the arch they’ll cross under. They moved. Clearly, they were moving.

He’s heard a splash nearby, almost jumped from where he stood. Both he and Lysono glanced toward the direction of the sound, but of course he could not see what it was. His gaze returned to the stone lumps atop the bridge, three lights atop the bridge.

Slowly, very slowly they reached it. The worse only came now, Gorys thought, for now he could not see anymore. As they slowly began to cross under the arch of the bridge, he could no longer see the lumps, and then it all turned even darker around them, though at least he could hear the river around the stone pillars nearby.

“Watch now,” Lysono whispered, and they both tried their damnest to see what’s above them without leaning beyond the edge of the deck. Lysono even stepped up a step toward the till, sword in hand, his other hand picked up one of the torches and held it high above him. Gorys followed suit and picked up the other. Slowly, they reached the other side. Now, Gorys thought, if they jump, it will be now. He drew his sword at the ready and glanced back. Griff stood behind them, right in the middle of the deck where the trainings would be held, hand on the hilt of his sword. He looked up again, he kept trying to see. They cleared the bridge, the three lights emerged above, soon the moving lumps were visible again atop the bridge.

Nothing jumped. Nothing. Gorys reminded himself to exhale.

“My blood froze,” Lysono whispered, “Even my blood.”

“Mine too,” Gorys nodded, and Lysono gave him a curious look, he couldn’t read the boy’s face.

“Shall thank Garin, in any case,” Lysono sighed.

“I doubt that we will,” Gorys remarked, “But you are right.”

“Is it not strange,” Lysono remarked then, “The dragonlords came forth for their Volantene kin, it is said. The dragonlords wanted war, methinks, they wanted to control the world around them. Just think about it.” It seemed as if the boy was in some kind of thought process that Gorys wasn’t privy to. He couldn’t tell what there was to think about, these were old stories, the history of this place from a thousand year ago at most, in a time when those living now believed magic was still alive in the world, and so now, this all was long in the past. Sure, they still lingered, especially in this fog. This fog was nothing natural. But those dragonlords and Garin and the rest of them, they were long gone. Even the boy said so, nobody lives for a thousand years.

“Methinks it old stories,” he said then.

“History repeats itself,” Lysono declared. “The dragonlords brought fire and blood on the Rhoynar. Then they brought fire and blood on Westeros. But history repeats itself, until there are no dragons left in the world that they once wanted to rule.”

Fire and Blood. Gorys realised, those were the Targaryen words.

“The Targaryens were defeated, indeed,” he whispered, “Best not discourse them around Griff.”

“All I meant is they were dragonlords,” Lysono protested. “Back in the day of Old Valyria, they were but one of the families of dragonriders, I remember there were thirty families of dragonlords in the stories, though I may be mistaken. Likely there are souls of Targaryens just now trapped captive in the waters below us if it is Garin’s curse that lingers all around us. That is what I meant, they were dragons it is true, and so were others. In the end, the dragons were defeated every time, ever since Garin cursed them. That is what I believe.”

“The rest of them perished in the Doom,” Gorys remarked, “Not in a war.”

“Oh, I know,” Lysono smiled, “And what brought upon them the Doom? What caused the Fourteen Flames to erupt and destroy the greatest Empire in the world? Some say their bloodmagic faltered, their spells faltered. Some say it was their greed and whatever Gods punished them. Some say it was all natural bound to happen, but could it have been so? Their magic bound dragons, the greatest creatures of the known world you must agree, they bound them to their will and tamed them. Could their spells falter over the Fourteen Flames? Could nature overcome their sorcerers, then? No, I think not. I think only magic overcomes magic. You know why the Targaryens survived? It is all thanks to Daenys the Dreamer. The maid told her father of her dragon dreams, she dreamed of the doom, how could she have dreamed of their spells faltering… She dreamed of it because they had enemies, Gorys, they made enemies of the rest of the world with their vainglorious pride and their greed to rule over them all, like they made enemies of the Rhoynar. They were not the only ones with magic, the water wizards flooded Volon Therys, you heard it yourself, and let us not think of far greater things out there, there are plenty who wield magic of great power even today. The dragonlords were powerful, and they made the wrong enemies. Daenys’ father was Aenar Targaryen. He is called Aenar the Exile for he left Valyria for Dragonstone. That, is how the Targaryens survived. Because of Daenys’ dragon dreams.”

“You know a lot about the dragons,” Gorys remarked.

“I am from Lys,” the boy smiled, “And Lys is a Valyrian city. There are many stories.”

Somehow, Gorys didn’t think that they told stories of Targaryens in Lys. Perhaps once, when that courtesan crossed from Westeros. He tried to remember the name, Saera. She settled in Volantis, that was said to be reason why there were a few families now with Valyrian features in the city. She had children, each fathered by a different paramour of hers.

“Why do they tell stories of red dragons in Lys,” he asked, “Saera was there a long time ago.”

“There were more since,” Lysono said, “For example, Aerion. The Brightflame. He was there after Bittersteel founded the Company even, he was in exile and he spent it whoring in Lys. I know a tale about him, it is quite funny. He thought himself a real dragon, so he drank some potion of sorcery to be able to breathe fire. He poisoned himself and died.”

The boy knew so many things, Gorys thought for the dozenth of time, and still surprised by how much the boy knew. Lysono’s eyes scanned the horizon, his face now calm despite the lanterns on both sides and the fog surrounding. They were yet to clear the ruins. The boy knew that Blackheart was a Blackfyre, the boy claimed so. Blackheart’s grandmother, the boy claimed, and her twin was Peake’s grandmother, and that would make Peake Blackheart’s kin. And Blackheart knew the boy’s mother, the boy claimed. In Lys?

“No doubt the Volantene thought that there were no better friends,” the boy whispered, seemingly lost in his thoughts once more for he didn’t even glance at Gorys. “And the Rhoynar, they must’ve thought, there’s no fiercer foe, and Garin in his desperation and grief responded in kind. How fitting this all is. All this doom, history repeats itself from Valyria all the way to Maelys and the Targaryens.”

Gorys swallowed hard, his eyes on the boy. He studied the braids holding the stray locks of hair from his face, the silver hair he had tied behind his head. His eyes shone almost black but Gorys knew those eyes. They were a distinct purple, deeper than lilac, slightly brighter than purple, but he always thought them purple, so did everyone else including the boy. In candlelight, they looked indigo, said to be the Targaryen eye colour that way. Purple eyes, silver hair, Valyrian features.

Targaryen features with their fire and blood, and if so, then they were the Blackfyre features, as well, for Daemon Blackfyre was son of a Targaryen king. Blackheart knew the boy’s mother, the boy said.

Seven hells. Gorys felt sudden need to sit. The boy has just told him, did the boy know what he’s just told Gorys? He seemed as if Gorys wasn’t even standing beside him. No better friend, no fiercer foe, those were the Blackfyre words, Gorys knew that well. He swallowed, his eyes on the boy.

“Blackfyre,” he whispered. The boy was as if he heard nothing of it.

“You are a Blackfyre,” he said again, “Are you not?”

The boy seemed to suddenly remember Gorys standing there for he turned to him, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Blackheart knew your mother, you said. Blackheart knew Blackfyres, he knew Maelys, and the cousin, Daemon, he knew him as well. I know that.”

“I am just rambling,” the boy said hesitantly, “I always liked the stories about dragons the most.” He looked away from Gorys. “They would go and burn whoever defied them, nobody would tame them, nobody would enslave them… what is there not to like? They could have ruled the world, truly, if they went about it smarter and not proudly flaunting their sheer power and magic. Think about it, if the Targaryens still had dragons they would’ve never been defeated, but also, if Maelys hatched the dragon…”

“What dragon?”

“The one he tried to hatch,” the boy explained, “He gave his son to the fire, a boy of four. Only death can pay for life. He tried to hatch a dragon, but the magic failed to take hold, the boy was no trueborn kingsblood.”

“What…” Gorys shook his head confused, “How do you know these things?”

“The stories,” Lysono smiled, “I always loved the dragon stories the most, I told you. When I was little, I thought myself a dragon because of how I look.”

“Because you are a Blackfyre,” Gorys pressed.

“There are no Blackfyres, Gorys,” the boy gave him a stern look, “None bears the name, none has right to that name anymore. Even Maelys’ boy, he was no trueborn kingsblood; proven when Maelys failed to hatch the dragon with his sacrifice. That is all around us in the fog, the fall of dragons, Garin’s Curse on the dragons like Ysilla said. I always believed it, now I am glad to have seen it.”

“Just tell me if I am right,” Gorys said, “Who was your mother? You told me that Blackheart knew your mother.”

“She passed when I was four,” Lysono whispered, his eyes wistful in the light of the torch in his hand. “I told you. The pox took her.”

“Do you remember her,” Gorys asked, “Do you remember her name?”

“She is gone, Gorys,” the boy’s face turned visibly sad, “And no, I have no memories, not anymore. I used to remember her lullabies. Not anymore, now I only remember the stories.”

“What the fuck,” Griff stepped beside them, looking straight ahead. Gorys looked ahead as well, cursing himself for losing focus on his task, so immersed he got in the boy’s strange musings. As if the boy was in a trance, as if all this around them was long part of the boy’s world, as if the Chroyane fuelled and justified and confirmed the things the boy was told, scared with to make sure he behaved. The boy was a Blackfyre. Damn, Gorys was certain of it now, all the things the boy knew, the way he looked… how it was possible for a boy like Lysono to be a black dragon, Gorys could not tell. Blackheart would know the black dragons, he was the captain-general ever since Maelys fell on the Stepstones, he would know if there were Blackfyres. But Gorys gave his word, and so he cannot just go and ask Blackheart about it. He gave his word, he thought to learn more of the boy’s secrets, he had to accept that he cannot just tell on the secrets he’s learned. He glanced aside to the boy, but the boy looked puzzled, staring straight ahead. So Gorys looked ahead again and now he understood what Griff’s cursing was about. A light, high above the water, and now another emerging.

“The bridge,” Gorys said wide eyed, as the third light emerged.

“It cannot be,” Griff’s response was swift, but his voice betrayed his own disbelief. Beside them, a light emerged swiftly.

“Who are you,” the voice called out, even before Gorys could make out the ship. He shook his head, this cannot be. Like Griff said, this cannot be.

“Shy Maid,” he’s heard Yandry’s reply.

“The Kingfisher,” Gorys heard Lysono’s stunned declaration. Yes, the source of the voice sounded the same as the voice claimed to have come from the boat, the Kingfisher. Though they never saw the boat, they only saw the light. Gorys only assumed it to have been a boat sailing north, passing them by.

“No better friend, no fiercer foe,” the voice declared. Gorys closed pressed his eyes closed, opened them, and then did so again, but he was right, the light was passing them. Both Griff and Lysono watched bewildered as the light passed them by. Gorys wondered if Griff knew the Blackfyre words. Why would the Kingfisher declare itself with the Blackfyre words? Did they mean to greet the boy? What kind of sorcery was playing out in front of them? The light faded; and the bridge emerged from the fog looming large in the water in front of them. Gorys thought himself in the worst nightmare, for his mind could not believe what he saw.

“We passed the Bridge,” he declared aloud, more to convince himself than anything else. “Rivers flow one way, this cannot be the Bridge.” But it looked exactly like that damned bridge.

He looked aside, but Griff was already gone from beside them, he stood beside Ysilla holding the tiller, they were in discussion. He looked down on his hand – he never sheathed his sword. He raised the torch high in his other hand.

It was the bridge; he was certain of it. The exact same shape, and he could make out the lumps on top. Stone men. They were moving. He swallowed hard. Just then, he saw, one jumped in the water. Or perhaps fell. He wondered for a moment if stone men could swim, or if they were heavy like stone itself? He hoped the one not to be able to swim, not to swim to the boat, not to try and climb up. They were nearing the arch under the bridge. Another arch, seems this unbelievable second time they were taking a different way through. He thought it a very good idea.

Lysono raised the torch beside him. He looked behind, now he could see Griff also held a torch, the crannogmen on the side also took one in hand. Everyone knew that they were going through the impossible, Gorys thought, more to assure himself. Everyone must be weary then, like he was, he thought. That filled him with some confidence at the least, he wasn’t yet going mad then. The till just about reached the line of the bridge. He couldn’t see them above; they entered the arch.

Then he heard the sound, like a loud thump, like when heavy grain sack is thrown on the deck of a ship in the harbour in Volantis but ten times louder. He immediately turned back, so did Lysono beside him, so did Griff.

“Attack,” Griff’s voice was loud and clear as he called it out, but even if Gorys didn’t hear it, he could see that lump of stone atop the roof. Griff was right not to place anyone on the roof. The lump rose, took shape of a man, something that perhaps was a man once. Now it looked like a roughly carved statue, and it wasn’t rising to stand straight either, its back was bent, its knees remained bent, its shoulders stuck forward. Like a monkey more than a man, Gorys thought.

He couldn’t tell what came of it, he instinctively turned toward the sound of splashing water beside them. There was something in the water he thought, taking a few steps to the side to try and see clearer while he waited for the sounds of fight. The darkness below the arch didn’t help either to see, and he found himself looking around the arch in the torchlight, try to see if there could’ve been a place where one could jump from. There were no sounds of fight behind him, he thought that perhaps the creature considered remaining on the roof. They were almost out from under the arch.

He thought he’s seen something in the water. He glanced toward Lysono, the boy was holding up his torch, once more stepped up toward the till he was keenly looking up, awaiting the Shy Maid to begin clearing the arch, at the ready to see. Then the fight behind them began with another thumping sound. He turned, saw Ysilla wave a torch in her hand while the boat strayed to the side suddenly. That damned creature knew where to attack, it was now on the deck, just beside the tiller. The boat still moved ahead, Rolly and Yandry were doing their work while Lord Reed came forth with his trident toward the creature that seemed eyeing Griff as it was keeping clear of Ysilla’s torch. Griff held his sword out as well as his torch, making Gorys wonder if swords were the proper weapon. Just then his doubts were proven right, Lord Reed struck forth with that trident in his hand. The creature got struck by the three pronges and lost balance. It fell into the water.

Gorys didn’t realise when he raised his sword, when he stepped closer. He only realised it when he heard Lysono call out, “Attack!”

He turned immediately. A creature just landed loudly right where he stood during his watch, causing Lysono step up toward a till, and the creature launch for him, for now his way to the deck was blocked by the creature towering toward him. The boy wisely swung the torch, but then Gorys heard the attack called once more by Griff, heard the sound of thump and then another and then he heard Tristan Rivers call out as well. Where to turn, where to fight, he felt frozen onto the deck. The boy held onto a rope while waving the torch. He had no sword anymore, Gorys realised. Damn.

He thought he ran but it all felt like slow motion, the creature launched for the boy just when he moved, and the boy tried to move aside. He was half up on the till, clearly with no way further, he tried to move aside but instead he fell to the side, his torch landing in the water. The creature missed though, fell in the water tumbling across the till. But as the boy fell, half his body also landed off the deck and he must’ve hit himself for he wasn’t climbing back, he wasn’t moving at all. By the time Gorys dropped the sword to instinctively reach for the boy, the boy slipped off the deck altogether and his hand reached nothing, the boy splashed into the water.

“Man in the water!” Gorys heard himself call out. He looked; but couldn’t see movement in the water, the boy didn’t emerge. The fighting must’ve ceased behind him for the sounds ceased.

“Where,” he heard Griff beside him a few moments later.

“I cannot see,” he said but Griff was already holding out a torch. There was nothing in the water. Griff crouched down with the torch in his hand and Gorys’ eyes followed. He caught the shining on the iron ring that held the torch now in his hand, he saw it in the light of Griff’s torch. Moisture. Blood, he knew. His heart skipped a beat.

Griff stood, holding the torch out once more he was searching the water, from the till down the side of the boat. Gorys saw, Reed began to do the same. Then he saw it. The body emerged just beside them, further down to the side, head down into the water, the boy’s arms motionlessly outward to the sides of his torso swimming on the water surface. This could not be, Gorys thought, this simply could not be happening.

Before he could even process it, Griff pressed his torch in his hand, he even dropped his own sword to take the torch without thinking. Griff unbuckled his swordbelt. “You can’t,” Gorys began to speak but Griff already jumped into the water. He emerged near the body, grabbed and turned it. For a moment looked at it just as Gorys stared at the boy’s peaceful face, before Griff began to drag the body back toward the boat.

Yandry tossed a rope for him. Rivers ran forth, holding out a hand but Griff only shook his head to the man. He pulled up with only one arm, his other around the chest of the boy who still wasn’t moving. This could not be, Gorys thought once more. Griff should not have. Griff had the babes. He watched Griff tossing the boy’s body over, before he pulled himself up as well.

“Back to your posts,” Griff’s voice was stern as he pulled the boy further in on the deck and Gorys could finally see the boy’s face once more, the thin line of blood running down from his hair. He stepped back to his post though, trying hard not to look down on that iron ring. Not to look at anything, disorderly ropes under the till, where the boy climbed to escape the creature, he was stepping on heaps of ropes. His eyes scanned the horizon, but there was nothing. Two lines of lights flickering in the fog on the two sides, and nothing else. A sudden thought urged him and he lowered the torch, searched the till, the edge of the deck as much as he could without stepping on those damned ropes. There was nothing, nothing tried to climb on deck. Once more scanning the horizon, he still couldn’t see anything and so he turned back toward Griff.

Griff was pressing the boy’s chest in a rhythm, he stopped and slapped the boy a few times, no doubt to try and wake him. Pressed on his chest a few more times. The boy didn’t move, didn’t wake, Gorys wondered dreadfully if the boy still lived. Griff just leaned back, sitting beside the boy, he gave up the attempts. Gorys understood, Griff will now follow his own order, he won’t take a post, he will stay put where he was. He was to sit there still and wait until they clear the fog, and they check themselves however that was to be done, and then they’ll know. Griff had the two babes, Gorys reminded himself. This was such an unbelievable mess.

How did they cross under the same bridge twice while never changing their direction? They never turned backwards, and even if they did, it would’ve meant crossing under that accursed bridge three times, not twice. They could not have done it twice, there was no way, and yet that was what they did. The Kingfisher, they passed the Kingfisher twice, no doubt, the voice declaring those words was the same as the one declaring itself of the Kingfisher. It could not be, none of it could be. They passed under the bridge without issues. This was a nightmare, it could not be anything else but a nightmare, his own mind playing the tricks on him in a dream. He turned ahead, trying to focus on his task, trying not to break down from how he could not believe what happened to them.

The rest of it went without incident in truth, albeit by the time they cleared the fog, it was dark and cold, late into the night. Once he could see the clear starry sky above, Gorys left his post, he couldn’t keep it up any longer. He went and sat down next to Griff, keeping at distance. The boy seemed as if peacefully sleeping.

“Is he alive,” Gorys asked.

“He was in the river,” Griff’s response was calm.

“You touched him,” Gorys said, “You should not have, you have the lady and the babes.”

“And what should I have done,” Griff looked at him sternly, “Should of sent the boy down into the cabins no matter how he reasoned, that is what I should have done. There is nothing to it, Gorys. The boy was alive in the water. Did you see what happened?”

Gorys looked around, they were all grouping in a half-circle around Griff and the unconscious boy lying on the deck.

“It jumped where my guard post was,” Gorys began to explain, “The boy, he stepped up on the ropes to see clearer what is above. I must have stepped back, for the fight… the creature landed where my post was, and he launched at the boy. The boy tried to step up to the till and then there was nowhere to go for him. He was waving the torch, but the creature launched at him, and he jumped aside. Methinks he may have slipped on the ropes, he fell. He was half hanging off the deck, and he was motionless. I moved to catch him, but he slid into the water.”

“He must have hit his head on that iron ring, methinks,” Griff nodded, “Did it touch him?”

Gorys thought about it, replayed in his head everything he saw. He could not tell; the creature was between him and the boy when it launched and the boy swung himself to the side. “I saw nothing like…” he said desperately, “I cannot tell, I mean… I hope not.”

Yandry went forth toward the till. He took his sword; with it he began to push the ropes into the water. Then he swung the sword to cut loose the ropes. Gorys understood, Yandry wasn’t to keep the ropes that a stone man may have touched in any way.

“Any of you touched,” Griff asked then. They all shook their heads. “Still, sit down, check your toes and your fingers, pierce them with your daggers. Check the skin on your arms.”

Gorys pulled up the leather and the shirt from his underarm but there was nothing unusual to see on his skin. Of course there wasn’t, he was late to save the boy, he did none of the fighting. He watched as Rivers and Mandrake sat down on the deck, took off their boots. They began to pick their toes with their daggers, they even drew blood. They did the same to their fingers.

“I am clear,” Rivers declared, just as the rest of them began to follow their example. Gorys began to pull off his boots.

“Me too,” he’s heard Marq. One by one, they all declared themselves clear while he was picking his toes with his dagger, hissing at the pain of it. He drew his own blood four times though he tried not to. He picked on his fingers one by one, caused three more times his blood drawn.

“I am clear, too, I think,” he said, “What was I to look for?”

“Numbness,” Rivers explained, “Any fingers or toes numb?”

“None,” Gorys sighed, “They hurt.”

“Hurt is good,” Rivers nodded. “Greyscale makes them numb right away, that is how it sets in. Then the blackening follows, but first, the numbness.”

Griff didn’t check himself. He stood with a sigh, and leaned down, he picked up the boy and tossed him across his back.

“I take him to my cabin,” he declared factually as if it was nothing, “Once he wakes, I check him myself. Matters little, I touched him in the water.” He made his way to the stairs, the others stepping out of the way. Gorys followed, straight into the cabin.

“What should I tell the Lady,” he asked Griff.

“Go and tell her that we crossed,” Griff’s reply was emotionless, “Have them all check themselves. She will have the babes with their hands and feet free, have a look.”

“I will not…”

“Of course not,” Griff looked at him as if he said something completely stupid. “Just look at them. If Ashara and the rest are clear, they will be clear most likely, but take a look is what I told you.”

“And you?” Gorys began to feel crumbling under the seriousness of the situation, “The lady will want to see you.”

“Tell her,” Griff sighed, “The fuck knows, Gorys. Tell her.” He nodded for he also couldn’t figure what else he could do. The boy was now laid on the bed, and still unconscious, Griff sat down in the chair beside the table opposite the bed, his eyes settled on the boy. Gorys left thinking that surely, his telling will do little good. The lady will want to see Griff anyways. Still, he went.

They had the door locked.

“It is I, Gorys,” he called out, “We cleared the Sorrows, I need to come in.”

Malo opened the door to him, on his face sheer dread.

“You fought,” he whispered.

“I did not,” Gorys said as he stepped in beside Malo. They sat in different places of the room, the woman, Dalla was on the bed, the lady in the chair beside the crates of the two babes. Denys sat aside by the wall on his mat, Malo was just dropping himself onto the floor beside the door. Gorys could tell, they were separated, likely to follow orders. Their faces were fearful.

“There was a fight,” the Lady Ashara told him. He only nodded. He tried not to burst out and rant at them that the impossible happened and it could not be, none of this could now be real, because that was how he felt. “Griff says you all need to be checked. Take off your boots, take a dagger and pierce each toe, then each finger. If it is numb, tell me,” He tried to be factual about it, tried to hide the turmoil he felt. Stepping next to the crates, he crouched down to check the babes. The babes were sleeping, their tiny little hands and feet free from their swaddles. He leaned close, taking a good look. As if he would know what to look for, he thought, but truly he could see nothing amiss on their cute little hands and feet. The lady was pulling off her boots next to him. She had Lysono’s dagger, now she leaned down and took the tip of it to her toes one by one. She drew blood and hissed a few times, but she did her fingers as well without a pause. Then she laid the dagger on the bed, for Dalla to do the same. Malo and Denys were slowly progressing with it as well.

“Nothing?” he asked when they all finished. They shook their heads, no, they were all clear. The fog at least carried none of that gruesomeness, Gorys felt relieved. By now, he could’ve thought anything possible in this nightmare.

“Now, speak up,” Lady Ashara told him.

“I…” Gorys wondered how to explain it. “I cannot even fathom what happened. We cleared the ruins, all day we were going around ruins, towers, and columns and even a temple, a whole temple was sunken into the water. All covered in the thick fog, I could barely see ahead. I had the till, to watch ahead, we each had our posts. We reached the bridge, Lysono and I were by the till. Saw stone men moving atop the bridge. Nothing happened and we crossed under the bridge, but then the strangest thing… I cannot explain it, truly, it is inconceivable. We reached the bridge again. I know I sound like a madman, but Griff said the same, Lysono said the same, it was the bridge. We even passed the same boat! The Kingfisher… We reached the bridge the second time, it is a wide bridge, with arches below to sail across under, and we entered the arch. One jumped onto the roof. It waited for a while then it jumped down, for Ysilla. She had the tiller. Lord Reed fought off the stone man, with his trident he pushed it off the deck. But then we were clearing the arch, and Lysono called out attack, and one landed where my post had been. I must have stepped back for the fight with the other one, and then this one went for Lysono, and he was stuck between the stone man and the till. But then another jumped behind me, and I heard Tristan also call out, so there were three. I know not who fought off those… The one at the till made Lysono climb toward the till. Then there was nowhere to climb and he tried to avoid it, he jumped aside and he hit his head. And he fell into the water, the stone man also fell into the water. Griff came and we searched the water. Then Lysono’s body came onto the surface, but he wasn’t moving. We found blood on the deck. And…” his eyes settled on the lady, “Griff then jumped into the water. He brought Lysono back onto the deck. He says the boy is alive, he was alive in the water, but he is yet to wake. They are in Griff’s cabin, but nobody is to touch them. Everyone else is clear on the deck, but Griff said, he will check both of them when Lysono wakes. That is all. I cannot believe how we passed under the bridge twice; I simply cannot believe it…”

The lady only stood and left the cabin without a word to him. No doubt to Griff, she didn’t even put her boots back on. Gorys stood as well. He wondered if he should go to them, but then he thought, surely, they need time alone to speak.

“I go and empty the pots,” Malo stood with a solemn face.

Gorys just left the cabin altogether. He had no idea what to tell Denys, and he never spoke to the other lady, he made his way up to deck for lack of better idea. On the deck, he helped Ysilla lift a cauldron above the brazier, in it the stew from last night, she wanted to warm it up for she said they need warm food in their bellies now that the work was done. She mentioned nothing to Gorys about having crossed under the bridge twice. Malo came, took over the helping, Gorys sat on the bench where Griff and the Lady would sit during supper, wondering about it. Trying to remember if the stone man touched Lysono. But he could not tell, he really could not see it clear enough and it happened so fast. He was also giving himself a headache with it. When the stew was hot, he told Malo to bring two bowls, he took a third and they made their way to Griff’s cabin.

The lady was no longer there, so he told Malo to take them two bowls to the other cabin instead. He wasn’t really the best with handing out bowls of stew, he concluded. He’s heard Malo going back up and coming back down again, no doubt with more bowls of stew.

“You should eat,” he told Griff, “Ysilla says…”

“I give no fucks about what Ysilla says,” Griff growled at him. He seemed in the foulest of moods. Still, he took to the bowl once Gorys placed it in front of him on the table. He was halfway done with it when they heard the coughing. Lysono finally woke, he was crouching onto one side coughing and spitting water.

“Now, let’s see,” Griff stood, walked to the bed, took off Lysono’s boots. Took his dagger, pierced each toe. Lysono hissed each time. He checked the fingers, same result until the little finger on the second hand. That one the boy felt nothing of, and Griff’s drawn the boy’s blood when he went at it again.

Griff said nothing, only gave Gorys a look, “Bring a bowl, he needs to eat.” Then he sat back down in his chair, began to remove his own boots. Gorys told nothing to nobody, he just took a bowl with a spoon as if he wasn’t even a living creature with a working mind of his own, moving as if it was all instinctual. All he could think of was that this is the worst nightmare he’s ever had; please someone come forth from the cabins and wake him, step on his limbs, or kick him awake or whatever it took but wake him. Nobody did. He returned to Griff’s cabin, handed Lysono the bowl, wondering if the boy’s hand will touch his when the boy takes it, but it didn’t. Lysono was already sitting on the bed, his eyes as if the light of life has gone out from them, now he took to the bowl from him and took to eat. Gorys despised himself for his weariness of the boy now, the boy he thought he loved only a few days ago.

“Eat then try to sleep,” Griff told the boy as he stood and walked to Gorys by the door, “I shall be back. Then we check your toes and fingers again.” The boy only nodded. Gorys wondered if the boy knew what they were checking for, if the boy realised that there was something wrong with him. Lysono seemed calm, if not a bit disturbed. Perhaps he wasn’t even himself yet, Gorys thought, perhaps none of this was registering with the boy. If so, that was for the best. Gorys worried for the boy, despised himself even more the more he thought about it, he wished to be able to just console the boy, and not fear the malady that he feared now from the boy. He’s spent the past days setting order within himself, he knew he didn’t love the boy. Just like the lady said, but still, he worried for the boy.

“Does he know,” he whispered to Griff just as they were to take the steps.

“No, and you will say nothing,” Griff’s voice was stern as he stopped and turned to Gorys. “In fact, stay away from that fucking cabin. All of you.”

“But he…”

“We shall see,” Griff declared, “it is his pinkie finger, after all. I shall check again later. Nobody is to go to the boy, tell the others that the boy woke and he is resting. I shall check him later.”

“And you?”

“Clear,” he sighed then he turned from Gorys without further word and took the steps up. Gorys just looked after him as he disappeared on the deck above. He thought for a moment to just defy him and go to that boy, at least don’t leave the boy alone and wondering after what happened to the boy, what happened to all of them. But there was nothing he could tell the boy, nothing good. Griff will check the boy again, he said that he will, and then they shall know. He had to admit, no matter how he felt worried for the boy, Griff was right. Best not to tell anything to anyone yet, and especially not Lysono himself.

The boy was a Blackfyre, Gorys was certain of it. The boy loved the stories about dragons because he had dragonblood flowing in his veins and that is why he thought himself a dragon when he was little. How that was possible, Gorys could not tell. It mattered nothing, in truth, for clearly, it made no difference, the day’s events proved Gorys that much. Dragonblood or not, the world was what it was for everyone. The boy was now awaiting to see if he’ll be spending the last few years of his sad life in this hell of a place, for if there were Seven Hells, Gorys was now certain that this was the seventh of them. Or perhaps it was as the boy implied, how the boy understood this all and connected the stories of old to events of the present. Until there were no dragons left in the world, Garin’s curse followed the dragons, Gorys now understood the boy’s reasoning, even though he couldn’t figure what to believe anymore. Rivers flow one way, he reminded himself. Nothing of today made sense to him, in the end. Only one thing was clear. He was glad that it was over, and he hoped to never have to return to this accursed place, this seventh of hells.

Chapter Text

THE LYSENI

There was sunlight, there must’ve been. He opened his eyes, took a moment or two to realise where he was. The bed was comfortable, the mattress soft underneath him. More importantly, there was sunlight, streaming through the small round porthole. There was the Lady sitting under it in the armchair. There was the soft motion of being carried by waves – his mind began to gain clarity. His aching mind.

His head felt as if someone installed at least three dozen of drums in it, now banging loudly. He reached, feeling his arm weak he reached to feel it out, on the back of his head. There was a scar. The memory of what happened suddenly hit him, he fought off a stone man. How he got the scar, and the headache, he didn’t remember that. He remembered the instinct to survive that he knew so very well, jumping to the side, hoping there to be enough room. He had only a split moment to consider it. To the side, or to the water, for there was nowhere else to go. He considered the water. There were trapped souls of dragonlords in the water, and he didn’t speak of them very kindly. Perhaps they even knew of his thoughts, that he didn’t think of them kindly. No, he couldn’t jump into the water willingly, and as he glanced, as that thing took the last step, it left enough room. It had to be enough. He jumped, but then he didn’t remember the rest of it.

The lady looked up, in her eyes worry, a knowing worry. He looked around, now he could tell where he was – in the Lady’s cabin she shared with Griff. Yes, he remembered now, Griff was here earlier, when he spit so much water. His hand reached aside; the bed was still wet. He remembered now, Griff cut all his toes and all his fingers. And his clothes were soaked wet. Seems he ended in the water then, anyways, he concluded. He didn’t remember climbing out of it. He remembered that Gorys Edoryen brought the stew, he remembered eating it, the warmth of it soothed him and he ate it despite how he could barely keep his eyes open to do so.

“You are awake,” the lady stood, stepped closer.

“I am,” his voice sounded alien, coarse to his own ears. It wasn’t anything akin of the smooth, silky voice he preferred to use.

“That is good,” the lady said hesitantly.

Time to sit up, he decided, regardless of how the motion caused those damned drums to bang even harder in his head. “What happened?”

“You fell,” the Lady said softly. She sat down on the edge of the bed, far from him, curiously far, he thought. "You fell, and you hit your head. Then you fell into the water. Jon… Griff jumped after you to bring you back onto the boat.”

He could only nod. He wondered what to say, for the words were barely registering in his mind. He fell into the water, where the trapped souls of dragonlords were… Griff brought him back onto the boat. “Do you not remember?” The lady asked.

“I remember I was climbing up toward the till,” he said. “There were ropes piled up there, I climbed on them. I remember that I was deciding where to jump, the water… I thought there space on the side, I thought that I jump aside and then I can perhaps grab my sword and I would get that thing off the boat.”

“It was very brave,” the lady smiled, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes like Lysono saw before. No, the lady seemed worn down, weary.

“Not if I fell into the water,” he said then.

“The stone man also fell into the water,” the lady explained, “Gorys Edoryen saw it, he said that the creature launched for you but you jumped on the side and so it fell into the water instead. So, in a way, you did what you planned.”

If one puts it this way, Lysono thought. The lady seemed as if she was trying to console him. But now she stood, walked back to the table. When she returned, sat back just as far on the edge of the bed, she had Lysono’s own dagger in her hand. She laid it between the two of them.

“I need you to pierce your toes and fingers,” she said softly, “And take off your overcoat and shirt. We have dry shirt here for you, and we need to have a look at your skin.”

His skin, Lysono’s gaze fell on the lady. This was why she sat so far, she thought that he may have caught the greyscale. In the water? Perhaps. Who knows what the desperate trapped souls could do, they’ve been trapped there for thousand years, Lysono reasoned. The greyscale, now that would be a fitting ending. Magister Tregar would enjoy hearing of it. Who knows, perhaps cousin would, as well, he would become one less problem to worry about. Perhaps cousin would lament that Lysono never caught a red dragon for him. He swallowed hard. Greyscale. His skin would blacken, and then it would thicken, and then it would crack in countless places, deep into the flesh. The pains would drive him half mad before it even reached his mind. He swallowed again, but he reached for the clasps on his overcoat. His mind went numb, completely numb as he removed the garment. The lady was already up, this time she brought a shirt. It was not his own shirt, he never had shirts so white. He had the one, green one, that he now pulled off, and the other one, it was never dyed. He liked the other one better, it was rougher it is true, but it was also thicker, it needed less washing as well. Why was he thinking about his shirts?

“That is not mine,” he said, though his eyes were scanning the skin on his arms. Reaching them out wide in front of him, turning them.

“It is Jon’s” the lady smiled, “Take it, you need dry clothes on you.” Yes, would not mind the breeches and the smallclothes to be dry either, Lysono thought. He wondered if he should ask, but he had no other breeches, anyway.  He took the shirt placed beside him; he pulled it over his head. It was freshly washed. He looked it up, he could even recognise this one, he washed it before. He’s ought to focus, he reminded himself. He took the dagger. Perhaps the lady will let him keep it now.

“Why am I piercing my toes,” he asked, “Griff pierced my toes.”

“I need you to tell me if they are numb, Lysono,” the lady declared. So, this was it then. The realisation hit immediately, his mind jumped alert finally, as if from a daze. Griff pierced his toes; he pierced all his fingertips. Even the one he didn’t feel, Griff drew his blood and he didn’t feel much of it. He didn’t remember if he even felt it. It was numb, that is what he told Griff. This was it then, the greyscale. He caught the greyscale. The lady sat so far from him; she wanted him to pierce his toes because he caught the greyscale.

He swiftly moved, ignoring the drums in his head. This cannot be, his mind kept chanting, it cannot be. He pierced, no, cut his toes one by one, hissed as he drew his own blood. This cannot be. He didn’t finish his task, he can’t catch the greyscale. He can’t stay in the Sorrows; he can’t stay in this place with THEM. No, he was not like them, he was pretty. Everyone told him so, he was pretty, he cannot stay here. This cannot be. Who will take sister from Magister Illirio if he can’t finish his task, if he can’t come up with something to get both of them out of this, who will save her? His mind launched a frenzy. This cannot be!

“I feel them,” he cried out, he ran the dagger over his fingertips cutting into them, feeling the pain of it, “I can feel, Lady, I have no greyscale,” he cried out. He didn’t even look up at her, he took the dagger with his bloodied fingers, his mind barely registering the blood, he ran the dagger over his fingers on the other hand… He swallowed hard. Damn pinkie finger. “No, this cannot be,” he whispered.

He ran the dagger along that pinkie finger, watched the blood run. He didn’t feel it. “This cannot be! I cannot…” He finally looked up at the lady, just as the lady stood from the bed, sheer dread in her eyes, shock on her face. “No, I am not,” he cried, “No, no, no, I have no greyscale, no!”

His mind must surely be playing a trick. He ran the dagger once more on that damned finger, and still nothing.

“Lysono, stop,” the lady said then.

How could he stop?! “I have no greyscale,” he heard himself declare. This is a nightmare, I am still sleeping on this bed, I will wake. I have no greyscale, I just thought too much about it. Now I dream about it. This cannot be!

No, this was real, as if a little voice spoke to him in his mind. He even glanced up, but the lady wasn’t the one speaking. This was real. “Is this real?”

“Lysono, put down the dagger,” the lady said then, “Nothing to worry, just put down the dagger, and we sort this.” How could a Lady sort this? He caught the greyscale, Garin’s Curse was upon him, now he will be bound to the Sorrows. No, he needs to sort this, this cannot happen. He needs to sort this and then he needs to sort the matter of his sister. This cannot be it, no. “I cannot have greyscale,” he cried out, “No I cannot! This cannot be, it cannot be, it cannot be!” He felt the tears running down his cheeks in his panic. Damn, now you are crying again, the little voice said. What a show you put on. No, he needed to fix this.

“Mustard,” he said, “They make mustard poultices,” he knew very well that his eyes were begging the lady, “Hot baths and poultices, please… PLEASE!” She didn’t move, as if his begging eyes stunned her standing there, she seemed frozen. No, she will not help. You mean to fuck her husband, you fool, she will not help, the voice said. It sounded awfully like cousin’s voice now, “Never forget, you are on your own. We are all on our own, if you want to succeed, you need to do what it takes, whatever it is, on your own. It will not be easy. Do what it takes.” Do what it takes. He swallowed hard. He can’t get mustard poultices by himself, now can he?! Cousin is a fool, such a fool… How to fix this?! He sobbed.

Though… Yes, he can fix this, his eyes caught sight of the dagger he must have dropped on his lap. “I can fix this,” he declared amidst his sobs, “I will fix this, I will fix this!” He climbed onto his knees, laid out the hand in front of him, his other hand grabbed the dagger. Magister Tregar gave him the dagger when they left Lys. Said it a gift, for he was ‘one of a kind’, he could do anything, he earned a gift. Said he will be missed. You can fix this, you can do anything, the voice declared in his mind. He smashed that damned dagger against the finger.

“Damned dagger!” he screamed; it didn’t cut. No, you fool, there is a bone. Cut under the bone, don’t be such a pussy, a dagger will not cut a bone, cut under the bone. He watched the blood flow. He looked up, the lady held her two hands in front of her mouth.

“Lysono, stop!” she cried out just as he took that dagger in his hand again, “Stop it! Stop!”

What would a lady know about anything, he thought, how could he stop?! No, he had to fix this. “I have to fix this,” he cried, “I have to fix this, I will fix this…”

He turned the hand; with the tip of the dagger he began to feel out the joint. Now you will be crippled, but does it matter, it is just a finger, a pinkie finger, just a pinkie finger… he stuck the tip of the dagger in the flesh just where finger joined into his palm. Yes, the joint was there.

“Stop,” he heard the lady, “Jon! Jon! JON!”

He turned the dagger, just as the door got smashed in, but he didn’t look up. No, petty Westerosi would know nothing about this, he had to fix this.

“ENOUGH!” he’s heard the stern voice. So stern, he almost felt it slap on his cheek. No, there was a slap. No, there was none. There could not be, nobody will touch him now. Nobody will push him onto tables either; nobody will force their cocks inside him ever again. Nobody will want him now; he was useless now. He looked up. Griff stood by the door; his pale eyes shone in anger.

“I need to fix this,” he cried.

“You fix nothing with what you are doing,” Griff grunted, “Fucking put down the dagger.”

“But…” he sobbed, as his eyes returned to that hand. Damn pinkie finger, now it bled all over. “Cut it off,” he pleaded the man, “Please. I cannot… the greyscale, I cannot. I have things to do, I cannot be useless, I cannot… I need to fix this, please. Please cut it off, please…”

“Nobody cuts off anything,” Griff declared. “You fucking put it down, now!”

Laugh, yes, he heard a laughter, his own laughter. “Take it,” he scoffed. Fine, he was on his own. Cousin was right, he was on his own. Cousin was right. Petty Westerosi, “You will not touch me. Nobody will touch me now...” Nobody will want to stick their cock into me now. No, this cannot be, I cannot be useless… “I just need to cut it off… I will fix this...”

“Fuck this,” Griff scoffed. And then it went all black.

There was sunlight, hurting even behind his eyelids, it called on the drums and the drums duly began. He opened his eyes. His head ached, on the back of it, he reached to feel it out. His hand ached, he raised to see but there was little more than a bundle of bloodied linen to see.

“You made a right mess,” he’s heard Griff and sat up, pressing eyes closed to help bearing the pain in his head as he moved. There was a mess, indeed, blood patches on the linen of the bed around him, blood patches on the front of the shirt that covered him, on the arm of it. White linen, arms so long, he raised his free hand, and they still covered him until the fingertips. Not his shirt, he had no white shirt. He tried to remember. Slowly his mind cleared, his eyes settled on the bloody linen bundle.

“Did you cut it off,” he asked, and Griff’s pale eyes shot a stern look at him. Griff had such pale eyes, he thought. They looked white in anger, like a demon’s.

“I did no such thing,” the man said coldly.

“It hurts,” Lysono remarked. Damn, it hurt like hell, in truth...

IT HURTS.

“It hurts!” he cried out, wide grin on his face. “Not numb, it…” he dragged the linen off the hand, hissed as it tore from his open flesh. His pinkie finger was cut into tatters. He touched it, pressed on it. “It hurts,” he declared triumphantly, “It hurts!”

Gorys Edoryen stepped into the room, and he looked up, “Gorys, it hurts! I have no greyscale, it hurts!”

“What a victory,” Griff didn’t seem to share his happiness. Of course, the man could never understand. He had things to do, he had to figure ways to fix things, he couldn’t allow himself to be stopped by greyscale. “Gorys, be good and ask Lord Reed here, the boy needs proper bondage on that damned finger.”

Oh yes, that would not be a bad idea, Lysono thought. Especially now that he opened every single scar on it. He took a good look. There was a tiny dot on the fingertip – where Griff pierced it. He pressed on its tip again, but it was definitely hurting, he hissed loudly at the sharp pain. Blood was coming forth from the long cut under his pressing finger. He didn’t care, he kept studying the finger. There was another long cut along the finger, beside the bleeding one. And then there was a cut just where it joined into his palm, to its side and that hurt the worst, he tried to move the finger but all he got was the bleeding. There was another cut, all across the finger slicing into flesh until the bone on the other side. “Did I do this,” he asked stunned. It seemed unreal. But it hurt. It really did hurt. Damn, it hurt like hell.

“You lost your wits,” Griff said factually, “Must have, you tried to cut off your own finger.”

“You would not understand,” Lysono protested.

“Try me,” Griff said coldly, “I dragged your sorry ass back on deck and then I had to knock you out, so you stop trying to slice yourself to pieces; so indulge me.”

Lysono looked up. The man seemed quite annoyed. Indeed, Griff stood as soon as the crannogman appeared in the door. “He’s clear,” he growled, “He needs proper attention on the shit he made, if you please my Lord.” And then Griff left.

The crannogman didn’t look angry or annoyed, at the least. Gorys stood by the door as the man sat down on the bed beside him, not apart on the edge like the Lady, but right beside him. He took Lysono’s hand into his own, touched him. He examined the hand.

“It hurts,” Lysono declared. True, it was pretty bad, now that he thought about it, it was burning with pain, sharp and numbing pain. He never felt such pain.

“As it should,” the man’s voice was kind, “You cut through nerves. Now, let us fix it up.”

“Will he have use of it,” Gorys asked.

“A pinkie finger,” Lysono grinned, “What use have I for a pinkie… I promise, I can train without a pinkie.”

“You cannot become a knight without your pinkie,” Lord Reed said kindly.

Well, that was a problem, at least it felt like it was. Not that Lysono thought himself to become a knight before, he didn’t think that he could get that far. He wasn’t near as good with the sword, he reasoned to himself now. He didn’t want to follow the Light of the Seven, either. He had other things to do, things only he could fix. He didn’t think that he would ever be a knight and still, it felt like a major problem at hand, something new to worry about besides all the things he had to fix.

“Gorys, I need to speak with Ysilla, stay with the boy,” the Lord stood. Gorys must’ve nodded for the Lord left the room. Lysono wondered what to tell Gorys. Nothing, most likely, talking to Gorys caused all kinds of issues. Gorys knew too many things now, all because he, Lysono talked way too much. Gorys knew… No, best say nothing to Gorys Edoryen. Damn, he was a fool, Lysono scolded himself inside, a damned stupid fool. But it seemed Gorys wanted no talk for he just stood by the door watching him. He felt Gorys’ eyes on him. He knew that they weren’t the puppy eyes. No, he spoke to Gorys in the Sorrows, well he thought to speak to Gorys, to see if Gorys still had the hots for him. Instead, he mused about what was on his mind, what a mistake that was. And it was all his own fault, he said too much. He wanted to ask if Gorys told them what he knew. But asking would’ve meant that Gorys will think it true even more, so it was best not to ask. It was best to be as if he, Lysono forgot all about it, because it didn’t matter. Then maybe Gorys will forget it, thinking it wasn’t true. Make the man think that it didn’t matter.

The crannoglord returned, in his hand linens and a horn. Should learn his name, Lysono thought, Howland Reed. Now Reed handed him the horn. It was hot, it had mead in it, and honey too, he could tell. It had something else that made his tongue tingle, left a sour aftertaste. But it was sweet. Lysono always liked sweet, he drank it up.

That was another mistake, he could tell soon enough, for his eyelids really wanted to close. He tried to fight it, he thought to ask what they poisoned him with. But speaking seemed an insurmountable task all of a sudden. Instead, his eyelids closed. He thought that he should fight…

He opened his eyes. The damned hand, the hand hurt. Not just a little, it hurt like hell. It hurt and it felt as if there was no pinkie finger, but only fire. He raised it, in the darkness he could make out that there must’ve been a pinkie finger for there was a large stump in its place. Bondage stump and it went over his palm, and it was tied on his wrist. Yes, he could feel that what he couldn’t feel was the pinkie finger. He began to worry; he needs to feel the pinkie finger.

“Lay back,” he heard Griff’s voice. Griff’s tired voice. He didn’t realise when he sat up, there were no drums to make it stand out beside the terrible aching. The figure sitting in the chair opposite then was Griff, Lysono concluded. He laid back on the pillow. Griff’s bed is quite comfortable, he thought. For some reason there were no drums. Something to be glad for, he concluded. Griff was here, too. Cousin would be happy with that, Lysono thought. Cousin would tell him to make something out of it. “Everything is useful if you know how, whatever happens, there is always use for it.” He couldn’t tell what use there would be to lying here on Griff’s bed fully clothed, in Griff’s shirt that he. Lysono likely ruined when he bloodied it, and with Griff sitting across the cabin. His hand was on fire. He can pretend a lot of things, true, but he didn’t feel like he could pretend that his hand wasn’t hurting. No, this was no way. Besides, there were things to think about.

He’s a cripple, he thought. The pinkie finger must’ve made him a cripple, Lord Reed said that he cannot be a knight if he has no use of it and now it was on fire. That damned pinkie finger, so much trouble caused by a pinkie finger. How will he be a knight now if he was a cripple?

“What is it like,” he asked. His voice sounded as if his own, surprisingly. Finally, he thought. “Being a knight, what is it like?”

“What a question,” he’s heard Griff.

“Lord Reed said that I cannot be a knight,” Lysono whispered, “If I cannot make use of my pinkie then I cannot be a knight.”

“Who knows,” Griff remarked, “There are knights in the Company with missing ears and such.”

“Do they have use of their pinkie…”

“I would say that an ear is more useful than a pinkie,” He sounded kind, Lysono thought. Griff sounded as if he was being kind to him, he didn’t sound at all like his earlier furious self. As if he was making mirth at his expense, true, and if so then this was new. Griff never made mirth, the man was bitter, harsh, prickly, and sharp like a knife. Not like his own dagger, he sighed. His own dagger did not cut through the pinkie finger. Now it ached, terribly, burned and ached and it felt as if someone poured salt all over it right into his flesh. Perhaps they did that, who could tell? It wasn’t like he had memory of it, they’ve put him under. But it hurt like hell.

“It hurts,” he whispered.

“Yes, you said so many times already,” Griff’s reply was swift. True, Lysono remembered now. He was glad for it, too, he should be glad.

“I thought I…” he began, but then, he thought, he’s ought to remember his own failure with Gorys Edoryen. Then he reminded himself, he had no idea what he was doing. Nothing was good to say if it began with, “I”. Should stop saying things about himself, he scolded himself.

He thought so for the past couple of days, or perhaps ever since they set sail, he kept thinking of how he had no idea what he was doing. In truth, he dismissed it as need to keep his thoughts in check, and he did his damnest to do just that. He kept from the others; he was no fool. Or so he told himself.

Cousin told him, the task at hand is hard, it is not near as easy as he thinks it. Not because of the man, of course not. Not because of what he needed from the man, either. He can do it, he could do it with all of them, and he knew it. He was good, he knew it. But cousin warned him, this is nothing like what he did before, make no mistake. Cousin was right. It wasn’t hard to get what he wanted. See, the man was sitting here in the cabin, guarding him, waiting for him to wake, even now he was sitting here. The man fucked his wife and yet now he was sitting here, the man had worry for him. That was well enough, he assured himself like he always did, this was progress enough. It is not hard to work the minds of men. But it felt hollow, like it all felt the past days. Confusing, draining, disappointing, hollow.

He wondered why cousin didn’t warn him, why cousin never told him of this being a problem, why this was to be hard. If he knew, if he was told then he could have at least prepared. The task became hard because he could not remove himself from it. There was no way to work on the task and then do what he would’ve done, remove himself. Distance does wonders, to his subject matter as much as to himself, for he needed the distance. He needed it to keep his mind focused on the task, to memorise his progress and the ways that got him there as well as, to give himself some rest from it. There was no rest from it. They were on this damned journey and on this damned boat. Lysono thought of this being a wonderful opportunity when they set out. It was a curse.

There was no way to rest from them, they were everywhere on the journey. At first that seemed easy enough, be around the ones who mattered little, take leave from the ones he needed leave from. But then they began this sailing on the small boat and even that became impossible. He didn’t like how that kept him from keeping his work in order, keeping his mind from involvement, and that in turn he knew made him unable to keep himself in check. It drained him, he explained it to himself this way, it drained his ability to focus. He tried to use the nights to set some order in his head, but that did little good – he needed the sleep. Then he removed himself from the rest of them as he could. That did some good, at least sitting by himself he could spend time with his thoughts. He could pretend that they were not there around him, and just try to set some order in his own head. But it couldn’t have been enough for he kept feeling like he had no idea of what he was doing. By the time Denys fell down the ladder, he was grateful for that for if one took all the washing then one would be in the back for half of the day, all alone and just do the damn washing, and nobody would come. He could spend time with his own thoughts and set them in order.

It didn’t work, he kept failing. Now, there was a mess. Gorys Edoryen, he made a mistake with Gorys Edoryen. He swallowed hard; he will have to sort the mess he made. And even thinking about it now was really stupid; he was wasting the opportunity at hand. If cousin was here, cousin would scold him. Cousin would have told him, focus on the task. Stop focusing on himself, it didn’t matter, he will sort himself when there is time, now there was work to be done. Cousin had no idea how hard this was, Lysono thought, truly, cousin had no idea. But cousin would ask him, what was more important, him or the task at hand. And he would say, the task at hand. And cousin would tell him, he is not important, only the task at hand, always. Stop wasting time, stop feeling sorry for himself, that is what cousin would tell him.

“I…” He began, still wondering what he should say. He should say something, “I mean to thank you.” His mind immediately began its reasoning. Use what you have, everything could be useful if you knew how.

“For what,” he’s heard Griff.

“You brought me back,” he heard himself. His mind was swift to point out, his voice wasn’t up to this. He needs to keep his voice in check. Put some effort into it, damn stop acting like he didn’t know what he was doing. But he didn’t know what he was doing. Still, he tried again. Soft, just silky enough not to be obvious, but sound vulnerable. “I fell in the water; you brought me back.” Better. Not good enough but better. Now, keep trying. For some reason, he’s heard Magister Tregar’s voice, from somewhere behind him, the voice rang clear in his ear, “Not good enough, keep trying.” He tried not to think about what the magister was doing, best not to remember. He passed the test, in the end, and he passed it since, many times over.

“That, I did,” he’s heard the man. Damn, if only he stood and came into sight. He could at least do more than speak and rely on his awfully unreliable voice. But the man just sat in the chair opposite, out of sight. If he sat up again, the man would just tell him to lay back.

“Why,” he asked. The man sighed. He had no answer to that at the least, then, so he can leave it, because it was not a question to ask. Lysono had no control over the answer, it was too soon. Way too soon. Ask nothing you would not know the answer to, don’t make the man think of you if you are not sure what that will result. Why did he ask?

Oh he knew why he asked. Lysono let out a deep sigh, before he could catch himself.

“Beside you,” the man said then, “Drink. That shall help with your hand aching.” He glanced aside, and true enough, the horn was there. But he didn’t want to be put to sleep. He could not afford to be put to sleep, he needed order, he needed to make the man talk, he needed the man to… what? He won’t come onto you with your hand in tatters and you whinging about how much it hurts, you fool. Nobody would want you like that, no matter how pretty you are. Damn, this was hard. Lysono acutely felt the failure. He failed. He could not afford to fail, and he failed again. Perhaps it was stupid to agree so eagerly to this work after all, nothing he had to do in Pentos was even near this hard. It was worth to get away as much as to get involved in the plan, he thought, but now he thought that it was stupid to think himself able to do this. He failed. There will be consequences. He wanted to cry.

He turned to side, tried to tuck his hand under the pillow before he even thought about it. He hissed, even the touch of soft pillow on the bundle of linen was enough to set the sharp pains anew. He wanted to scream. His other hand moved as it always would, wrapping itself around his torso, giving himself the assurance he needed and the safety he craved, like it always did. He pulled his knees close, curled up in a ball. Damn, this was a mess, he thought, fighting back the tears, for the damn finger ached, it ached so awfully now. He really didn’t know what he was doing.

“Lysono, drink,” he’s heard the man, it sounded like an order. Don’t defy the order, don’t wake his ire. Perhaps this was the best to do with the opportunity. There’ll be other opportunities. Be obedient, drink. Then you will sleep, and then there will be other opportunities, it is a boat, there are opportunities. He didn’t believe it, he cursed himself for wasting such a good shot. But he reached for the horn, emptied it. He cursed himself for that, as well.

It took so little time. The room felt like a cloud, it felt so peaceful here now. He liked it, peaceful was good. He thought, he could stay here for a while.

No new opportunity, he thought to himself with a sigh, as he sat up. No drums either, at least that was a good thing. Only the burning painful fire under the linen. Sunlight streaming through the porthole, and he was alone in the cabin.

Seems Griff trusted him enough to leave him alone in the cabin. He wondered for a moment if his dagger was still here. He needed the dagger. Suddenly the realisation hit him: he needs the dagger, he will not go back to Pentos a failure. He needed the dagger.

At least, now he got what he wished for all along; he was alone. He laid back, now he could set his mind in order, he decided. He shall then find a new opportunity, once the pinkie finger doesn’t ache so much for he doubted himself to be able to perform while it ached this much.

There was a boy in Lys, young boy. The man cut marks into him, tied him, and sliced up his Valyrian porcelain skin. Magister Tregar was absolutely furious for weeks about losing a pretty boy. The boy was in so much pain, whimpered with no end and nothing could touch his skin, not even a shirt, and he bloodied everything he came close to… then the boy wasn’t there anymore. Lysono remembered, next time he had work to do, he tried his skills with the magister. He was sent to learn something from someone who asked after him, he didn’t remember now what the work was but when he returned, he went to the magister to report his findings and he tried. It took some work, it is true, but he found out as much as he could about the boy. He knew what happened. The magister of course didn’t tell him what happened, but he knew. “Wailing bleeding boys are bad investment, my little pretty. See, you never wail, you never complain, and you do well. You are a good investment. Stupid boys who get into such things… there is a price for everything, remember that. Even bad investments can bring some return, and with that the advantage of ridding ourselves from them. Now we have one less problem, and is that not well so? You are pretty, you will do just fine to take the boy’s place. Be glad, you became an even better investment. And be smart, I would hate to tell your cousin that you were a weeping bleeding mess and I had to find return for my investment in you in other ways.”

He let out a heavy sigh. He knew, the boy was sold for something far worse than he ever was told to do. The boy could not do the work, and Lysono knew well what kind of things some people asked for. They would be turned down in a place as prestigious as the magister’s. But if there was something to give, the return would be good, he heard some offers. He knew well not to become the something to give. Poor boy got something far worse than the cuts on him. There were stories, really awful stories that the bedslaves were talking about, when they thought nobody would hear them. They also knew of those kind of offers. Of course, they didn’t talk in front of Lysono, he wasn’t one of them for he was never a slave. But still, he found out, for he was mice before he was a bedwarmer, he knew how. Word was, some even make it last for days. Tears arouse them, cries and begging arouse them. They paid the price, they want to make it last, and there is no way to control them. There is no way not to cry, and tears will never work. He knew, tears never worked, he learned that when he was tested. “Try harder,” that’s all tears received at best. He didn’t think about the boy in a long time. But now, he was failing. Failures are bad investment. He really didn’t want to get back to Pentos a failure.

He needed to set his mind in order though, not work it into a frenzy. Focus. He needed to figure how to turn this into a success. He was foolish to think that he could indulge in other things, see Chroyane, see where it all started. He should have focused on the task. Perhaps there was better use of the time, in the cabin, he could have learned things. No, instead he stayed on the deck to indulge himself, his own interest in the Sorrows, and talked too much to Gorys Edoryen. Then he topped that and got himself into a fight with one of THEM. What a foolish thing that was, both of those things. Not as foolish as taking the dagger to his own hand but he had very little memory of that. In truth, it was almost unbelievable that he did that. He clearly lost control over things, and now he will need to clean up the mess he made.

He tried to figure where to start. Gorys Edoryen was a problem. That man was not his charge. He needed the man, but by now he wasted too much effort, and the past days it seemed that the effort wasn’t even paying off like he thought it could. There was cause for worry. All the work going into it, now at risk. He did his work well, he chose well. It took some time to find the right one, he had to start from nothing. The guard, then there was a knight, and then another knight. That second one knew Griff, spoke about Lysono’s charge as if they were well acquainted, on good terms. Lysono almost considered it but working the man was harder, he didn’t want to tire out just by working an asset if he could avoid it. Still at first, he even began working the man to be more than the steppingstone. He tried another knight, a dead end, and so he thought, at least he found one that could be an asset. But then he heard about Gorys Edoryen, “The boy who handles the gold” and Lysono thought, surely someone handling the gold could be a good asset. He’s put himself in front of the man and just as he expected, he could see that it could work. That he was a young one was such an unexpected advantage to be grateful for, Lysono preferred to work with young ones. They will know very little, they will not see him as less, either. More equal, easier to control. He could finish them easy; he could impress them with quite little and he could even have his own fun for he didn’t need to constantly focus on them so being with them, he could find some fun in it sometimes. In the past he used to talk them into things, teach them how to please him and then they’d gladly obey, and he’d hit two birds with the one stone, for if it was pleasing, his mind cleared easier after. And Gorys was truly fun company as well. Lysono truly enjoyed spending time with the man, they had funny conversation that one time, the man was easy-going and gentle and kind. And he needed little work, as expected. So much better to become his asset than the knight named Flowers. Lysono knew that there were knights who had no ears because Flowers was missing an ear. He moved on from Flowers. Flowers didn’t seem to mind much, he was truly a good-natured man like his name, Lysono now thought.

It was easy to position himself, because of Gorys, and easy to set Gorys as his asset. Some men really just need to be told. But now, Gorys was as complicated to manage as Magister Illirio used to be, though not yet on his worst day. Magister Illirio, not Gorys. Lysono wondered if Gorys had bad days. Most likely he did, and they were caused by Lysono himself. That was something Lysono regretted. It had to be done, it had to be done… He got too close. No, he knew that he did not get close, he didn’t feel what Gorys felt, nothing beyond enjoying the man’s company. It was just… Gorys did other things as well. Gorys told on him to the captain-general. Gorys HELPED, as much as Lysono hated to admit it.

Though, one could wonder if the resulting mess made it worth the help, he now wondered about that. Truly, if Gorys kept his mouth shut… if he never showed up where Lysono ran after they left him, though Gorys would have found out probably sooner than later if he was to become an asset. At the time he didn’t think about that much. He ran, hoping there were no tears, not until he would be through the pikes and the guards would only see his back sitting where he sat.

This was not about the pains. He knew the pains, he’s been taught well, tried well by the Magister. The knights did very little and in truth Lysono didn’t think much about their prowess after they so eagerly tried to assert themselves over him, and even more so, it was best not to remember that night with the Magister. He’s been trained well, he knew how to respond, his body knew before even his mind would process what was happening, and it did what was needed. They trained him well, all the trainings and the tests and the things they did. It wasn’t about the pains. It was about him; he didn’t expect it to happen, not after weeks of no problems and mirth and finding himself a place. Griff said that he should’ve known, and that hurt as well. He sat there shedding the tears that nobody should see, because weeping boys were not a good investment. Later he thought about it, and he realised, Gorys would have known. Gorys read it off his face when he came after Lysono beyond the pikes. The man was young, but he was smart. And he was good, truly good. And he was following the rules, and Lysono learned, sooner or later all that would have happened with the captain-general interrogating him.

He didn’t want to think about the captain-general. The boy with crooked jaw and jug ears and the kindest of hearts, he didn’t want to think about the man that boy became. The man was not here, he was not an immediate issue. He didn’t want to consider if mother would still find the man so kind, or whatever mother really thought of the man. He had to try and figure out where it all went wrong, because it felt now as if everything just went wrong.

It all seemed to come together so nicely. Blackheart has put him on this mission, escort his own charge’s lady wife to Volon Therys. No march with the company, no endless potato peeling and running around, no prying eyes. Of course, he had to change plans, Gorys needed to be put aside for he couldn’t get more involved in such a small group, and in truth the man’s telling on Lysono was a good excuse to do just that. But it felt wrong, so wrong. The man had eyes for him, Gorys had the hots for him, it was all according to how Lysono needed it to start. And Lysono needed to play it for Gorys has uses, Gorys handles the gold, he will be paymaster, people said. He was easy to work, and he had the keys around his neck, and he had even more keys that didn’t need hanging around his neck. Lysono decided that it was for the best, when he had to set Gorys aside he reasoned with himself that distance is good. Distance will feed it. It did, oh boy, it did, so perfectly. And Lysono hated himself for that even more. He still did, even as he was thinking about it now.

That is where it went wrong then, he decided. He hated. He felt. He should not have felt a thing. So many, so many he worked on before, he would not be able to count them. He never felt a thing. Why now?

He knew why, of course he understood it. He tried to handle it the best way he could. He remembered cousin’s teachings; every lie is based on the truth. Every manipulation is based on what the target wants. He decided, best would be to speak to Gorys, set it aside for good for now, tell Gorys of his problems which should explain enough, for there were problems. Gorys will think it his reason, his troubles, and the man was oh so helpful, he will want to help him. This way, Lysono will have Gorys still. He won’t even have to work for it as much. Yes, it was a really good idea, a perfect save, cousin would have approved. He even tried it the evening when Ser Rolly was knighted. He asked Malo to bring their food for he needed a word with Gorys, and Malo being Malo didn’t even ask about it. But then he sat there with his eyes on his own charge sitting next to his own asset that he needed to manage, and he couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t. He failed.

That needed fixing, for sure, but he had no idea how he’s going to fix it, for if one time he could not speak, after that it seemed even harder to speak. Gorys was Gorys though, he told as much to Marq Mandrake as him loving… Lysono swallowed hard. This was no save. On the day they set out on this boat, he went to see Gorys, and he kept telling himself that it needed to be done, this was nothing more than managing his asset. Now as he thought about it, he wasn’t managing an asset that day. All the while they were talking, he felt like he had to run away, anywhere but there, anything but to hurt the man. He wasn’t lying, he didn’t mean to hurt. He never saw how it could hurt. Gorys Edoryen was a good man, who helped. Lysono hated himself for hurting a good man and he could not figure how to manage his asset while he hated himself. The truth to it was that he didn’t want Gorys an asset, he wanted Gorys to be a friend. He didn’t lie much either, in the end, for he needed to talk to someone. It felt good, so good to just sit beside someone and talk to them. Very early on, he must have stopped managing the asset and he began being the boy, he knew that now. But it helped. Denys came just in the right time, just when Lysono lost the last bit of control of it Denys saved him and truly, he felt like he could be himself again after that talk. It will not be so hard; he can do his work. He had a friend. Gorys Edoryen will not break his word, either. He told himself, it all worked out very well.

It didn’t work out anything like what could be called ‘well’. That day he had to talk to his own charge, he got scolded about Gorys and about his going to Magister Illirio’s house in Pentos. All that little confidence in himself that he gained; Griff had such a lethal skill to just destroy all of it in an instant. Of course, after it as he sat sobbing where he spoke to Gorys just an hour before, he tried to tell himself that this went very well in truth. He didn’t lie. The truth is always more powerful than a lie. He decided, he will use the truth, as he could, and then at the least he will not have to lie. No, this is turning out very well, just be patient, he kept telling himself. Didn’t Griff stop scolding him? He spoke protectively of him. He gave Lysono advice, no matter how utterly useless his advice was. He told Lysono, any of them would fight and die for him, and Lysono heard that HE would fight and die for him. No, this was going well, he kept telling himself. Just figure out how to manage it all.

To manage it he needed to set his mind in order, and that was another problem. It is very easy, when you have work for only a few hours at a time. Sure, it is harder to get what you need, you must work harder for it, you must give a lot for it, but it is a few hours. Then you can set your mind in order because the work is done, and you may not even see the charge again. Of course, sometimes it’s a recurring work, like Magister Illirio’s needs, find out this, find out that. But still, it is always a few hours at a time. This was not few hours at a time. This was every hour of every day, with no end. Lysono thought, this must have been what cousin meant when he said, this is harder than anything Lysono ever did before. He had no way to turn it off, to escape it. He woke in his sleep every night, multiple times, his mind worked up about his problems. He should have been told, he reasoned, that was the problem. He used to be told of what to expect. All they told him was, the man is pliable, the man will swoon over him, it will be quite straight forward. Sure, it is harder than other things, to win someone’s love. Except Gorys’ perhaps. Lysono used to think that this was what the warning was about, because to win someone’s devotion you need to win their love, and to win their love you need to manage things carefully. You cannot be too forthcoming, and you cannot be too distant, and you cannot give the things you’d give because the task is not to make them want you again, it is to make them love you first and once they love you, they will want you and want you again. That was what he expected. This was not what he expected. And he didn’t even begin to scratch the surface of the other problems, for there were plenty.

Still, even to win the love is hard enough. He thought that once on this journey, it will be so easy. He wasn’t too close, but he was close enough, perfectly placed. He thought that those two knights did him a favour in truth, marking his face the way they did. They won him a place on this journey. He was so very wrong in this, as well. He was told, the man never ever had eye for a woman. Cousin knew nothing about nothing. The man had a woman with twin babes. Lysono sat there, watched them babes. They had the same eyes; the girl was growing. They didn’t seem so much unrelated now, so much so that he thought his earlier idea quite outlandish. The man had a woman, and the man was definitely getting on the woman, Lysono with his wakings in the night heard it himself, That, having to listen to that felt like the nail in his own coffin. How was he to win someone’s love if they loved another, that is a whole different matter. He never loved anyone. He loved his sister; he would’ve done do anything for her. He would’ve done anything for mother as well, but the pox took her and there was nothing to be done about that now, not for a long time. He never loved anyone else. He knew not the first thing about love, he realised. He saw it enough times, how those two were with each other. Oh, he could be like that, he was trained to be like that, he would even do better than the two of them combined. But he’s never seen anyone do it just because they wanted to be like that, the way they did.

The door opened, dragging him from his thoughts, as the crannoglord, Lord Howland Reed stepped in, his usual kind smile on his face, in his hands linens and a horn and on the horn, he had a bowl he clearly tried to balance, not to drop. It was an amusing sight.

“Ready to change your bondage,” the man asked, as if it mattered. As if that would be the most important thing on his mind. But he nodded. The man sat down beside him, took his hand, gently unwrapped it.

“No moving of the finger now, please,” he glanced up at Lysono just as the last of the linen fell, and Lysono finally saw. Indeed, he still had the finger. For what that was worth, for the finger was now as if it’s grown twice its size and it was very red as well, and even the air could hurt it clearly, for it began hurting tenfold. He swallowed hard. At the least there was no black on it, he consoled himself.

“Drink if you need help with the pain,” the man said, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want more sleep; he wanted more time with his thoughts.

“No,” he declared defiantly.

“I see,” the man gave him a cheeky smile, “Trying to be a man about it. Very noble but this is no easy thing, it will hurt.”

“It already hurts,” he shrugged it off.

“Oh, I know,” the man nodded. Lysono raised his hand, turned it in front of him, to see. He did a quite thorough work of turning that pinkie finger into nothing but sliced meat. It looked awful, he thought. Now, finally, he had something about him that wasn’t pretty at all. Not at all desirable. There goes any progress with his charge anytime soon, not that he was close to even consider that. The thought was sobering. He wasn’t close at all to anything even near to a successful completion of his task. He swallowed hard.

The man took his hand, laid it above that bowl. He wondered what will come of this, until his hand was pushed into the bowl and… he screamed. He screamed and it sounded as if someone else screamed, as the sweat broke out on him in an instant, hotness overtook him. He wanted to pull the hand, but the man held it firmly.

“Give it a moment,” he said.

“This is no mustard…”

“No, it is not,” Lord Reed remarked, “You have no need for that. Just a moment, then it will hurt much less.”

The man was right, the hand became numb. Lord Reed raised it, examined it. Then he unwrapped the linen he brought, and Lysono’s eyes grew wide. In it were tiny pieces of bread, the white of the bread. But they weren’t white, they were as if soaked in something. It smelled like honey. Lord Reed must know things if he thought that Lysono needed bread and honey, and served in this fashion… But it wasn’t for eating, he soon learned because the lord tucked pieces of it into the cuts on his once-more numb finger. He barely felt it. Then the cuts received some kind of boiled leaves as well, to cover them, and it no longer smelled like honey, these were stinky. And then the hand got wrapped in fresh linen, the disastrously looking pinkie finger disappeared under a bundle of linen once more.

“Would you like company,” the man asked then, surprising him. He shook his head. He needed no company, he needed time. Alone. His thoughts were to be his company.

“I see,” the man nodded, and despite the kindness in his voice, Lysono felt guilty.

“I have a lot to think about,” he tried to explain himself.

“That, you certainly have,” the man nodded.

“What’s that supposed to mean…”

“Nothing,” the man said.

“Griff is angry, is he not,” Panic overcame Lysono in an instant. The man knew something, surely the man knew something and now he wouldn’t tell him. “Will he dismiss me?”

“Now why would he do such a thing?”

“I… He had to bring me back,” Lysono tried to explain, “And I made a mess, with my finger, and I…”

“I heard nothing about dismissal,” the man declared, “Why would you believe thus?”

“He told me,” Lysono cried. He felt his eyes tearing up. Damn tears, when did he start crying so much? “He told me, I should stop causing trouble if I mean to keep my place… I made a mess again; he will dismiss me… He surely thinks me witless; I keep messing up…”

“Nobody said anything about dismissing you,” the man repeated kindly, “Truly. They are all worried about you.”

“They are?”

“Very much so,” the man smiled, “The Lady Ashara is most worried about you. Griff is very worried about you losing that finger now, for he said that you want to be a knight, do you not?”

How could he tell, Lysono thought, wiping his face with his still useful hand. At least he held the sword in that one, he thought. Whatever deities there were, maybe they knew he will have his encounter with Garin, they made him favour his left hand. Lord Reed stood.

“I tell you again, sleep would help,” the man said, “So when you finish with the ‘lot of things’, drink the potion and have a good sleep. Your fever has passed while you slept, it is good to sleep things off. Helps with ‘the lot’ of thoughts, as well. No thoughts on such things as being dismissed, though, give me your knightly word.”

“I am no knight,” Lysono whispered. It was true, perhaps he never will be. That wasn’t nice to think about, either.

“No, but if you want to be one, then your word matters,” Reed explained, “Knights are to live by their words. So do I have your word?”

Lysono looked at the man in disbelief. Why did the man have to ask such a thing? Now he knew that he will never be a knight, he cannot live by his word, now can he? He felt the tears begin to roll down on his cheeks again. Reed just sighed.

“Perhaps leave the thoughts until after the sleep, Lysono,” he said softly, “It was a lot for a boy like you, in the Sorrows. Let it settle, and you shall be hale again in no time.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded. The man perhaps also didn’t know what else to say, because he finally left.

More problems. They just kept on coming, Lysono thought as he dumped himself back onto the pillow, once more wiping his face. If cousin saw him now, cousin would congratulate him for a perfect performance. It wasn’t performance, and he wouldn’t dare to tell cousin. He turned to his side, pulled up his knees, wrapped his good arm around himself. He couldn’t afford sleep when he had so many things to think about.

Fuck Garin, Lysono thought. Garin was to blame, Garin and his hate for dragons. Now he couldn’t keep it together even as much as he did before, because of Garin’s hate for dragons. Just like he’s told the crannoglord, Griff must be certain that he’s lost his wits. Not very appealing, even for a pretty boy, to be witless. Perhaps he really lost his wits. Perhaps Griff jumped into the water to retrieve him and now he regrets it because he realised that Lysono has lost his wits.

The crannoglord said that they worried. Griff worried, and the Lady worried. The Lady, Lysono thought when they set out that the Lady will worry anyway, for he will take her man. Well, that wasn’t playing out exactly as planned, was it? Relief came over him, and he hated it. Feeling such things was not good a good sign about his involvement, not good at all. But the lady was so kind to him. He reasoned with himself once more, he’s only feeling such things because the lady has been kind to him. The lady sat him down and made him talk. It could have worked, he knew it could have, but the training kicked in. He thought a lot about that since, how the training kicked in. But it was still good to be able to tell, somehow afterwards he felt as if putting things into words made them more real. He felt flesh and blood through them, he felt alive. It was yet another occasion when he should’ve held his tongue, he knew. He consoled himself with reasoning that there needed to be truth, like he did with all of it. He gave them the truths that he knew they expected from him.

He didn’t think about this until the one of the two men that pushed him down against the table called him a Lyseni whore. Nobody ever called him a whore into his face before, not that this was into his face, he was facing down on the table, eyes shut keeping his mind off as he could, waiting for them to finish. But it was directly to him, and nobody ever called him that. He still felt the shame of it. But the lady refused to call him that, told him that she didn’t want to insult him that way, though the word she didn’t use was ‘bedslave’ and Lysono has never been a slave. No, he was said to be of free will, but there was no such thing as free will. When did he have free will? The only thing he decided freely was whether he goes along with things or tries to resist them. He never tried to resist them, he always thought, ever since he could think about these things, that resisting people with power over you only meant that they’ll get what they want from you and make it harder for you while they do. Resistance only made things worse, that is what he used to think. He learned to be willing.

He learned to be many things, and since having spoken to the lady, he also knew, the man was right. He was a whore; they made a whore out of him. He could call himself many things. He was mice; a spy, a thief, a manipulator. But he was also a whore.

The Lady told many things to him, and he knew, the lady’s refusal to call him what he was, it was what made him talk. Talking felt good, no matter how he switched off his mind, he not once thought about the things he spoke about as things he did, as his own memories. He shocked the lady he could see, and the lady told him that his charge would never touch a child like that. He translated it to himself as, cousin would have to wait a very long time if love depended on doing things. It didn’t, by then he knew that as well, because he slept on the roof and woke at times every night. He woke to the sounds below. There were no sounds from this very cabin, not once, and so Lysono knew, love is possible without such things. It even filled him with relief after speaking to the lady that the lady thought his charge willing to avenge him, he took it as a promising development.

It wasn’t, none of these things were promising developments. He swallowed hard at thinking about how desperate he became to achieve some kind of progress. He began to read into things meanings that weren’t there, and he knew that now. He wasn’t near as far into achieving a successful outcome as he tried to convince himself to be. That wasn’t even the problem itself. The problem was how he tried to convince himself. Perhaps the crannoglord was right, and sleep did good to his mind, for now he could see clearly. Perhaps knowing that his charge risked his life, the lives of his lady and his children, and jumped in the water after him was what made him see clearly. It was not just something they said, he knew it now, they would really stand for him, they would risk their lives. He didn’t need to work for it, he didn’t need to give anything of himself, and they would do it, because he was here and because he was of fourteen years, and they were fully grown, and they thought it their responsibility. There was no love in it, and still, they would do it.

Lysono’s only seen love when he sparked it. They would be looking at him with puppy eyes, like Gorys Edoryen did. But then he’d take it further, he’d find out what made them FEEL, and he’d present himself that way. If it was strength, he’d be strong; if it was assertiveness, he’d assert himself. Sometimes it would be weakness, and he’d become a weakling, if it was helplessness, he’d become unable to help himself. And it was true that if he needed to be sultry, that was the easiest to do. He didn’t need to be sultry now at all; and he knew, he presented himself weak and helpless, he knew that was how they saw him, the truths he’s told underlined their understanding that he was a child in need of their care. He used to reason with himself that this was success. It wasn’t. He didn’t present himself that way because he knew that it would work, and in truth he lost control over it. That evening when he sat beside Gorys Edoryen and watched Ser Rolly being knighted, that was when he lost control over it all, and from then on, he just kept excusing his lack of control as, he’s done what was needed anyways so it didn’t matter. It mattered.

He also knew what made him lose control over it. They cared. It was as he’s told Gorys Edoryen – they cared. He didn’t believe Brendel Byrne when Byrne spoke of how the serjeants of the company should look out for him, how Brendel will do that. Now, he knew, Brendel meant every word of it. Blackheart didn’t send him here out of mere convenience. No, Blackheart was likely trying to spare him. The Lady spoke with him and tried to make him feel, even embraced him, because she wanted Lysono to see that she cared. Lysono now saw it clearly. He did nothing for these people, most of them he wnted nothing with and preferably keep distance from, and still they cared. Cousin never embraced him like that, kept telling him how he cared and not once did he embrace Lysono. Magister Illyrio even in those months when Lysono wrapped the man around his fingers, won concessions for his sister through him, even then the Magister never embraced him like that, despite proclaiming his care for Lysono. The other one, Magister Tregar flat out told him, multiple times, that he cared not for him but for the coin, the business they made together as he used to call it though it was Lysono doing the work. These people didn’t try to convince him that they cared, they just did it, and he’s done nothing to win it from them, he’s had nothing to pay back with, nothing they wanted from him in return.

The door opened, once more disturbing his thoughts. He found himself surprised to see Griff stand in the door. The man glanced over the horn beside him as he stepped in and closed the door. “You ought to drink that,” he said. It didn’t sound like an order. In his hand was a bundle in parchment, he handed it to Lysono. The bundle was warm, smelled like bread and sausage and onions and egg and potatoes.

“What is this,” he asked.

“Supper,” Griff said as he sat down on the edge of the bed, just where the crannoglord, Howland Reed sat when he changed the bondage Lysono’s his finger. “Ysilla’s latest and greatest creation to not bore us into an early grave with yet another stew.”

“I like the stew,” Lysono said, though the smells were very inviting. He took a bite. There was cheese in it, too, he decided, the cheese and the egg were melted inside, flowing in it, mixing with the sauce from the baked sausage. The bread was some kind of flat bread, he decided. Ysilla packed the rest of food into it, sliced goods, and then folded it over and it looked like it was braided together on the side. It was absolutely heavenly. He began eating eagerly, he didn’t even realise before that he could be hungry.

“How do you do it,” Griff asked, and he looked up from his supper.

“Do what,” he asked hesitantly.

“The stew,” Griff’s lips turned into a smile, something Lysono never thought to have received from the man before. “You sliced all the bits into the same size and shape. Cubicles and circles.”

He chuckled. “It was a game,” he explained, “The potatoes in the barrels looked so similar, I asked Ysilla if I could do it, if I could pick them out so I don’t have to cut away much, and the carrots and the parsnips too. I thought it was funny. Ysilla thought it was funny when I did it but then nobody noticed it.” His eyes settled on Griff, his stomach tightened. “Nobody but you.”

“Well, I thought it was hilarious,” Griff nodded. “Ashara… my wife and I jested over it that you are a cook’s apprentice from Lys. Keep eating, it is good.”

“It is very good,” he nodded. He packed it in, as fast as he could, Griff seemingly waiting for him. He wondered why Griff was waiting for him. He wondered if there were more problems to think about, whether he will be scolded.

“Why not drink the potion,” the man asked when he finished.

“I thought to stay awake for a bit,” he explained, wondering if he said the wrong thing. Wondering why he wondered, what could be wrong with being awake. “I wanted to think.”

Griff only nodded. After a moment he sighed, he gave a small flask to Lysono. Lysono took it, sipped from it. Ale, watered ale, he didn’t expect the bitter taste. He coughed; Griff laughed aloud.

“Perhaps rather Ysilla’s potion then,” the man laughed.

“Perhaps,” Lysono said as he handed back the flask, “Can I… a little later?”

“Drink it?” the man asked, “You drink it whenever you want to, nobody will force it down your throat if that is what you fear. They say you need much sleep; they know these things better than I do. When you want to sleep you drink it.”

Lysono only nodded. The man sat there, his eyes scanning the room. He had eyes pale blue. In another life Lysono could imagine them to be mirthful, they were big and bright and thoughtful, with dark red curling eyelashes above them. They were never mirthful, Lysono never saw Griff making mirth, really making mirth without care for the world. Perhaps this was what happened to fathers, they have responsibility and never make mirth. Perhaps it was what happened to exiles.

“Could I ask you something,” he spoke, even before he decided to speak. He wondered what made him so brave, but Griff’s pale blue eyes returned to him as the man nodded. “Two things, really.. three things? If… I mean not to pry. I want to understand.” To his surprise, the man simply nodded his approval.

“Why did you jump after me?”

The man seemed surprised at the question. “It needed to be done,” he said after pondering on it for a moment.

“I could have been dead,” Lysono reasoned, “Then you would have… You jumped into the water, the trapped souls of dragonlords are in the water. Garin’s Curse…”

“Garin’s Curse is nothing more but greyscale,” Griff declared.

“It is not,” Lysono hoped he didn’t sound as if he was making argument. “Truly… it is not, it is the fall of dragons. It could be many from things. Who knows what words Garin spoke in his cage? But Mother Rhoyne rose and washed them away, and then the Fourteen Flames erupted, and then the dragons died…” he realised where he was leading. He agreed with Gorys Edoryen, best not discourse the Targaryens with Griff. He stopped.

“I was safe then,” Griff smiled, “I am no dragon.”

“No, you are a griffin, everyone knows that,” Lysono nodded. “But the greyscale…”

“You just mused about it not being Garin’s Curse.”

“No, I think it is how he tied his first servants to himself,” Lysono thought aloud, “I think he died after, and then another was named in his place, and then another… I think it magic, it is in the fog, and they trap the travellers, infect them and then those become servants in Garin’s revenge like his own first servants did. The more trapped who die here, the thicker the fog, and so it goes on and on…”

“You have a vivid imagination, even for a child,” Griff remarked.

“There has to be reason to things,” Lysono protested. “Even magic has reason, it is why it was created. Dragonlords bound dragons to themselves with magic, it was the reason why they used the magic. They cast spells over the Fourteen Flames to make use of them. The Rhoynish water wizards used their magic to defeat the Valyrians, that was their reason. And Garin, he created greyscale to bind people to his cause, to make sure it never ceases. Until all the dragons are gone from the world. That is what I think.”

“Very interesting,” Griff remarked, “But if he was so powerful, he could have used his magic to build back his city.”

“I think not,” Lysono discoursed feeling immersed in the topic, “I think he could not bring back his people, that is why. His soldiers were slaughtered in Volantis, Ysilla told us that their blood turned the Rhoyne red as far as the eye could see. They were gone, and I think he wanted to avenge them. I think he believed that if all his people are gone and his city is gone, then the dragonlords deserved the same fate. That is why.”

“When did you come up with such ideas,” Griff asked.

“Ysilla told us stories,” Lysono began to explain, acutely aware that he was hiding his own prior knowledge now. His mind clearer, now it picked up on the task. He should’ve felt relieved by it, instead he only felt guilt. But he did it anyway. “Did you see the palace? Rising from the river after we passed the ruins, it was to our right…”

Griff nodded.

“I thought, this place was the richest of their cities, and that palace… Now it is just spires and halls overgrown with moss and piles of broken marble, and still it looked so delicate, finely carved and proud and graceful. I just thought, now there are nothing but the moss and the wines creeping in and out of the windows and under the arches, but once, this place was called the Palace of Love, there were people there and they laughed and made mirth… And then I thought, that is why Garin cursed the dragonlords. They killed his people and enslaved his people, and they destroyed his place of happiness. That is what made Garin want to avenge them so thoroughly. I think he wanted all dragons gone from the world like the dragons made his people all gone from the world, and his beautiful palace…”

“Now it is a Palace of Sorrow,” Griff nodded, interrupting him. “Are these the kind of things you think about, then? Why you wanted up the deck?”

“I wanted to see it,” Lysono nodded sheepishly. “I heard about it, I wanted to see it. I am sorry… for what happened, I am sorry. You should have left me.”

“Why say such a thing?”

“Because if I caught the greyscale, now you would have it, because you brought me back,” Lysono’s reply was factual. “Then the Lady would be left alone far from her home with your two little babes and nobody to protect them.” He was surprised by his own explanation. He didn’t even think about this yet, he didn’t get this far.

“And if I leave you in the water,” Griff countered, “You would have drowned there.”

“And trapped with the souls of dragonlords,” Lysono whispered. Trapped with his own ancient kin, he thought. Perhaps that would have been a fitting end to him.  He swallowed hard.

“And so, it is good then,” Griff concluded the matter, “Nobody caught the greyscale, we passed the Sorrows, and on the morrow, we shall reach Selhorys, it is time to put it behind us.”

“But why,” Lysono pushed, feeling himself desperate, “why did you jump after me?”

“Because it was what I decided,” Griff declared, “I was there, and I made that decision, and that is all to it. If it turned out otherwise, the responsibility is mine, whether you drown or whether we both end up on the Bridge of Dream. I decided on my own free will and there is nothing more to say about it.”

“There is no such thing as free will.”

Griff’s eyes searched his. The door opened; the Lady Ashara stood in the doorway.

“I shall remain only a little longer,” Griff told the lady, he switched to that voice of his that he only used with her, similar to the tone which Lysono would use when he wanted one to believe that he cared. Except he knew, Griff didn’t pretend it, he knew that now.

That he said, only a little longer, Lysono didn’t think much of, it was that Griff told his lady wife, he shall stay. His mind began, as it always would, taking note. Reading into it that it was progress, that he was a tiny little bit closer to a successful result, work well done. He sighed. That was not true. And it wasn’t thinking that it was a step forward that filled him with ease. It was knowing that it was not true, it was only in his head. But at the same time, it made him want to cry, it made him wish himself back in the Chroyane, never to leave, never to be the failure. There was too much at stake, he reminded himself, too much.

“And you, Lysono,” the lady asked him with that warm, tender smile of hers, “I hear your hand is on the slow mend, are you coping well? Have you eaten?” He nodded, for he could not look up, could not look in her eyes. She cared, again she cared. Her husband told her that he will stay here, and she cared. She voiced no doubt, no concern over her husband staying in a cabin with a whore, Lysono thought bitterly. No, she only cared.

“Do you need anything?”

He shook his head, “No, Lady.”

“Very well, then,” she declared, Lysono could even hear her smile in her voice, “I bid you goodnight, make sure you rest.” And she closed the door. Lysono wanted to scream after her, scream it all out into the open. He remained silent.

“What were the other things?”

He looked up startled at Griff. This man, tall and strong and broad shouldered and freckled redhaired man with pale blue eyes like clear sky, this man was his charge.

“What things,” he managed the words.

“You said you wanted to ask things,” Griff raised an eyebrow, “Three? I recall you say three things.”

“I mean not to pry,” Lysono now regretted even more to ever have begun to ask anything.

“You already began,” Griff said calmly.

“I meant to ask,” Lysono tried to find the words, “You lived in that city, Kings Landing. I thought of that palace, I meant to ask what it was like to live in a place like that. If that is not…”

“It stinks,” Griff chuckled, stunning him. “The city stinks, Lysono, just like every city stinks. And the Red Keep… that palace could have been three times the size of it. It has high towers, arched corridors, and a courtyard in the middle. The throne room is down in the courtyard.”

“There they have a throne made of swords,” Lysono spoke in awe.

“Nothing to admire,” Griff gave him a sad smile, “It is not the throne that makes a king if you ask me. It is what kind of man he is.”

Lysono swallowed hard at hearing that. “You say because the king exiled you?”

Griff seemed pondering on it, a strange grin on his lips, his eyebrow drawn. He found it amusing, Lysono thought. “He was a terrible king, to tell you the truth. No wonder how he has met his end, and he took his own kin, his own children, and grandchildren down with him. One king, to end a mighty dynasty that once took control of the Seven Kingdoms one by one.”

“Why serve him then,” Lysono pondered aloud, “If he was so terrible…”

“Not many dares to defy a terrible king, I suppose,” Griff said thoughtfully.

“Then I am right, and there is no free will,” Lysono immersed himself once more in the discourse. “People serve a terrible king because even the strongest dare not defy…”

“I never thought myself serving the mad king,” Griff interrupted him, “True, he named me, and I took the post, but not for him. I took it to serve the prince, who would have ruled after him. He would have been a good king, and his daughter… Adorable little thing she was, she used to call me griffin whenever she caught sight of me. She kept chasing around that black kitten of hers. She named the kitten Balerion, after the dragon. A girl of three, what part could she have taken in any of it? You see, there was much promise. I served because I believed that if the rebellion is defeated, Rhaegar… the prince would have taken the throne from his father. That is why.”

Lysono swallowed, nodding. “And he exiled you.”

“He did,” Griff chuckled cynically as was his usual. “He stripped me of my rank and lands and exiled me for I did not win a battle for him. And so, we are here. Surprisingly so for his wont was to burn people.”

Lysono’s eyes grew wide. “That is cruel.”

“Is it?” Griff’s eyes were unreadable. “What is crueller, ending your life, or taking everything from you and then sending you off to live without everything you know, and everything you had before? The king thought it merciful; it is true. I think, it is the fire that would have been merciful. He meted out his punishment very thoroughly, there was little mercy in it. What was the third thing then?”

Lysono bit back his lower lip. “It was this,” he said, “The exile. But then the king was defeated. There is a new king, is there not?”

“I told you,” Griff sat up straight, “The throne does not make a man. There are different kind of terrible kings. One may be cruel, the other… may be a man you would not find worthy to follow.”

“Then it is best to be here,” Lysono concluded, “There are no kings.”

“There are none,” Griff nodded, “There are better men, and then there are worse as well. I am certain that I need not to tell you that. People do cruel things in Essos as they do cruel things in Westeros, Lysono. Different kind of cruel but cruel all the same. It is the world we live in; I told you.”

Lysono thought about it. “The magisters,” he whispered.

“For one, magisters,” Griff nodded, “At least some of them. Bankers, and slavers. In my opinion, most of all, the slavers. Slavery is outlawed in Westeros; no man should belong to another man.”

“Slavery,” Lysono thought aloud, “It is only a name, the collar is only a symbol. You can be a slave in all but name and never wear the collar.”

“Wise words,” Griff nodded, “But then I say, best make good use of your free will, and change it. Make something else of yourself. Sad that there are many who had that taken away from them.”

Lysono felt slapped. He wanted to protest, but Griff stood. “In any case, it is late, this was enough musing for one day.” Or in Griff’s case, a whole turn of the moon, Lysono thought. “We reach Selhorys on the morrow, the guard will want to see your hand. Think nothing of it, Lord Reed told us that it looks nothing like greyscale. We shall tell them what happened, and they will let us pass, with you. Nothing to worry about, but I wanted you to know before we arrive. Now, time to sleep.”

“This is your cabin,” Lysono suddenly realised.

“I have Lord Reed’s,” Griff chuckled, “He gladly took to the roof, said it was his first wish anyway, but you boys took it. This night you have the cabin. On the morrow, you have the deck with Marq and the boys, so drink up whatever Ysilla cooked up for you, make good use of my bed to rest.”

Lysono wanted to protest, ask him to stay, he felt the urge to just ask the man to stay behind, he needs no rest, he would talk… but the man was out of the door in no time.

He laid in bed for long, staring at the cabin roof. They were so kind, he kept thinking about how kind and caring they were. But not just that. He thought that they were honest.

He thought of Garin, and his loss. He tried to imagine the red keep, red stone towers, no doubt surrounded by a red wall. Cousin was there now, walking those arched corridors, serving a king that Griff said was not worthy to follow. Griff said something else as well, something that now began to wholly occupy his thoughts. The mercy would have been to be burned alive, that is what Griff said. Lysono thought about that lengthily. The punishment was to live with what remained. The king took what Griff had. The king took what the king wanted, Lysono thought. The king took, and then left Griff to deal with what was left.

There was reason to think about this. How many days does a man live, how many nights will they stare at the roof? Knowing what was taken from them. The thought cut deep, very deep for he did the same. He took from people, from men, what he wanted, or what he was told to take from them. Secrets, riches, their hearts… He took it, and then he left them to deal with it. There was no difference then between him and the mad king. No, he didn’t burn men alive, he could not have, he had no means. He took what was theirs, and then he discarded them. They had to live with it, like the punishment Griff received. The fire would have been mercy, Lysono understood why. The fire was an end. And if so, if the real cruelty was to leave people to pick up the pieces, then even the worst assassins of the House of Black and White in Braavos were better men than he was, Lysono thought. They did not leave people to pick up the pieces, they delivered an end. Lysono wished that Griff never jumped into the water after him. Now he understood the shock on the Lady’s face when she said, what was done to him was cruel. He could clearly see now the real depth of the ugliness inside. He always knew that it was there, but now he knew just how deep it ran, the blackness of his heart, the blood in his veins fuelling this pretty body of his to serve his blackened soul and mete out such fate to people he knew very little about. They made him this way, but he never defied them either. He was no slave and yet he served like a slave in all but name, and so they turned him into something worse than a killer. Griff should not have saved him from the Sorrows, for he was nothing better than those dragons of old, who killed Garin’s people and turned his Palace of Love into a Palace of Sorrows. Lysono cried, again, silently, not even bothering to wipe the tears off his face as he stared at the roof. He felt as if he had real blood on his hands.

Call me when they bury bodies underwater

It’s blue light over murder for me

Crumble like a temple built from future daughters

To wasteland when the oceans recede

 

I woke up surrounded, eyes like frozen planets

Just orbiting the vacuum I am

They talk me through the damage, consequence

And how it’s a pain they know they don’t understand

 

Sobbing as they turn to statues at the bedside

I’m trying not to crush into sand

So flood me like Atlantic, weather me to nothing

Wash away the blood on my hands

Chapter Text

BLACKHEART

“Myles.”

He let out an annoyed sigh. For a moment he considered ignoring the call coming from the other side of the door he locked a mere few minutes ago, the girl was just settling on his hip fiddling with the ties of his breeches. He lifted a finger, indicating to the girl to take off that useless sheer thing she’s been wearing to cover her chest. What’s the point of that anyways, he wondered. Now if the girl just moved a bit lower, lean down and…

“Myles,” he’s heard the call once more, and this time it could not be ignored. It was Brendel. He’d ignore young Pyke Peake who called for him first, but he could not ignore Brendel Byrne. Brendel wouldn’t disturb him unless it was… “Myles, they arrived. You’ve got to come.”

Well, of course. “Fuck this,” he tossed the girl off himself and jumped up from the bed before he’d begin to consider not to. Pulled the breeches on just enough to cover, he rushed and opened the door just enough to give Brendel Byrne the most hateful look he could muster.

“One hour,” he said sternly.

“I think not,” Brendel looked as apologetic as the girl will, once he’s told her to keep his money for the nothing he’ll get out of this, he thought bitterly. “The guards are all over them, you’ve got to come.”

Damn Griff. Damn his prestigious wife and damn the dragon babe, damn the pretty Lyseni boy and damn Howland Reed as well with them all. Myles cursed to himself as he smashed that door closed. He swiftly collected his clothing, the girl watching wide eyed.

“You be here in an hour,” he said, as if there was an agreement to be made.

“May be,” the girl shrugged.

“Well then,” Myles gave the girl a slight grin. Let’s try this. “I shall be back in an hour, and then you, my dear, can show me how you ride the captain-general of the Golden Company.”

“You are…”

Myles chuckled seeing the girl’s eyes grow wide in her shock. He rarely told them who he was, it was a rare occurrence when he indulged in his reputation like this, scaring young little bedslaves into submission. He much preferred indulging in it when it came to men, his own men as well as whomever would oppose him. In truth his presence was more than enough most times to get whatever he wanted from such a sweet little thing as this girl was. But as things stood, in his current foul mood, he may as well play this card. He may have a little fun with it, if not yet the kind of fun he wanted to have.

“You heard of me, I see,” he grinned at the girl.

“They call you Blackheart,” the girl explained shyly, “They say you are a cruel man.”

“Not more than the name suggests,” he shrugged, “You see, best be my friend than my enemy. Be here in an hour, you’ve got work to do.”

The girl nodded, and he was out the door. The girl likely won’t be there in an hour, she’ll take the next offer because it really didn’t depend on the girl in truth. And once he comes back, if the girl will be free then she’ll likely just hide from him. It’s what they all did whenever he’s been interrupted with them, for they already had the coin, why be generous and complete the work for it once they already received the coin? Myles could understand it, truly, but it was damn annoying this time, far more annoying than the usual. Damn Griff, nothing was without trouble when it came to Griff. The man attracted trouble, and that in turn kept Myles from anything even remotely not troublesome. First in Braavos, now here in Selhorys.

He followed Brendel, young Pykewood Peake was already by the horses. “What is going on?” he asked the boy. “Told you to stay in the harbour.”

“I left two men there,” young Pyke began to explain, “Told them to tell the guard, the boat belongs to us. Once the guard lets them anchor because so far, they were only boarded. It looked worrisome.”

“Well,” Myles sighed annoyed, rolling his eyes, “For one, you were ought to tell the guard as soon as you recognise the damn boat, so they know who is onboard before they board it. Secondly, of course they board it, they board every damn boat sailing downriver. That’s only logical, both of those are.” The boy had a lot to learn yet. Truly, he only brought the boy with him for that one reason, to see if the boy managed to learn anything since the last time he resolved himself to see whether the boy’s been improving. No, the boy hasn’t been improving, and Myles found himself once more in agreement with Laswell Peake that his younger brother was not made to be more than a man who follows. Every one of his own squire boys were more capable than Laswell’s younger brother. The other brother, Torman, he used to squire for Myles and that boy, now a man, was as good if not even better than Laswell himself. This one, this boy just didn’t seem to manage to put two and two together on his own.

“Best not dragged me away to watch a routine check,” he turned toward Brendel, but the man only shrugged it off without response. Brendel wasn’t one to be intimidated by him, ever. Brendel didn’t look up to him, didn’t take him so overly seriously like most of the men. Myles liked Brendel Byrne, liked that the man would speak his mind no matter what, but even more so, he liked that the man was in truth a good one, not a single bad streak in him, and the fact that he was of the blood only topped it. It took Myles long years to convince Brendel to take the promotion to serjeant because Brendel had absolutely no interest in any kind of responsibility, though. Regardless of his refusal to take charge, Brendel always took charge – if there was something to sort, Brendel sorted it. Take the case of the raping outside Braavos, by the time Myles learned of it, Brendel Byrne had it under control in truth. As Myles saw it, the promotion was only putting a name to something that was in truth already there and being done by the man. But the man had even less interest in dragonblood, perhaps that was his only fault, as Myles could tell. They rode fast, through the gate straight to the buzzing harbour. He could immediately see for himself as soon as they reached the pier. No, this was no routine check.

There were two poleboats on the river, so there was comparison presented for the other one was being leisurely searched, its three-man crew just holding out their hands in front of a guard to inspect. Nice, bright green boat nicely carved. Griff stood on the deck of the other one, and that one wasn’t looking near as nice either. Smaller poleboat, on the deck he could see Denys Strong sitting, beside him the two crannogmen. They were being checked, boots off, shirt pulled off and all. Unease settled on Myles watching Griff seemingly argue with two guards on the deck. On the rooftop stood Marq Mandrake, his eyes on Myles already.

“Got to give it to Griff,” Myles growled as he succumbed to the situation in front of him, “He’s consistent, he never disappoints with not bringing the trouble.”

They dismounted, watched as the guard lined up everyone on the deck, even the women, barefeet, checking their hands. The guard had the lady Ashara pull on her dress showing her skin. The guard cared very little for westerosi ranks, of course. The only one not dragged onto the deck was the Lyseni, Myles could see, even the two babes were brought on deck, and a man and small woman. No doubt the captain, and perhaps the captain’s woman.

“Where is the Lyseni,” he wondered aloud.

“Suppose him the reason why they are so thoroughly examined,” he could hear Brendel beside him. For some reason, Myles felt bothered by that idea. In truth, he was bothered with the Lyseni himself, ever since he’s set out from Pentos with only fifty men to catch up with Griff’s group in Selhorys, wondering what in the seven hells could have caused Griff to leave Pentos without waiting for him and Gorys to agree to doing such a thing.

In truth, he felt bothered even before it, since the day the company began its march south, right on the day of Griff and his company setting sail from Braavos. Myles considered waiting a day or two, just to let himself unwind in Braavos, but no, he was to meet up with them in Pentos and they were faster on sea, so he’s set out in haste. Only to find them gone from Pentos two days prior his arrival. He still couldn’t put his finger on why he chose to catch up with them. It was instinctual, he just knew deep within that something was amiss. He felt it so strongly, he hasn’t felt such a bad caution ever since Maelys took Cousin Daemon’s head and when he realised that, he accepted no argument, no reason, he’s set out within hours. He left the company to Laswell, took Brendel and young Pyke and fifty of their men and rode hard toward Selhorys, hoping to be faster than a poleboat on the Rhoyne. He knew, they’ll hire a poleboat, and they would zigzag through the Little Rhoyne to avoid the shallow sandbars, losing time. Then they would anchor at nights on the Upper Rhoyne and lose more time. There was a chance to catch up with them, if his group rode hard and fast through the days. He couldn’t put a finger on what drove him, but he felt the need to reach Selhorys before this lot passes to south, and he knew better than to theorise what could be the reason until he knew more, he would not work himself up about it.

That damned skirmish two days ago halted his group somewhat, now they had four injured he’s either to guard or to leave behind in Selhorys for Laswell to handle once he makes it here with the company, and he’s lost two men. This was why he wanted Griff and his company to sail and not take the road to south, but now watching the scene, knowing Griff’s uncanny ability to attract the most stinking shit possible, no doubt they had their own share of trouble in the Sorrows. Myles shook his head in disbelief. He sailed that route over a dozen times, back and forth. Not once did he have issues with stone men jumping onboard. Griff, he can’t even sail down the Rhoyne once without, it seemed.

The Lyseni emerged on deck, following a guard, on his face sheer panic, on his hand a bundle of linen. So, this was it, then. Now as he watched, Myles wondered once more about that Lyseni boy. When the boy appeared in the company Myles didn’t pay much attention to the boy. Off Myr, he didn’t test the boys who came to sign up there, he couldn’t even tell who accepted them, and this boy among them. He couldn’t tell if any other of those boys still remained besides the Lyseni; usually half of them boys gave up and turned back before the company reached the next city, Myles didn’t keep track of them unless they lingered, and then he only paid attention if they consistently proved worth his time. He didn’t even think much of the Lyseni after the boy’s misfortune in the camp, he thought nothing more than the boy having brought it upon himself, being so free with his favours among the knights. But on the march south, he thought about the whole matter once more, for it didn’t sit easy with him having had to proclaim and hang a rapist, and the mood among the men was dire enough after that spectacle to keep reminding him. He thought it through, and he realised, there was something bothering him about the Lyseni. He couldn’t name it, but he knew, it wasn’t that the boy was pretty in a quite blood-boiling way. Myles enjoyed boys’ company when he fancied it, though not boys this young, but enjoying their company also didn’t go as far as catching his interest for anything more than a few hours of fun. He considered this boy, truly he did, and so did half the ten thousand most likely because of the boy’s incredible looks, but that was all. And it wasn’t what bothered him. He still couldn’t put a finger on what bothered him about the boy.

He watched Howland Reed fiddle with the linen around the boy’s hand, Griff still arguing with a guard. They already made the boy strip right there on the deck right down to his small clothes, examined the boy. Clearly, they found nothing for they allowed Reed to the boy who was now dressing. Finally, after what was clearly more than the hour he thought to be away, the guard left the boat, and the stableboy man began to pole it toward the harbour. They were to dock.

“The boy is clear,” Myles declared, “Now I want to know what the fuck happened.”

“You and I both,” Brendel chuckled. Myles couldn’t wait for the boat to dock even, as soon as it was near, he jumped on deck, and Brendel followed. The man he presumed to be the captain just watched wide-eyed.

“The fuck happened,” he turned toward Gorys Edoryen, the nearest to him.

“The Sorrows,” Gorys whispered, “It was not like you said. Not at all.”

Myles chuckled, “No, I presume not,” he told patting Gorys on the back, “Not with Griff. Next time you sail through with me, and you shall see no troubles.”

“I pray there not to be a next time,” Gorys declared solemnly.

“That bad?”

“We crossed under the bridge twice,” Gorys whispered, “Ask me not how we did that, but we did that. Twice. I feel like a madman saying this, but Griff said the same. Lysono said the same. Now nobody speaks of it. Are there more than one bridges there?”

“Only the one,” Myles’ eyes were on the Lyseni, watching as the boy’s hand was carefully wrapped in linen by Howland Reed. “Once you clear the ruins, there is the one bridge. Broken in, in the middle. Three lanterns on top.”

“And still, we crossed under it twice,” Gorys sighed, “Or I have lost my wits.”

Myles let it slide, instead he stepped to the Lyseni, knowing well that Gorys and Brendel were following. “What is this about,” he asked.

“I thought I had the greyscale,” the boy said hesitantly, “Griff said I must have lost my wits, I tried to cut off a finger.”

Myles laughed aloud. “Seems losing wits a common theme on this boat, then,” he looked around, his eyes caught sight of Denys Strong sitting by the till, Rivers standing beside the sitting boy.

“What is with that one,” he asked toward an approaching Malo.

“Fell off the ladder,” Malo explained apologetically, visibly weary that it was him who had to answer. “The roof, I mean. We slept on the roof; he fell off the ladder in the night.”

“Should have taken a properly sized boat,” Myles turned toward Gorys once more.

“Griff chose this one,” Gorys’ reply was swift, “There were other offers. In any case, this was for free, we saved some gold.”

Myles laughed aloud, “You are yet to learn a lot,” he told Gorys, “The cheese is only free in the mousetrap, Gorys. You took a small boat, overloaded it with the lot of you so it was slow on the poles through the Chroyane, and you had the boy sleep on the roof for I suppose there was no room elsewhere. Now you have two injured boys and complain of your troubles in the Sorrows.”

Gorys swallowed hard. But Myles already turned from him for Griff emerged from below.

“Trouble just follows you around, Connington,” Myles declared with a grin. “Why not wait in Pentos?”

“My fault,” the Lyseni whispered. Myles watched both Griff and Gorys’ eyes grow wide in surprise.

“Indulge me then,” he ordered plainly.

“I…” the boy looked at Griff for a moment, hesitating, “I disobeyed Griff. I left the inn, and I went to see my sister in Pentos. I know I did wrong, we left because they thought… I know not what they thought, I suppose they thought me causing trouble. I just wanted to see my sister, I know I should have told Griff and ask for leave. I apologise.”

Myles raised an eyebrow. He wondered if he was interested enough to ask after that sister, and what the boy’s sister was doing in Pentos of all places but then he decided, there were more important matters at hand, this one could wait. He waved at Griff to follow as he made his way down the stairs toward the cabins. Griff only pointed at a door, and he knocked before stepping in. The Lady stood from the chair besides two crates.

“I trust you are well, my Lady,” Myles only nodded, as he stepped close to those crates.

“I hope you trust as well Ser that I shall give you my opinion on this travel,” the Lady Ashara’s response was so cold, Myles wanted to laugh aloud. But the laugh froze somewhere in him as his eyes settled on the crates. The two wiggling babes in the crates.

He realised; he never paid much attention to them babes before. If he did, perhaps it would not have been such a surprise. He saw them before, separately it is true, but he’s seen them previously. Now, side by side, their sight stunned him to the floor. He crouched down, to take a closer look. He leaned close, and two sets of tiny purple eyes fixed on him. Identical pairs of purple eyes. He looked, he compared, but they were identical. Even the tiny crease under their eyes was identical. The exact same colour and shape of eyes. Myles, you fool.

“I see they are well, at the least,” he said as he stood. He nodded to the lady and left the cabin, left Griff in there too, for he felt urgent need for fresh air. He’s been a fool. Such a damned fool. Griff who had every silver-haired manwhore from Volantis up to Braavos, of course he’s never sired a child on this woman, never. What a fool he’s been. He reached the deck, nodded to Brendel Byrne who left Gorys and Marq Mandrake and the man he assumed to be the captain, and stepped to him.

“Go down and have a look at them babes,” he whispered to Brendel.

“For what,” Brendel shrugged, “Not interested, it’s your business not mine, I told you.”

“Just go,” Myles urged the man, “You shall see once you have a good look at them. Go.”

Brendel shrugged but he took the stairs down. Myles waved Marq Mandrake to him.

“Anything to report,” he asked as he pulled Marq aside on the deck.

“Nothing much,” he heard Marq whisper, “Denys fell off the ladder one night, dislocated a bone in his knee but the Lord Reed says he will fully recover. He’s not near as he was before, I must say, the boy has a voice. Malo is improving as well, Griff spent quite the time with him though. Griff also knighted the stableboy, who apparently is a smith’s apprentice, and now he is in Griff’s employment with his woman. Griff doesn’t spend near as much time with the Lyseni, and when he does the boy only weeps. Griff prefers his wife’s company, that much is clear. Gorys has the hots for the Lyseni, you ought to know. The crannogmen seem to have no interest in anything. The Lord seems quite skilled when it comes to healing. We had no troubles, only the Sorrows, the Lyseni fell in the water. I saw nothing, I had the back with Tristan. Griff jumped after him, he wasn’t moving. Gorys told us that the boy was fighting off a stone man. Should not have been on the deck at all if you ask me. I hear he tried to cut off his own finger. Perhaps madness is in all Valyrian blood, that is my take on it.”

“His wife’s company, you say,” Myles repeated what seemed the most important piece in Marq’s short report.

“Indeed,” Marq chuckled. “I thought Griff to be one for… I thought you sent the Lyseni for that reason? Thought you interested in the woman. I tell you, Griff’s been there already.”

Marq’s way of saying that Griff got onto his wife, exercised his marital rights or however one wants to put it. Unbelievable as that was. “Fuck your riddles, Marq.”

“He fucks his wife and not the boy,” Marq shrugged, “I thought it shall be interesting at the least for he will get on the boy and the wife no doubt will not take it kindly. Nothing of the sort, he got on his wife and not the boy. Boring.”

“Gorys has the hots for the Lyseni, you say,” Myles asked then.

“With big puppy eyes as if begging for the bone,” Marq chuckled. “Saw nothing more, though, and the boy slept beside me on the roof, not beside Gorys, not left even once. Saw them talk, saw nothing more.”

Interesting, Myles thought. Seems young Gorys got himself a proper fancy, sounds like he’s kept his word though. Nothing unexpected, in the end, and not near as interesting as the two babes below in the cabin with their identical purple eyes. He watched Brendel emerge from the stairs.

“We leave with you, I take it,” Marq said then.

“Why,” Myles asked, “You escort them to Volon Therys, that is the charge. Escort them however Griff wishes.” He left Marq, for a weary looking Gorys Edoryen next to that man he didn’t know, still.

“And you are,” he asked the man.

“This is Yandry,” Gorys replied instead, “Our captain. He’s a Westerosi, he recognised Griff in Groyan Drohe.”

“And offered you free passage,” Myles nodded, “Well, I am the captain-general of the Golden Company.”

“That is quite a thing,” the man nodded with a grin, and Myles immediately recognised the accent.

“You of the Stormlands,” he asked, “Took you a Dornish from your looks.”

“Both, I am,” Yandry proudly declared, “Lived in the Kingswood but things became… complicated. So, my wife and I decided, we return to our ancestral land, bought the boat, and now we sail Mother Rhoyne for a living.”

“I see,” Myles nodded, “You knew Ser Simon Toyne, I take it.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, as his face turned unreadable. “That, I did,” he said lowly, “Let us say no more of it. Sad as it all ended, it was good for a while. There is nothing more to say.”

“No, there is not,” Myles nodded and turned to Gorys.

“I may delay in Selhorys for a day or two,” he told the boy, “We’ve got wounded with us, I would see if we needed to leave them behind until the Company reaches here or they can ride south with us, or we may stick around and wait until the Company reaches here.”

Gorys nodded, his eyes questioning. “You know your charge?”

“I shall put them up with your lot,” the boy nodded, “Hope to find everything in a day or two, but it depends. It may take a while.”

“Oh, I know that,” Myles nodded, “Tell Ilaena that I am a few days behind with wounded. She will look after them, put yourself to the rest. Oh, and the girl, Lemore is a septa of sorts. You need not look for a Septa. I will sort the maester, as well, just sort the rest.”

“Good, I would know not the first thing about sorting a maester,” Gorys sighed relieved, “Or a septa.”

“Well, one less problem for you, then,” Myles smiled. “How did the boys hold up?”

“Denys fell off the ladder, Lysono cut up his own finger,” Gorys shrugged, “Malo… Malo is Malo.”

“How in the seven hells did the boy cut up his own finger,” Myles wondered aloud, watching Gorys.

“I would not know,” Gorys explained, “The boy fell in the water in the Sorrows, tried to avoid one of the stone men and hit his head, and fell in the water unconscious. Griff fished him out. He had a numb pinkie finger. I know not the rest, Griff’s Lady sat with him when he woke, next thing I know she was screaming for Griff. The boy tried to cut off his own finger; he thought it numb from the greyscale.”

“Interesting,” Myles nodded. It was interesting, how did the boy come to that conclusion from the Lady Ashara Dayne?

“Not really,” Gorys shrugged, “Griff checked the boy before, he had a numb finger. We all thought that he may have the greyscale. Turns out he cut himself up enough for it to hurt, had it infected even, had the fever and all with it, but the guard checked him now. No greyscale. Just a numb pinkie, perhaps he fell on it. I hear he may lose use of the finger.”

“Anything else?”

Gorys rolled his eyes. “Marq thinks me smitten with the Lyseni, does he not? I saw him report to you, did he report that?” Gorys seemed positively annoyed, and that in turn made Myles feel positively amused by the boy. “Well, there is nothing to report. Marq is overly concerned with people’s private affairs if you ask me, be it mine or Griff’s. He should keep away.”

Myles only nodded. Marq’s watchful eyes caught attention, then, he thought to himself. It didn’t bother him much, in truth, he wasn’t concerned with hiding his intentions and especially not now. Brendel reached them, giving him a knowing look.

“Tell Griff not to wait for me,” he told Gorys, “I will see you lot in Volon Therys.” With that he left the boat, Brendel following. He mounted his horse, rode away without a word to Brendel or young Pyke Peake.

The babes had identical eyes. No question, he studied them enough, they were identical pairs of eyes. Of course, the Lady Ashara may be of the blood with her own purple eyes proclaiming as much but still, she would not produce a babe with eyes identical to that of a Targaryen. No way. He was a fool; he’s been fooled by Griff and his Lady.

He rode through the square, wondering what he’s to do next and still not getting any closer. He sent away the girl from his room, who for some unexplained wondrous reason was still in his bed and called Brendel to him.

“Perhaps Pyke should hear this,” Brendel said as he closed the door.

“I think not,” Myles sighed, “He’s not the right Peake, either of the other two I would call in here but not this one. There is reason why we leave him out. Now, speak.”

“That babe is not Griff’s,” Brendel dumped himself in the chair on the opposite side of the table. Myles poured wine for the both of them.

“Indulge me,” he told Brendel.

“No need,” Brendel shrugged, “You would not send me to look if you would think otherwise. Methinks Connington fooled you, methinks that babe a Targaryen. Because apart from the hair, it looks like the other one and that one is a Targaryen, you said so yourself.”

Myles nodded. “Now the question is, where did Griff find a Targaryen boy, with dark hair,” Brendel added.

“Easy,” Myles chuckled. “Who else to know about whatever his silver prince was up to, if not him? What I know is this, the prince disappeared in the Riverlands, and so did the Stark girl. Starks, they have dark hair and grey eyes. The babe has dark hair and eyes like a Targaryen. I take it, Rhaegar Targaryen sired the boy on that Stark girl, and Griff now covers for his silver prince to raise the boy.”

“What is with Ashara Dayne, then,” Brendel asked, “Now that I’ve seen her, she’s quite the beauty.”

“One who has no love for Starks,” Myles remarked. “Especially not the current lord, for he left her promised to him belly swelling with his babe and wed another. She had a stillborn.”

“I still cannot see what her role is,” Brendel remarked.

“Let us see,” Myles leaned forward on the table, “She was in Kings Landing, close to Griff. Word is she was close to no one else, in truth, no other man but Griff. Then after the tourney she disappeared. She’s told me that it was Ned Stark, left her with child on that tourney… I know as much as Stark having put Ser Arthur Dayne to the sword, though I know not the details. So, what if Stark found the child. Took the child to her, for where else to hide a purple eyed wolfpup if not with a purple eyed woman? She had other ideas and took the babe to Griff, knowing him to be loyal to his silver prince… and the two of them came up with the idea to claim the boy.”

“They outsmarted you, did they not?”

Myles laughed carefreely. “Surprisingly,” he said amidst his laughter, “And now I think, it is all coming together well enough. The two babes pass fine as twins, because they are so closely related. It all works out.”

“Now there are two dragon hatchlings,” Brendel nodded, “Except they are still the wrong kind of dragons.”

“There are no black dragons,” Myles sat back in his chair, “You know what there is.”

“And you know, my father would advocate for that boy,” Brendel shrugged.

“I also know that you care very little about any dragons, Brendel,” Myles countered, “I know you mind it not. So let us not pretend that you oppose in this. In any case, that boy is gone.”

“Could find him,” Brendel shrugged.

“I think not,” Myles said coldly. “An eye for an eye, Brendel. Besides, the boy was no trueborn, Maelys proved as much. And besides, who knows where he is now. Playing mummers plays knowing nothing about anything else if he still lives. These ones, though… these ones we can raise right from the start.”

Brendel laughed, “You will do no such thing,” he declared, “Not unless you take them from Griff.”

“And who would raise them,” Myles chuckled, “Will you take them in? With your new wife and child?”

“I said nothing about a wife and child,” Brendel’s eyes narrowed, “I told you; I think it not mine. We shall see what comes of that.”

“We shall,” Myles nodded. “In any case, we have no need to take the babes from Griff. If anyone, then he will raise them with intent to avenge his silver prince – all we need to do is help it along. Prepare the company.”

“All we need to do is hope that this turns out better than your last plan,” Brendel said solemnly.

“Not my plan,” Myles said lowly, “Best leave it be, that loss still cuts deep. Their captain knew Simon, came from the Kingswood. And how interesting it is that Ser Barristan Selmy swore to serve the stag king? I find Ser Barristan’s loyalties most curious.”

“It is all a big pile of shit, Myles,” Brendel sighed, “Ser Barristan is getting old, if you intend to wait until these babes grow into dragons, Ser Barristan may give up on waiting for your sword and meet his end another way. I still think it better to consider the other boy.”

“He will wait, Ser Barristan,” Myles grinned, “I know it. The other boy is cocky and full of himself, and his presence is known. Laswell agrees…”

“You should have brought Laswell, then,” Brendel shrugged, “You two are like two peas in a pod. You find enjoyment in this pile of shit.”

“Not enjoyment, but responsibility,” Myles corrected, “And you need to man up and accept it. You are of the blood just as I am. You and Harry both have to just man the fuck up and accept it.”

“And none of us has the name,” Brendel sighed, “Hells, I cannot even carry my own name. So best not get too carried away, Myles. Best keep our options open.”

“Which is why I think it best if we leave Viserys Targaryen where we left him,” Myles nodded, “Best not openly engage, we are not ready. Let us see what comes of the situation.”

“The stag may prove himself worth of that damned throne of swords,” Brendel laughed, “And then none of them will matter.”

“Doubtful,” Myles shook his head, “Mark my words, it is a disaster in the making over there. He’s wed the Lannister girl; Tywin Lannister finally has the Seven Kingdoms. Soon enough all the hatred against him will rekindle I wager.”

“Did the stag name him his Hand?”

“No, he named Jon Arryn,” Myles sighed, “I was hoping for him a fool enough to name the great lion, but at the least I am certain that he named the eagle out of loyalty to the man who raised him and not out of wisdom.”

“Out of curiosity,” Brendel leaned forward, “What does Griff say about these things?”

“I would have to ask.”

“Well, methinks he is better than any of your spies,” Brendel grinned, “You pay the spies a fortune and you have the man who knows more than all of them combined.”

“There is one problem with that assessment,” Myles remarked. “He is not of the blood. Remember, we keep it among ourselves. Griff just has to…”

“Fuck that, Myles,” Brendel interrupted, “You want my opinion, so here is my opinion. Griff has the babes; thanks to you he has two of them and there are no other dragon babes anywhere in the world but the two he now has. Fine enough, his lady wife seems suitable enough to raise them from what little I can tell. He has no love for the stag or the eagle or the lion or any of them, and you say she has no love for wolves either. Well then, if you mean all this scheming to finally work out, perhaps look beyond the blood for he has everything you scheme about, and he seems far more suitable to scheme about it than any of us. He lived with them; he has reasons to hate them. That is what I think.”

“You would trust the man.”

“He’s a fucking drunkard, it is true,” Brendel chuckled, “But he outsmarted you, he and his woman have the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, Myles. All you have is a girl, and even that girl you’ve put in their care. As I see it, either you continue and involve them, or you continue and cut their throats to take them babes from them. Or you just give in and leave it to them for they seem to go about it better than you do.”

“We, Brendel,” Myles corrected, “Not I, and not Laswell and I, not even Laswell and Harry and me. We. There’s five of us, and you are one of the five.”

“Six,” Brendel shrugged, “Though this boy needs to grow up yet, I give you that.”

“So I say, let us get to Volon Therys and meet again,” Myles concluded, “And then we decide what we do about the Conningtons.”

Brendel raised an eyebrow. “If you still want my opinion,” he said, “Do nothing about them. You gave them the babe, they will do a decent job raising that girl, better than any of us would. Truthfully, neither you nor Laswell have the household and the wife suitable to raise dragons. Griff’s got that, too. Leave them be, that is my opinion.”

“I am not in disagreement,” Myles nodded, “And if Griff kept up with his drinking, Marq would have mentioned. That boy… if I am right and he is prince Rhaegar’s...” He sighed. “We will meet and decide about it. He may not be the heir in any case.”

“You think Griff harbours a bastard,” Brendel wondered aloud.

“Remember, his silver prince this and that,” Myles explained, “Griff is not doing this to reclaim the Seven Kingdoms or to crown the boy, methinks. He is doing it because of the boy being of his silver prince, trueborn or not. We need a trueborn heir, not a bastard.”

“Assumptions,” Brendel remarked, “You assume the boy a bastard. I assume the Lady Dayne did not cross the Narrow Sea for a bastard, Griff did not wed himself to a woman to raise a mere bastard with no name. See, we really know very little. None of your spies can tell you, you need Griff to tell.”

“Doubtful that he would,” Myles sighed, “The man was ready to leave the company… you may be right. He was so keen on his plan with his Lady wife, he would have left the company to raise the boy however they could. But that is why I doubt him to talk. We need to figure this out.”

“No,” Brendel stood, “You need to. I go and find myself a girl and enjoy the rest of the evening.”

“This involves you, whether you want it or not,” Myles grunted.

“It does,” Brendel turned from the door, “But truly, nothing comes out of this theorising. You sent me, I saw, we both agree that the boy babe is a dragon. Fine, we shall see what comes of it. I cannot wait to be back in Volon Therys. You lot can deal with the dragon babes; you charged me with enough already to deal with.”

“What have I charged you with?”

“The Lyseni,” Brendel remarked, “I mean to make a man out of that boy. He’s dutiful, truly the Gods must have thought it a good joke to curse that boy with such looks. He shall make a fine knight, methinks.”

“What do you know about the boy?”

“Not much,” Brendel shrugged, “He is of few words. But I gave my word to train with him, so I mean to do that. May name the boy my squire, I need a squire after all, now that I lost my squire on the road here.”

“Do that,” Myles nodded, “Then at the least nobody will force themselves on him.”

Brendel only nodded, then he swiftly left. Brendel couldn’t wait to get out of his room, Myles chuckled. Too bad, he’s already given leave to the girl, so he had nothing more to do but the theorising. It was amusing, really, once he stopped wishing to curse Griff for his continuous prevention of Myles getting a little fun out of life. He’s had not a free eve while in Braavos, he could not linger outside Pentos, now he’s had to send the girl away here, in Selhorys. Griff’s business was turning him into a celibate man, Ilaena will be glad for it. That woman could smell from a mile away whenever Myles had some fun on the road. Why the Gods cursed him with such a woman, he chuckled, though truly, it was he himself who cursed himself with her. And he didn’t even mind, truly, he didn’t mind, if not for the lack of issue out of it. He remembered, back in the day that was what convinced him to settle with a woman, old Florys Peake was the one who kept chanting to him that he was ought to move on and find himself a woman. He did find one, Gods’ curse that she was, the complete opposite of everything he once held dear. He didn’t mind, he needed no reminders. He needed none of the grace and the beauty and the tenderness and the wide purple eyes. Perhaps that was why the Lady Ashara Dayne managed to fool him every time in Braavos, her big purple eyes and her grace reminded him of better times, when he was still a boy. Perhaps he was reading too much into things, and in any case, those times were long gone. Ilaena will look after Griff’s lot, so they can continue fooling him, he amused himself. He wondered why he couldn’t get angry about it, having been outsmarted so thoroughly by Griff of all people. He’s been fed the stories, the lie veiled in so many truths that it became undetectable under the many layers of empathy and pity and whatever else they invoked in him. They played him well, he had to admit.

Brendel may be right, he thought then. Would Griff do all this for a bastard? Was he right in that all that mattered to Griff was the boy being Rhaegar Targaryen’s. He’s heard it himself, when Griff declared to Ser Willem Darry… once the Targaryens are grown, there shall be fire and Blood, an eye for an eye. No, Griff wanted revenge, that one declaration gave it away despite all the many denials by the man, because that one declaration was not said to him, Myles, but to Willem Darry, a man who as much as half-raised Griff into a man. But then if this was the case, it truly mattered little whether the boy was trueborn, for what would be one more lie over the lie that the boy was his… Did Griff want revenge enough to raise the boy and present it as the Heir? Myles wondered about it. He wondered about the Lady Ashara Dayne’s role in it.

After all, if he was right, the babe was half a wolf. She’d have little reason to feed a wolfpup on her breast, but if anything, Myles knew that he would never be able to understand a woman’s motives. They were complicated creatures, said one thing and thought another, most times. It was even more interesting knowing of Marq’s findings, that it was not a sham marriage merely to hide the boy. So then perhaps the woman really crossed the Narrow Sea for the man, and the boy was only her excuse. Her choice has been whether to remain a fallen woman in Westeros, or claim a man she seemingly had something for, in Essos. Women, he would never claim to understand them, Myles sighed.

He still couldn’t tell what made him ride so hard from Pentos to Selhorys, what was the doom he felt. Surely, it could not have been Denys Strong falling off a ladder, and it could not have been the Lyseni cutting up his own finger. The Lyseni who said to have a sister in Pentos. That was a curiosity, at most. Most men had brothers and sisters, why would this one matter more than the rest of them… but there was something about that boy. Now that Myles gave it some thought, seeing the boy only strengthened his sense that there was something about the boy. Pretty Lyseni boy with silver hair and purple eyes and the face of a girl, that was, and Myles still couldn’t figure what was it about the boy that bothered him. Just today, seeing the boy seemed as if he’s known the boy for long, and he pushed the notion of it aside thinking that it was because the boy’s been the last thing he’s had to deal with before he’s set out, of course he’s known the boy. But there was something about the boy that wasn’t letting him be.

He undressed and laid down to sleep, but sleep didn’t come. On the morrow he shall go and see to their wounded, they were kept a few houses aside with the old healer who had a boy with him to assist him. He shall sort a maester of sorts, he’s told Gorys, for he’s decided earlier today to hire that boy, he’s decided as soon as he’s learned of the boy’s story. The boy wasn’t a maester for he didn’t earn enough chain links, but Myles found out enough to know that the boy could do the work, so why not? Better than finding a suitable maester. On the morrow, he shall see if he could hire the boy, and if he can, he shall make sure the boy to become his eyes and ears, as well, for Brendel was right. He was either to leave these babes, or he was to take them, and taking them led to no good at all for what would he do with them? Sure, they will hold another meeting, but nothing will be said there that wasn’t said tonight between Brendel and himself, he knew. He also knew, in the end the decision came down to whether to involve Griff or leave the man in the dark. He will not decide it alone, nothing of importance like this was to be decided by him alone. No point pondering about it now. He gave himself a grin, amused by it all. He’s been outsmarted so thoroughly, and how amusing, it was done by one Jon Connington. And Ashara Dayne. And no doubt Lord Howland Reed was in on it as well, for why would the man escort the woman to Griff otherwise. He wondered what all could the Lord of the Neck add to it, what all the man knew. Seems every one of them knew more, than he did, in the end.

He woke with the sun, as always, cursed himself for leaving Duncan Strong behind with the company. He’s grown lax, he’s become used to being served, he amused himself. Better that he left Duncan behind, the boy would worry himself into a mess over his little brother now. He sat in the bath for a time, finding it unbearable to sit in one place. He felt bothered. It wasn’t that Griff harboured a Targaryen babe, of that he was sure of, and still, he felt bothered, just as much as he felt when he decided to ride ahead from Pentos. He also felt his bones aching after that ride – he wasn’t a young man anymore. He was getting older, and it seemed, the younger ones became smarter for they seemed to easily outsmart him. That was not good to admit to himself, in truth. He needed to give this some thought, in truth, for he will not get any younger, that much was certain.

He made his way to check on his men, giving up on any enjoyment of the hot baths. He found that boy attending to one of them, he couldn’t even tell the name of the man. He couldn’t memorise the names of each of ten thousand, he assured himself, it was not something to feel bad about. He felt bad about it, regardless.

“Haldon, your name is,” he called for the boy, “Do I remember that right?”

“That you do, Ser,” the boy nodded as he stepped beside Myles, to a pot of water. He washed blood off his hands.

“Tell me,” Myles sighed.

“The one named Gerold,” the boy whispered, nodding for him to move toward the door, “His wound is infected. I fear it is beyond healing, Ser, for he cannot keep down the potions I give him. I tried what I could, but the rot is setting in.”

Myles nodded. He couldn’t tell which of them was the one named Gerold. “How long?”

“Depends,” the boy said solemnly, “I could try… I mean, in Westeros they try other things, but I do not believe in having maggots feed on the wound. I do not think they would eat away the rot. But then again, I am no maester.”

“Only a halfmaester,” Myles smiled, “I take it, they had disagreements with you over your views about maggots.”

“And bleeding the inflicted,” the boy nodded, “And a lot of other things. But mainly the greyscale. There are cures, and they refuse to use them for they claim it too dangerous. I ask you Ser, is it not dangerous to attend to the afflicted when they catch the pox? It is all the same. Still, we attend those who catch the pox, or, to give you a more suitable example, those who have the runs in an army camp… and we lock those inflicted with greyscale in cells, put them in chains and ship them off.”

“I hear you,” Myles nodded, feigning some interest, “My men lost a boy of nineteen to it a few months back. The guard took the boy and shipped him right back into Chroyane.”

The boy nodded thoughtfully. “Tall and lean boy, dark hair and eyes,” he said, catching Myles’ attention. “I remember him. He begged from the cell that the guard kill him instead, I remember him. I went to see if they would allow me to try and attend to him. They refused.”

“What could you have done?”

“I read about it in the Citadel,” the boy’s eyes lit up. “It can be cured, it has been tried before, though you see, one has to be careful not to touch, while the scales are peeled off, and then a special ointment is applied on the flesh on the freshly peeled infected area. It is doable. I thought to try and see if the boy had scales already, for the malady need to be peeled off the flesh. Cannot peel off blackened skin just yet.”

“I know nothing about greyscale, in truth,” Myles admitted. “Is this why you left the Citadel, then?”

“I was caught,” the boy grinned, “I was caught in the forbidden area of the library, and then I was caught trying this method on one of the inflicted. The man screamed too loud you see. Peeling off skin cannot be done silently, I suppose.”

“I suppose not,” Myles nodded. “How’s your history, Haldon?”

“I completed all my chains I wanted except healing and higher mysteries,” the boy sighed, “Sad as that is, those take longest to earn, and they were interesting me the most. I have history, astronomy, accounting and geography, ravencraft, warcraft, even poisoning and smithing. Now that I think of it, I don’t have construction, either. And in truth my test of laws and customs would have been just after when I was expelled and I am certain I would have passed that one, but that is why I have no chain. Not enough links you see.”

“You seem knowledgeable enough to me,” Myles admitted.

“Perhaps,” the boy shrugged, “I need back, though, there are some with the pox brought in this morn and I am to finish swiftly with your men to attend them. Some fear it will spread, I shall leave your men to old Jaquo after the morn for I cannot meddle with them once I attend those with the pox.”

“Nah, methinks you shall not,” Myles chuckled, “Leave those with the pox to the old man. I am of the mind to offer you employment, Haldon.”

“What employment,” the boy raised an eyebrow, “Here I do good. I doubt you have pox afflicted and greyscale afflicted in your company, Ser.”

“No, I have something even more to your liking,” Myles grinned, “I recall you mention employment in a castle yesterday. Yes, I remember it clearly, you mentioned that was your goal, to spend your days in a community with teaching and healing, that is what you said.”

“There is no such thing to be had now,” the boy sighed.

“No but I have something very close to it,” Myles declared, “If serving in the household of a Westerosi lord would be to your liking. He has young twins, new-borns. They need a teacher, one of mine other serjeants have older twin girls who could use some lessons as well, and we need a good healer to teach our own. It is hard to come by good healers willing to remain long in the company. Methinks you would do well.”

“And you would offer me…” the boy’s eyes grew wide. “You say, a Lord.”

“Lord Connington of Griffin’s Roost,” Myles declared.

“You mean the one in Griffin’s Roost,” the boy raised an eyebrow, “Or the one exiled.”

Myles laughed aloud. “You have a sharp mind, Haldon. It is the exiled one, his family is in need of a teacher. If you are interested.”

The boy took a deep breath, visibly pondering on it. “Old Jaquo has need of me now with those who were brought with the pox.”

“And we have need of one like you, just as well,” Myles argued his case, “You cannot heal them all, Haldon. You can stay here and try or become a man of the Golden Company serving in the household of a Lord.”

“An exile Lord,” Haldon corrected him. “I take it, all of you are. The Golden Company, I know my history well enough to know, you descend from Blackfyre rebels.”

“Depends,” Myles grinned, “You see, it all depends on where one stands. If you ask any of us, Daemon Blackfyre was the true king and Daeron was the pretender.”

“History is written by the victors, Ser,” Haldon remarked.

“Wise words,” Myles nodded, “Can you ready my three remaining men to ride out with you and I today?”

“I am yet to make my decision about it,” the boy countered.

“The offer is there,” Myles shrugged, “Either you take it and ride out with us today, or you stay, and the offer will be gone. Can you ready my men?”

The boy nodded. “What of Gerold?”

“Give him a clean death,” Myles sighed, “If it is as you say and he is beyond healing, then there is no point in letting him suffer, Haldon.”

“The soldier speaks in you, Ser,” the boy argued, “I am a healer, I cannot do as you say.”

“And were you on a battlefield, what would you do?”

“I am not on a battlefield, thank the Gods,” the boy remarked.

“Well, then,” Myles said, “Take me to Gerold, let us see what he’s got to say about it.”

“I am yet to tell him,” The boy whispered as he stopped by the mat. On it, one of the knights laid, visibly in agony. He was covered with a linen, on his torso bloodied on one side. Myles only nodded, crouching down beside the mat. The man opened his eyes. Myles recognised the man, one of those who never caused him any trouble yet was in every mission behind him that he could now recall, but since he never caused him trouble Myles never learned the man’s name.

“Captain-general,” the man spoke.

“It is I,” Myles nodded, “Listen, Gerold. The boy says your wound festered; says you cannot keep down the potions.”

“The boy speaks true,” Gerold spoke. His shaking hand pulled the linen off his side, showing Myles the gruesome wound. “I know it. I can smell it.”

Myles glanced back at the boy, who stood by the mat watching the scene. “Gerold, the boy says he cannot do more.”

“Perhaps I could try the maggots,” the boy argued.

“Fuck the maggots,” Gerold protested. “I want no maggots eating on my flesh, boy. Give me the knife instead and be done with it.” Myles glanced back at the boy once more, the boy looked bewildered at what he’s heard.

“It is the soldier speaking,” Myles said softly.

“Soldier, I am,” Gerold said proudly, “How is it? To an honourable death no matter how humble or dangerous the journey may be. So I have been charged, now I take my rest. Sad that I have not seen us return to home, but it is what it is.”

Myles took a deep breath. He didn’t witness every single death, in a company of ten thousand that was impossible. He didn’t speak to most of those who were facing their own demise. Most of them fell swiftly, and he rarely stomached a visit to those who were deemed beyond healing. He didn’t have to face this a long time, for in truth, it was one of those things he’s never managed to figure how to face. Now it was here, again, and he wondered what there was to say.

“One day,” he said then, “One day I shall take the company home. I promise you that. And if I pass before it, then the one after me shall do it. But it will happen. Now, is there anyone you want me to tell?”

“No,” the man shook his head. “I know you go to the wives to tell, I heard of it enough. See, it is why I thought to never wed. Why have my commander visit mine own one day to tell them that they lost their bread winner? Thought it best to be mine own man then there is no such worry. I remember Damion Strong; I was there when he passed. He worried for his boys the most. I know you went to see them boys, told his wife how he passed, I know you told none of how he wailed and suffered. Now his boys squire for you. That is good of you. Look after them boys for me, that is all I ask. Damion was a good friend to me, and I promised him the same.”

“That need no word from me,” Myles nodded, “Those boys are like mine own.” And one of them cannot even stand on his feet, but he thought not to worry the dying man with that. Neither did he feel the compliment earned, for in truth he didn’t even consider those boys at that time, one of those times when he dutifully made the rounds to the families of the fallen after a fight he now couldn’t recall. He couldn’t even recall any specifics from when he visited their lot to tell them how they lost their father. There’s been too many of those times and those rounds, or so he kept telling himself, to excuse himself. Now he felt all the guilt he excused himself of.

“Is this really happening,” he heard the boy behind him, shaking him from his thoughts.

“It is, boy,” the man gave a smile to the young healer, “It is, for a soldier shall face death head on when it comes. Today is my day, young man. Worry not, on the morrow I shall stand beside the Mother. Now, give me that dagger and be done with it.”

Myles glanced back at the boy, stunned and wide eyed, but he didn’t hesitate. Gerold only nodded to him, and so he pulled his dagger, as the man closed his eyes, he slit his throat deep and wide, his hand on the man’s mouth but in truth, no blood was forthcoming. The man’s face was peaceful, as he passed on. Myles stood.

“And so I told you,” he sighed as he turned to the boy.

“Perhaps I could have done more,” the boy said desperately, “Perhaps the maggots…”

“You heard him,” he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, “He wanted none of your maggots, he wanted a clean death. Learn from it, Haldon.”

The boy nodded. “Who is Damion Strong?”

“Was a knight in the company,” Myles explained as he made his way toward the door, passing by two women, who no doubt were to be Silent Sisters albeit they looked nothing of the sort to him. Still, he glanced back and saw them stop by the body. That was good, he concluded, for he needed out of this room, the sooner the better. Killing was no easy task, no matter how merciful it seemed. “He fell in a skirmish a few years back,” he told the boy of the father of his squires, “He left behind two young boys. They are my squires.”

“I will never understand war,” the boy sighed.

“It is the world we live in,” Myles shrugged, “There is no peace without war, Haldon. There is no justice without it, for no man will be just and peaceful unless there is a force to make him thus, so is the nature of men. But what you saw, that was bravery. That was a soldier’s death.”

“Suppose I would see more of it, if I took your offer,” the boy said then, stopping by the entrance of the healer’s house and Myles turned back toward the boy.

“Suppose you may,” he said solemnly, “Suppose you may save many from it, just as well. Think of it this way, if I had a healer such as you with me on the road, the man would not have faced his maker today, perhaps he would have seen Westeros one day instead. Think on that, Haldon. Ready my men, I take off at midday.” With that, he left the boy.

He rode out to the harbour, but the Shy Maid was already gone. Just as he expected, Griff has set out as soon as he could. Just as he hoped, Griff took their lot away from the guard in Selhorys, for in truth he hoped for that. If the Lyseni caught Garin’s curse, perhaps he’s just found the one who could deal with it without yet another boy being sent to live out his last years in the fog of the Sorrows. He knew, the guards could check and check, but they could not catch each of the inflicted no matter how meticulous they were. The more and more inflicted shipped from Volantis was proof enough of that, there was a whole house full of cells and the inflicted in Volantis. The boy that Griff lost begging the guards, hearing of that cut deep into his heart. The guards should have given the boy a clean death, he concluded, as he watched the boats in harbour.

He returned, packed up and had Brendel ready the men, and by midday he was back in the harbour, ready to cross to the other side. To his surprise, there were four approaching. He really didn’t think the boy will accept his offer after what the boy has seen today.

“You seem surprised, Ser,” the boy called out to him as he neared on Gerold’s horse.

“Indeed, I am surprised,” Myles nodded, “Thought you had enough of soldiers after today.”

“As you said, Ser,” Haldon declared, “Was I on the road with you, Gerold would sit on this horse now. I was not there. I mean to be there the next time.”

“That will be hard,” Myles chuckled, “Cannot ride around with the company and serve in Griff’s household, at once.”

“Perhaps,” the boy shrugged, “But I can teach those who ride around with the Company. And at the end of it, I may even see Westeros once more, if it is as you told Gerold. I mean to take this with me when that comes.” He pulled a chain from the bag he had across his shoulder, on it a medallion. “It was Gerold’s. I shall take it and then I shall bury it.”

“Where?”

“That, I know not,” the boy said hesitantly, “You cut his throat before I could ask him.”

Myles had to chuckle. “Well, still I think he would appreciate the gesture.”

“I think so too,” Haldon said, “So you better make good on your word to him, so I can do it. In the meantime, I shall teach Lord Connington’s children and your healers. We shall see what comes of it.”

Myles nodded. There wasn’t much else to say about it because the boat docked, and his men began to board. Soon he shall be riding south toward home, as much as it was home. He thought to linger in Valysar perhaps, but then set it aside. After the whole journey, and the doom he felt on him still, after what he’s done today and what there was ahead of them with knowing about Griff’s boy not being Griff’s boy in truth, he really felt no fancy for fun. He wanted to get on with it all. He shall ride hard for home, and then at least Ilaena will be happier for it, not having to scold him for once.

Chapter Text

ASHARA

“It’s taking too long.”

She looked up, at Jon. Her husband spent the better part of the past hours pacing the deck, time to time complaining that ‘it’s taking too long.’ She wondered what there was left to say that she didn’t try yet.

“Truly, it should not have taken this long,” Jon reasoned. “What’s so bloody hard taking a few rooms in the inn? Renting a few horses, and whatnot…”

She shook her head, glancing aside at Howland Reed. Reed sat with the boys, lost in discourse about Targaryens. No, not the Targaryens she knew, they were eagerly discussing the dance of dragons, Rhaenyra, Daemon and the rest of them, the boys hanging on every word by Lord Howland, showering him with questions.

“I should have sent Rivers,” Jon whispered to her as he dumped himself beside her on the bench. “Marq cannot be trusted.”

“Surely, young Gorys can be trusted,” Ashara said nonchalantly.

“Because he wants you to give him dancing lessons?” She laughed aloud. “Where in the seven hells are they? How long can it take to…”

“Jon,” she laid her hand on her man’s thigh, modesty be damned. “You worked yourself into a mess. They will return when they will return, no amount of questioning will make them faster.”

“That is not it,” he sighed. Just then, his eyes settled on the pier. “This was it. I knew it,” he scoffed, and she looked ahead in the direction of where his cold gaze settled. Young Gorys was returning, and with him was a woman. “I told him to rent rooms, damn him.”

“Connington,” the woman called out so loudly that even the boys looked up at her. “Could not believe it when Gorys told me. And Malo! Come here boy, do I not deserve your greeting?”

Ashara watched Jon roll his eyes, watched Malo stand and after a moment of hesitation jump on the pier. The woman took the boy in her arms in a tight hug. “I swear you have grown half a head taller. More handsome as well! I heard of your misfortune, though.”

“Misfortune?” The boy asked clearly confused, stepping back from the woman.

“Yes, misfortune,” the woman laughed, “now you squire for grumpy Griff, that is a grave misfortune! I shall miss you. I swear you’ve grown!”

“He did not,” Jon scoffed, more to himself than to anyone else. Ashara watched the woman climb on the boat. She was… well, nothing like anyone she’s met before. She wore a flowing silk dress that she didn’t mind pulling the skirt up of as she took the steps, showing her legs. She had long dark hair, intricately braided atop her head with a few locks down to her waist in perfect curls. And she had the richest ear piece Ashara’s ever seen, over a dozen gemstones worked into a gold plate that covered half her ear and more gemstones hung from it on small chains. Besides, she wore a thick gold belt, and that silk dress was almost too tight on her bosom, while leaving her shoulders free.

“You Gods’ curse, Connington,” the woman laughed at Jon, “you wed! What became of the world, and a Lady Dayne! And you would hide her from me!”

By the time she finished, her eyes were on Ashara. She was comely in a way, Ashara thought, lips full and painted red and large black almond shaped eyes, and her eyebrows were plucked and shaped. It made Ashara wonder about her own eyebrows, whether she was ought to pluck them. Or whether she was dressed appropriately compared to an essosi woman. She felt herself diminishing under the woman’s gaze.

“Oh my,” the woman declared, “it is true just as young Gorys told me, you are a beauty, my lady.” She turned to Jon, “find your manners, Connington, will you not introduce me?”

“Ilaena,” Jon sighed, visibly annoyed, “the lady is my wife, as you seem to already know. Ashara, this is Ilaena. Blackheart’s lady.”

“Lady, my arse,” the woman laughed, “I am most definitely not a lady. I hear you rather would put up your lot in the inn than with me, though? Gods’ curse that you are, Griff.”

“I meant no trouble to you,” Jon rolled his eyes.

“Trouble,” the woman repeated, “Fool! Of course you shall stay with us! Say no more, I know Myles would never put a Lady Dayne in that inn! No, you lot should stay with us. Oh, I cannot wait!” As much as she proclaimed her excitement, her eyes were already scanning their group.

“Young Denys Strong,” she stepped to the boy who finally could stand on his own feet, albeit taking him minutes to get up and do so. “You’ve grown as well, have you seen giant turtles?”

“Bigger than the boat,” Denys grinned as the woman pulled him into a hug like she did with Malo earlier. Clearly, Blackheart’s woman knew the boys very well. Favoured them, as well.

“Thought I told you…” Jon began scolding Gorys who just arrived beside them.

“I ran into her crossing the market square,” Gorys shrugged. “You know how she is.”

“Oh my,” the woman called out as she released Denys, her eyes on the Lyseni, “Gods, you are a pretty one. Bane of hearts, you must be, how old are you boy?”

“Like me,” Denys grinned.

“Gods save all women from you once you’re grown,” the woman laughed, the Lyseni looking shyly, somewhat unnerved. “Or men, or both, for you are truly a pretty one. New squire? And did the turtles take your tongue?”

“He signed up on the way north,” Denys answered instead. That boy seemed to be the only one glad to see this woman named Ilaena, Ashara mused. “His name is Lysono.”

“Well,” the woman patted Lysono’s cheek, “I’m sure there’s a voice to you, we shall see if we can loosen your tongue.” She turned back to Jon.

“I sent Marq back to the house, for the servants and the litter and the horses,” she declared, “Truly Griff, what were you thinking? Of course you lot should stay with us. I cannot wait to see them babes of yours!”

Well, she could wait, Ashara decided, for Marq Mandrake showed up just then and the woman named Ilaena seemed to have forgotten in an instant about the babes. She loudly ordered the three servants around who made a swift work of unloading the Shy Maid, loading all travel chests and saddle bags onto a cart. True enough, there was also a litter, but as the woman meant to travel in it, Ashara opted for a horse, leaving Dalla to travel in that litter with the babes, albeit not without some guilt. She explained that she would like to see more of the town and the woman seemed completely fine with that excuse, not even raising an eyebrow. She could not name her reason why, but the woman made her skin crawl, even the thought of the children in the litter with her made her suspicious and yet she still couldn’t convince herself to join them, instead offering her place to Denys Strong. She couldn’t place it, though she was certain that it wasn’t the woman’s outspokenness, nor was it her rich looks. After all she’s seen many kinds of Dornish women, she’s seen ‘worse’. Still, none of those kindled in her the same mistrust. She remembered the captain-general saying, this woman did not work since he laid eyes on her. No, she was more likely to spend his gold, Ashara chuckled to herself. She didn’t look forward to spending time with this woman. They couldn’t have been more different even if they tried, she concluded.

They rode through the chaotic riverfront, lengthy harbour of wooden piers with boats of different sizes and types tied up. Time and time they had to stop in their procession to allow slaves carrying timber planks across, unloading ships. As she looked around, she noted the same theme, richly and colourfully dressed people, men and women conversing, collared slaves carrying goods, but mainly timber. Volon Therys seemed a rich town, and judging by the length of the harbour, perhaps even bigger than Kings Landing itself.

This was to be her new home, the thought came suddenly, just as they finally left the harbour behind, taking to a neatly paved road. To the sides were walls, not unlike the tall white walls she’s seen surrounding the town, but these were considerably shorter. Large double gates broke up the neat lining of white stone walls, the only colour for they were painted in bright colours. Some were of wood, some of ironwork, some were more intricate than others. They allowed a sneak peek of what was behind the walls, neat gardens and white houses with large windows, colourful doors, the red roofs of which stood high behind the walls. It looked all very rich. There were few people on the street and they all stepped aside, giving them knowing looks. Women, and children.

“Look left,” Jon whispered to her, and she looked. A small thin woman stood by a gate conversing with an older man. She was just as finely dressed as Ilaena, though without the bosom-showing tightness to her dress and there was no gold belt either, no red painted lips. Still, to Ashara, she looked far more comely with her long dark hair and soft features. “Laswell Peake’s wife,” she’s heard Jon whisper. She had no idea who Laswell Peake was, made a mental note to ask Jon later. For now, she took a good look at the house behind the open gate, wide two-storey building with large windows and ornate ironwork balconies and white curtains. She wanted white curtains, she decided. Although, most likely she shall have little say in what she’ll get. More likely it’ll be a question of what they can afford. She tried not to think more about it.

“I can see why you preferred rooms in the inn,” she whispered to Jon instead.

“She is loud is she not,” Jon chuckled. “She probably means well; the boys like her.”

“Yes, she seems to get on well with the squire boys,” she nodded.

“They stay in the house with Blackheart and her when the company is in camp,” Jon explained, “besides, she has none of her own. No children.”

How long will they have to stay, she wanted to ask, but she caught herself. There was no answer to that question, not from Jon, and asking it would make Jon even more uncomfortable with the situation if that was even possible. Ever since they left Selhorys Jon was getting more and more worked up about settling, about the countless things that settling in this town involved. Of course, none of those things were within his control, finding a suitable house, and servants, a proper cook, and also furnishings as needed, having to house Malo, making sure Ser Rolly and Dalla had appropriate lodging, and so on. It amazed her at times how deeply Jon cared about such things. She’s never heard Artus wonder whether Wylla had appropriate lodging. Wylla was the wetnurse at Starfall and Ashara realised just now that she didn’t even know whether Wylla had a husband, like Dalla had Ser Rolly.

They seemed to have arrived as a wide wooden gate in the shade of red same as Ilaena’s lips opened to their left as they neared. They followed the litter through the gate, stopped in front of yet another two-storey house with large windows and white curtains. Seems the theme, Ashara concluded. She looked around, taking in the sight of the garden. Palm trees and all kinds of flowers, and benches in the grass, it was very orderly. She dismounted just as a girl appeared in the doorway with a stern face and eyes on her. She took a deep breath, bracing herself to more of Ilaena, watching the woman exit the litter while already telling Denys to share his room with Malo and ‘our pretty boy’, referring to the Lyseni.

In the end it wasn’t half as bad as Ashara expected. She learned that the stern-faced girl’s name was Lemore, and she was a septa. Of sorts because she wore no septa’s robes, though she also wore no figure-revealing finery like Ilaena, and she was of so few words that Ashara didn’t even hear her speak, while she kept giving Ashara stern looks. Ilaena told Denys and Malo to settle in their room with the Lyseni. Denys who hung on her every word took the other boys away in no time, still limping on that injured foot of his, and then Ilaena showed them to their rooms. A nice room with a double door toward the river behind the house, albeit the balcony was so tiny they laughed at how nobody could step out there, it was little more than a guard to prevent people from falling out that balcony door. There were shutters but also the curtains. There were cotton rugs on the wooden floors and a large bed with more linen curtains around it. Jon explained to her, it was against the bugs, being so close to the river. Yes, she definitely wanted curtains. She also would like living so close to the river, as she stood in that doorway resting her weight on her elbows on the balcony, the sounds of the river reminded her of times when she sat atop the Palestine Tower at night. Somehow the bitterness of the memory, of her reason why she did so, that didn’t come to her. Ilaena stopped shouting orders in the house and without her voice filling the air, it all became so very tranquil.

Dalla and Rolly had the room beside theirs, with the babes. She’s spent the afternoon with the babes, while Jon rode out with Gorys Edoryen to ‘sort’ the Shy Maid - to pay Yandry and Ysilla for their service taking them even as far south as Volon Therys in the end, no matter how the couple insisted that no payment was required. Marq Mandrake also disappeared somewhere, only Rivers remained with them for a while longer but by the time it came to supper, even Rivers was gone.

Supper was a curious affair. Firstly, there was a nice piglet roast served with all the trimmings one could wish for, secondly, none of them seemed particularly eager to eat, so much so that Ilaena remarked about it at least half a dozen times. The Lyseni caught Ashara’s eyes more than once. The boy remained silent throughout supper but after a while she realised that the boy was watching. He’s been watching Ilaena, the servants, the other woman named Lemore… Ashara wondered about it. After supper Gorys Edoryen also disappeared for as she’s learned, Gorys had his own place, a room in the town and so now he preferred to retire there. She could understand that, she also wished having her own place. She wished not feeling as if she was some kind of pauper begging to be looked after.

The spring breeze was warm and gentle. Little Jon snoozed in her arm as she kept rocking the chair. She’s been sitting out here on the porch watching boats on the river, and birds, listening to frogs, for hours now. The tranquillity of it seemed to calm her anxious mind somewhat. Jon’s been gone since morning with Gorys Edoryen. To the side, Ser Rolly sat in the grass with the boys. There was a training session happening but they weren’t doing much of the swordplay this time, it seemed that they were deep in conversation instead, Rolly explaining things no doubt, the boys listening eagerly. The crannogmen also disappeared in the town hours ago, wishing to see it for themselves.

“How lucky you are, my Lady,” she’s heard Ilaena behind her and glanced back.

“Lucky?”

“Not one, but two beautiful little ones,” Ilaena nodded as she took the chair beside hers.

“You’ve no children?”

“No,” her reply came swift and emotionless. “Truth be told, better this way. I doubt myself to be the mothering kind.”

“You seem to be a good mother figure for the boys,” Ashara remarked, feeling the need to converse.

“They are good boys,” Ilaena declared cheerfully, “Myles works them like goats when I’m not around so I prefer to pamper them instead. I am yet to give your man a proper scolding for trying to house your lot in the inn.”

Ashara raised an eyebrow. Perhaps Ilaena was mothering everyone, she thought, or perhaps she took her role as the captain-general’s wife rather seriously. Albeit no one called her a wife, and Ashara wondered whether she was merely a paramour. “He deserves no scolding,” she argued, “it was for my sake, I confess. I am rather… I prefer not to be at anyone’s mercy.”

“Suppose that’s how you highborn Westerosi think,” Ilaena remarked nonchalantly, accepting her excuse, Ashara raising an eyebrow at the comment nevertheless. “Your man is the same from what I’ve heard, full of pride. I hear you crossed the Narrow Sea to reunite with the prickliest man I’ve ever met. Cannot fathom how a woman like you would find that man so… what’s the word? Worth it?”

“He’s more than worth it,” Ashara hoped her voice sounded as nonchalant as she intended for she acutely felt being interrogated. “He’s the best man I know. He’s the man who even my brother Arthur approved of for me.”

“Oh yes, Ser Arthur Dayne. I’ve heard of him,” the woman nodded. Ashara wondered at the tone of her voice as she spoke. “What’s with the pretty Lyseni boy? Seems he lost his tongue in the Rhoyne.”

“He’s a good boy as well,” Ashara once more tried her best to chatter, “Works hard, trains hard, keeps to himself. There is really nothing more to him.” Well, that wasn’t exactly true, but neither will she discourse what she knew of the boy’s past with this woman, nor will she wonder aloud why Lysono Maar became so silent since they arrived. She caught the boy’s gaze on them, just as Ilaena spoke once more.

“One thing I am curious of,” she said, “what does Ser Arthur Dayne make of you my Lady making a life in Essos with an exile?”

“Nothing,” Ashara declared emotionlessly, “My brother is dead. He makes nothing of nothing anymore.”

“I see,” the woman’s voice turned kind, almost apologetic. “It makes more sense to me then. After all, you’ve had them babes, they needed their father, I suppose.”

“Exactly so,” Ashara nodded, “it was no choice, really. I could have raised them as bastards of Starfall or I could have brought them to their father, you see, the man who I knew to wed before all that mess, I knew he will be true to his word to me.” Lies. Ashara felt acutely aware of her lies about the babes, keeping up with the story about them. The thought came suddenly, she couldn’t imagine the captain-general trusting this woman with the truth about ‘her’ girl. She couldn’t imagine anyone trusting this woman, in truth.

“Love is a wonderful thing,” the woman remarked. Ashara wondered what there was to say to that. This whole conversation, in truth, she wondered about it all. It felt as if the woman questioned her, her identity and her choices. The way the woman spoke Arthur’s name also wasn’t lost on her. She made a mental remark to tell Jon about it, for the first time since she reunited with Jon, she felt that she needed Jon’s suspicious approach to people. She felt that Jon was right.

They didn’t converse after, and she was glad for it. The woman sat beside her for a time, then excused herself to go and check on the cook. She didn’t return. Ashara caught the Lyseni’s eyes on them two more times, making her wonder about the boy. The boy was watching. She was growing paranoid like Jon, she mused. Her eyes settled on the two babes in the crib in front of her, sleeping soundly. She didn’t mind growing paranoid like Jon, the more time she’s spent in this house the more she felt as if it was something wholly different than what it seemed.

Ser Rolly finished with the boys, she watched Malo helping up Denys and the two of them disappeared. The Lyseni sat in the grass for a while, fiddling, before he stood, his eyes firmly on her. He made his way to her.

“May I,” he asked, pointing at the crib and she nodded. It was clear to her, the boy didn’t come to see the babes, no matter how he sat down beside the crib watching them now. Sat down right at her feet.

“How is your finger,” she asked softly, “giving you any trouble?”

“No,” the boy looked up at her, “Lord Howland sew up the cuts yesterday, he said that they shall heal fine now. No more honeyed bread crumbs and it doesn’t even hurt near as much now.”

“He said those kill whatever infection would set in your cuts,” Ashara nodded. The boy only nodded in response, his eyes returning to the babes before his gaze scanned the whole house, the gardens around them.

“I like her not,” he whispered, “Blackheart’s woman. I like her not.”

“She thinks you lost your tongue in the Rhoyne,” Ashara lowered her voice as she spoke.

“I have not,” the boy whispered, his eyes settling on her. “I have nothing to say to them.”

“That makes two of us, then,” she nodded.

“Be careful, Lady,” the boy whispered as he stood. “Be careful with what you share.”

“What are you telling me, Lysono,” Ashara leaned forward in her chair, “what do you fear?”

“I cannot tell,” the boy whispered hesitantly. “I just mean… Be careful. Even the walls have ears here.” With that the boy left her.

She wondered about it. Another thing to discuss with Jon, though Jon’s misgivings about this boy meant that he would likely dismiss it. Ashara found that she couldn’t dismiss it. She would’ve gone after the boy and ask him what he meant but she knew that the boy wouldn’t explain. No, that boy only spoke when he himself felt like speaking. A finely carved boat was sailing by, dragging after it a cot. In the cot was an elephant. Ashara’s eyes grew wide.

“Now that is a sight,” she’s heard Howland Reed behind her and turned.

“Unsettling sight,” she said, “that animal doesn’t look overly comfortable in its cage.”

She’s heard Lord Howland take the chair next to her with a sigh. “I wonder if you speak of the animal or something wholly different, my lady.”

She took a deep breath thinking about how Howland Reed always seemed to understand her so thoroughly. “How was the town?”

“Buzzing,” Reed laughed. “Full of interesting people. I thought Kings Landing a large city, well I could swear this town to be larger. And richer, too. They trade timber from Qohor, that is their main trade. But the market, it was the largest market I’ve ever seen. They sell everything and anything you can imagine. We had a pint in an ale house. This is actually quite a funny tale.”

“Please do share,” Ashara smiled at the man, “I could do with some fun.”

“There was a… bedwarmer,” Howland whispered, “she decided that Quagg would be a worthy customer. I had the best of fun watching her trying to make it happen. At one point she even sat on his lap! By the time I finished my pint, Quagg looked like a puppy begging me to take him home. It was quite a funny experience, indeed. I suppose Lord Jon not returned, yet?”

“No,” she nodded, “he promised me that they shall try their best to find a suitable place today. Even if temporarily, until we find a house.”

“I see,” Lord Howland nodded thoughtfully. “The captain-general’s lady seems generous enough, though.”

“That is true,” she nodded. “I wonder where she got a crib from. Seeing that they have no children of their own.”

“I wonder more,” Lord Howland’s gaze settled on her, “why you seem weary, my Lady. After all, this town shall become your new home.”

“Once we have a place of our own,” she nodded before she leaned toward Lord Howland. “The Lyseni boy just warned me that even the walls have ears here,” she whispered. “And the way she spoke of my brother Arthur… it is unsettling.”

“I see,” Lord Howland nodded, his face turning troubled. “What did the Lady say, then?”

“Nothing much,” Ashara explained wondering why Lord Howland now looked troubled. What the lord of the Neck could know that she didn’t, though by now it seemed most of them knew more than she did. Even the Lyseni boy knew more. “It is how she said his name… she only said that she’s heard of my brother. She wondered what Arthur would make of my being here.”

“And?” Lord Howland raised an eyebrow, “what would he make of it?”

“Nothing, most likely,” Ashara smiled. “I honestly think he’d rather be here with us than serve the stag. He would have never knelt like Ser Barristan is said to have knelt on the Trident to Robert Baratheon. I am sure of it; Arthur would rather have chosen the exile.”

“Would have made it easier for you as well, in that case,” Lord Howland nodded. “In truth, it may not be the best time but I meant to speak to you about your brother, my Lady.”

“About Arthur?” Ashara raised an eyebrow, “What is there to say, my Lord. You fought, he lost. I hold none of that against you, not even against Ned Stark, in truth. Arthur served his prince fatefully; I find that this outcome was inevitable sooner or later for him.”

“Perhaps,” Lord Howland whispered, “I thought about it a lot during our journey and I must disagree with you, for as you said, had he lived it would have been him arriving at Starfall and truthfully, you would still be here; I have no doubt but as you say, your brother would be here with you. So much better for you and the babes, perhaps even your lord husband.”

“Not lord anymore,” Ashara chuckled, “truly, Jon really disdains at being reminded of his lost lordship all the time, my Lord.”

“And yet, it is a sign of respect,” Lord Howland argued, “I find these past days that he more than deserves that respect. It is not what I meant to talk about.”

“There is nothing to it, Lord Howland,” Ashara assured, “Arthur fell serving his prince. It is what it is, nothing more to say about it.”

“There is more to say about it,” Lord Howland sighed heavily. “The more I think of it, the more I find that I owe you the truth. And perhaps myself, as well, if I ever mean to restore some of my honour.”

“The truth,” Ashara repeated. The word made her weary, and even more so seeing that the Lord couldn’t hold her gaze, his gaze fell on her hands.

“The truth is,” Lord Howland began, “Lord Ned did not defeat your brother. Ser Arthur would have cut him down I have no doubt. The truth is that I intervened, your brother didn’t defend his back and I stabbed him.”

“In the back.”

“In the back,” Lord Howland sighed. “Dishonourable as that is. I didn’t think of it, all I thought of was to save my liege, for Lord Ned could not defeat your brother that was plainly clear.”

“So you stabbed him in the back.”

“I did.”

Ashara’s eyes settled on a boat slowly passing by on the river, her heart aching. She felt betrayed. “Tell me Lord Howland, are you here to help me as you said, or are you here chasing your honour, hoping that by doing good by me somehow you win it back? We had this discussion before. Yes, I remember it well, I remember telling you that a good deed does not erase the bad.”

“And I remember telling you,” the lord sighed, “only by changing our ways and learning to do good can we hope to ever win back some of our honour, my lady. I have no such preconceptions as winning back my honour by aiding you. I simply owed you the truth.”

She sat silently for a while, acutely aware of the man’s presence beside her. “The truth is, my Lord,” she declared, “that I wonder if it was wise trusting you with our secrets. I wonder if you would stab me in the back, if it came to that choice between your silence and your loyalty to your liege.”

“Thought you would say so,” Lord Howland stood, his eyes on her. “I told you back then, only by learning and changing our ways can we hope to win back some of our honour. No one good deed erases the bad, I agree with you, my Lady. I’d rather change my ways and be your friend, but you are right to doubt.”

With that the Lord left her to her thoughts. She wondered about it, and that in turn made her wonder about everything that happened since the day she’s met Lord Howland Reed. She could list a great many good deeds by the man, it was as Jon once said, the list was growing and growing longer by each day, and yet, she felt as if there was a knife stuck in her back.

She grew up defended and protected by Arthur. She always thought of Arthur as her defender, her big brother. Sure, Artus was the older one, but the age difference prevented any closeness between them and in truth, Artus has always been a strange one, in some ways similarly strange as Jon had been. Perhaps that was why she could get on with Jon so well in Kings Landing - she’s learned how to get on with Artus once Arthur took the white. Gods, how she used to miss her brother. How she missed during those few years Arthur’s presence, their afternoons in the gardens, their whispering of secrets. There was considerable age difference, still, but Arthur never looked at her like a child, never treated her as the little girl she’s been. She could tell Arthur anything.

There was commotion in the house behind her, voices raised, sounds of rushing about, but she’s found that she was unwilling to move and see what it was about. She found she didn’t care. She cared about Arthur and her memories. Truly, what would Arthur make of this all? She found that as she told Lord Howland, Arthur would be here with her was he still alive. No doubt Arthur would have brought the babe to her. She’d even go as far as to say, Arthur would’ve told her to take to Jon Connington even before she’d have thought of that idea, for where else to raise the babe safely than in Essos, who else would they have known to surely aid them in such an endeavour but Jon? Yes, had Lord Howland not stabbed him in the back, Arthur would be here. Arthur would have sailed with her straight from Starfall, no doubt. Arthur would have helped Jon sorting what all they needed sorting, the weight of which now all rested on Jon’s shoulders alone.

It was a curious thought to ponder on whether Arthur would have signed up to serve in the Golden Company. Perhaps he would have, two knights can make double the gold than what one can make. Then it would be the voice of two in her defense no matter what. She wondered if she would have said the words to Jon, was Arthur here, but she concluded that she would have. The plan itself would have been the same for how would Arthur and her hide and raise the babe otherwise? The babe needed a name, they couldn’t give him their name for the babe needed her as mother, with her purple eyes and all, Ned Stark was right about that. Which meant that Arthur could have never given the boy his name, no, Jon would have had to just like he did. It would all be the same. Just like she’s told the captain-general’s woman, Jon was the man Arthur approved of for her. That part of it, the marriage, it didn’t bother her. The choice was right, albeit it came with strange things, but the choice of man was the right one. Was Arthur here though… so many things would be different, she thought, was Arthur here. She wouldn’t be at the mercy of anyone, they wouldn’t have to rely on anyone else, was Arthur here. Though how Arthur would sort any of it, she could not tell, she didn’t ponder on that. Arthur was her big brother, he always just sorted things.

“I hear you would have preferred the inn to my hospitality, my Lady,” she’s heard the deep baritone of the captain-general behind her and turned. The man stood by the doorway leaning against the door frame, with a wide grin on his face.

“After the hellish journey you’ve put me through, Ser,” Ashara remarked.

“Aye, I have heard of it,” the man took the chair where Lord Howland Reed sat a short time ago, Ashara wondering what ugly truths this next man was to deliver her. It seemed to be the theme today.

“That poor boy was frightened out of his mind that he caught the greyscale,” Ashara declared sternly. “That boy needs no such fright. None of us did. We should have never sailed through that accursed place.”

“Depends,” the man shrugged, “for I have sailed through many a time and never had an issue. I did however lose three on the road riding south to catch up with your lot. Trust me, Lady Ashara, it was the safer way, for these babes. You all are here after all, are you not.”

Ashara studied the man, the strange look in the man’s eyes. “If you expect my thanks…”

“I do not,” he laughed, “I am far more realistic than that, my lady.”

“Then you are checking on your investment,” she remarked coldly.

“Do I need to,” the man asked curiously, “Is it not as I said in Braavos? You are a mother suitable, are you not?”

“Strange question to ask,” she remarked. Strange indeed, when paired with the man’s cheeky grin. Perhaps it was as Jon thought, and this man suspected them. Suspected them still, or suspected them anew once the man came to check on the babes in Selhorys for that was what Jon worried about, said it was most strange for the man called Brendel Byrne to wish to introduce himself to her, to wish to see them babes, for Byrne had little interest in anything or anyone according to Jon. Ashara found her husband’s worries more and more grounded in reality. She needed Jon back by her side, she felt the need to tell all these things to her husband.

“In any case,” the man declared, “I mean for you to meet someone. Haldon!”

She raised an eyebrow, looking at the doorway wondering who Haldon could be for her to meet. A lean boy appeared, wearing robes akin to a maester’s attire but instead of chain he had a bag across his body. His hair was tied behind his head in a bun, the way Jon wore his hair. He had a peaceful face with confident bright eyes on her.

“This here is Haldon,” the captain-general pointed at the young one, “Haldon, this is Lady Connington. I leave to you to explain your credentials,” the man grinned. The boy looked her up casually.

“Lady,” he bowed, “I’ve earned my chain in history, astronomy, accounting, ravencraft, warcraft, geography, smithing and poisoning. I know laws and customs adequately, and healing as well, my Lady. Perhaps higher mysteries.”

“Adequately,” Ashara raised an eyebrow once more, this time more in amusement, “meaning you’ve no chain link.”

“No, my lady,” the boy’s answer was swift as it was confident. “I tell as it is, I am no maester qualified for I have been expelled before I could earn the rest of my chain links, my Lady.”

“Expelled,” Ashara repeated, “now why would the Citadel expel a boy. What’s your story?”

“Tried to cure a man of greyscale, my Lady.”

“Is that not what you were supposed to do?”

“It is forbidden,” the boy explained, “they say it too dangerous. I was caught, and so I have been expelled.”

“And where did the captain-general find you, then?”

“In Selhorys,” the boy explained, “I worked for the healer in Selhorys. I treated the injured the Ser brought in. Until he cut the throat of one of them and told me to ready the rest to ride out, and offered me employment in your household, my Lady.”

Ashara’s eyes grew wide. After a moment, she broke out in laughter, even she couldn’t have told why. The situation was utterly surreal, and the boy completely comfortable with it. “I cannot tell what is stranger,” she said amidst her laughter, “that you got expelled for trying to heal a man, that the Ser hired you for my household, or that he cut the throat of one of his own men. By the Gods, I wonder if I am dreaming this here in this chair!”

“Well,” the boy’s reply came swiftly, “the man’s wound festered. The Ser asked the man what to do about it and the man wanted what the Ser called a clean death.   Then he told me that the man would still live was I on the road with them, you see. So now here I am.”

“As much as I know,” Ashara pointed out, glancing at the grinning captain-general, “you cannot serve in my household at once and be on the road with them, so which one is it then?”

“I am not much for army camps, my Lady,” the boy nodded his agreement, “I agreed with the Ser that I shall train the healers. When not teaching your children for that is what he hired me for.”

“I see,” Ashara nodded, “Well then, Haldon tell me about Brightflame.”

“Prince Aerion Targaryen,” the boy’s reply came without a pause, “son of Maekar the first of his name and Dyanna Dayne, self-titled the Brightflame. Exiled for a full decade for his involvement and deeds at the tourney of Ashford, which he’s spent in Lys, and he’s said to have served with the Second Sons for a time. After his return he fought against the Company during the third Blackfyre rebellion. And… they say he was the greatest example of Targaryen madness, called thus Aerion the Monstrous by many. He was said to have believed himself a dragon embodied in manly form. He’s had one son, Maegor, and he died after drinking wildfire trying to turn himself into a dragon.”

“And what happened to Maegor?”

“That…” the boy hesitated for a moment, “Well, he’s been passed in the line of succession for he was of tender age it is said, or perhaps due to his father’s madness… he’s said to have returned to Dorne.”

Ashara nodded. “And tell me, who was Aerion’s opponent at Ashford?”

“Ser Duncan the Tall,” the boy smiled, “and his squire in truth has been prince Aegon, Aerion’s own younger brother whose head was shaved to hide his silver hair. He was said to have yelled to have Aerion killed in the joust, to Ser Humfrey Hardyng.”

“That was not why Ser Duncan opposed him…”

“No, that was about the mummers,” the boy nodded, “there was a mummer’s play, story of a knight slaying a dragon, prince Aerion found it offensive and so his men attacked the mummers. Prince Aegon called on Ser Duncan who in defense of the mummers struck prince Aerion. The prince ordered his death at which point prince Aegon revealed himself to stop the unfolding madness. Ser Duncan has been apprehended for striking a prince of the blood. There was a trial of the seven for him demanded by prince Aerion, during which Ser Duncan defeated the prince who in the end yielded to him, but not before prince Baelor sustained deadly injuries during the trial. My Lady.”

Ashara nodded. “And tell me,” she asked, her eyes on the still-grinning captain-general silently enjoying the scene, “how come Ser Duncan who was a hedge knight had such an illustrious squire? Some say he kidnapped prince Aegon.”

“That was Aerion’s story,” the boy nodded, “the truth to it is that the boy posed as a Fleabottom orphan called Egg, and thus Ser Duncan accepted him as his squire at Ashford for Ser Duncan is said to have been an orphan from Fleabottom himself, my lady.”

“And how does Ser Duncan relate to the Blackfyres,” Ashara asked, her eyes on the captain-general. The boy seemed caught by that question.

“Served Ser Eustace Osgrey,” the boy thought aloud, “I believe he was a Blackfyre supporter... Oh I know this! Later Ser Duncan joined lord Gormon Peake’s company, of Starpike, they were on the way to the tourney at Whitewalls. Ser Duncan had a considerable role in unmasking John the Fiddler and his supporters on that tourney. John the Fiddler, whose real identity has been Daemon the second of Blackfyre, my Lady, and thus by revealing his true identity Ser Duncan ended what is now known as the second Blackfyre rebellion.”

The captain-general’s face betrayed his amusement as much as his surprise. “And where were we,” he asked.

“Where were you not,” the boy countered, “Story goes, Bittersteel denied the sword and his support to Daemon the second due to his known relation to a certain Ser Alyn Cockshaw. Word is, Ser Alyn challenged Ser Duncan at Whitewalls for he became jealous of Daemon’s attentions shown to Ser Duncan at the tourney.”

“Interesting,” Blackheart nodded, “that tourney was a mess by all accounts, then.”

“Seems all tourneys are a mess,” Ashara remarked, studying the boy once more. “Haldon. You will do, albeit you are a Halfmaester… I accept your service, Haldon.”

The boy bowed to her, wide grin on his face for having passed her test. His eyes settled on the crib. “Are those…”

“My little ones,” Ashara nodded watching Haldon step closer to take a look at the babes.

“They have your eyes, my lady,” the boy declared, “though only the one has your hair.”

“Blame Maegor for that, Haldon,” Ashara nodded, “Perhaps if he hasn’t returned to Dorne I would not have a baby girl who I suspect will grow silver hair, just like my cousin Gerold.” She wondered how easily that explanation came to her, she hasn’t even thought about it before. The captain-general nodded to her, as if in agreement.

Supper has been a dire affair. Jon returned with young Gorys just in time for supper, and it was all about the woman, Ilaena chattering with the boys, or about the boys more like it, sharing stories from the time when even young Gorys squired to the captain-general. The man himself seemed quiet, and now they also had the company of the other serjeant who came to introduce himself to her in Selhorys, Brendel Byrne. Ilaena even had stories about Brendel Byrne squiring to Blackheart, apparently at the time when she met her man, over a decade ago now. The boys Denys and Malo hung on her every word. The Lyseni kept to himself, his eyes seemingly studying everyone at the table, even studying the servants who served up their supper.

“Have you found anything,” she turned to Gorys whispering to the boy by her side, hoping that she didn’t catch anyone’s attention at the table. On her other side, the captain-general just pulled Jon into a discussion that sounded to be about his new duties and his new men and whatever was expected of him, and so she thought it the best opportunity.

“We made progress,” the boy nodded, “Griff means for you to see on the morrow. The house. It needs work but he’s told me that you’d like it.”

“Work?”

“Nobody lives there,” the boy explained, “Methinks that house stood empty for a while now, by the looks of it… I took Griff to see several landlords and we discussed several properties and that one caught Griff’s eye while riding past. He had me going around trying to find the owner. Griff has preference to derelict things I find. He likes it.”

“So you rented a house,” Ashara concluded.

“Not yet,” the boy sighed, “Griff means for you to see.”

“Isn’t that so, my lady?” She’s heard, and looked up at Ilaena who addressed her.

“Forgive me, I may have missed what…”

“Ser Arthur Dayne,” Ilaena explained, “He’s slain Ser Simon Toyne, the leader of the Kingswood Brotherhood. Your brother, my lady.”

Silence settled around the table.

“Ser Barristan Selmy,” the captain-general sat back in his chair, “it was he who’s slain Ser Simon Toyne.”

“Oh, I thought the king’s men were led by Ser Arthur,” Ilaena pushed, “was he not the one who promised the people concessions and such?”

“And he petitioned the king in their name, just as he promised,” Ashara declared rather defensively, “and he’s paid for all supplies his army took. Because that was the honourable thing to do.”

Ilaena raised an eyebrow. “Even more so,” Ashara continued, “as I know when the Smiling Knight lost his sword, Arthur stepped from him to allow the man to retrieve it. I know for he told me thus and so did Ser Jaime Lannister, Arthur didn’t want to cut down an unarmed man.”

“That is honourable, indeed,” Ilaena nodded, then she turned to the boy Denys, then back to her, “Though, was it not Ser Jaime Lannister who cut down the Targaryen king?”

“Who knows,” the captain-general spoke, “rumours are that, rumours.” It was a little more than a rumour, though, Ashara thought. No doubt the man was trying to put this strange conversation to an end.

“Ser Arthur Dayne was the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms,” Denys declared. “Better than Griff.”

“Most certainly better than me,” Jon nodded, “he’s defeated me on the yard many a time.”

“Could he have defeated Blackheart, though,” Denys asked curiously. “Lysono says that everyone can be defeated, but nobody defeated Blackheart yet that I know.”

“And Lysono is right,” Blackheart nodded, “Nobody is invincible. Forgive me to say, Lady Ashara, but even Ser Arthur found his match in the end, and so shall we all one day.”

Ashara nodded, glancing at Howland Reed. Sure, Arthur found his match, stabbed in the back, but Lord Howland avoided her gaze. Soon after the crannogmen stood and excused themselves from the table. Glad for someone being first so she didn’t have to, Ashara stood as well and left, her eyes meeting those of the Lyseni boy who still, kept on with his silent watch.

She didn’t even wait for Jon, she changed into her shift and climbed into bed. She kept staring at the ceiling, studying the iron circle that held pillar candles now unlit, her thoughts occupied by all the happenings during the day. She tried to make up her mind whether it was as bad as she felt it to be or she was merely showing the exhaustion after the long journey here, being more sensitive than she was ought to be. She laid there alone for a while when she’s heard the soft knock on the door. Jon knocked on the door again, she found that rather funny, but instead the Lyseni boy’s head appeared.

“May I,” the boy whispered and she nodded, pulling the cover on herself. The boy carefully closed the door behind him.

“Griff will indeed take your head if he finds you here,” Ashara mused aloud.

“He will not,” the boy whispered, “find me, I mean. I will climb down the balcony. I just thought better not to climb up, I meant not to scare.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate that,” Ashara nodded. “I would lie if I told you that your visit is not strange, Lysono.”

“You told me to come to you, Lady,” the boy said hesitantly.

“Be good and bring me that blanket over there,” Ashara pointed at the chair and the boy obliged. She wrapped the blanket around herself and climbed out of bed, moved straight to sit in the same chair right by the window. The boy sat down by her feet. “Now, tell me.”

“There is mice here,” the boy whispered.

“Meaning,” she asked confused.

“Spy,” the boy declared.

“And you know this…”

“Because I am also one,” the boy whispered hesitantly. “I mean, I was one… it is hard to explain.”

“You say things,” Ashara remarked, “and I will be honest, you make little sense. Unless…”

“Would you just trust me, Lady,” the boy asked with desperation in his eyes.

“Unless you are also spying on us, is what I meant to say,” Ashara finished her sentence, “Gods, I am becoming like Jon.”

“Yes, he suspects me,” the boy nodded resolutely. “I cannot tell you all of it. But there is mice in this house, there is mice in Laswell Peake’s house as well, I know for certain. I know not who they are just yet. Be careful who you speak to, Lady.”

“I have a name, you know,” Ashara remarked. “Who is Laswell Peake? Jon pointed out his wife to me yesterday.”

“Serjeant of the company. He’s of the blood, his grandmother was a Blackfyre. Blackheart’s as well, twin daughters of Aenys Blackfyre. That is why they have eyes on them.”

“I see,” she nodded, “and you know this, how?”

The boy took a deep breath. “I tell you, Lady… Ashara. Please, please tell nothing on me, it is dangerous.”

“Fine,” she nodded. She wondered if she could even take the boy seriously in truth.

“Not even to Griff,” the boy pushed and she chuckled.

“Our secret,” she nodded, “after all, I am already keeper of some of your secrets.”

The boy nodded, thought about it for a long moment. Opened his mouth to speak, then thought about it some more.

“Start at the beginning, perhaps,” Ashara told the boy with a smile. The boy nodded; his purple eyes unreadable.

“When I lived in Pentos, when I was little, I was mice, I stole things, found out secrets, spied on people…” the boy explained. “And I… this is so hard. I was told many things that came from this house, or Peake’s. Because there are mice here. I mean to find them but I need your help, Lady, that is why I came.”

“Many things, you say,” Ashara repeated, watching the boy.

“You lived in Kings Landing, did you not,” the boy asked then.

“For a time, yes.”

“I’ve a cousin there,” the boy whispered, “he went there because… well in truth I understand little of his reasons. He served the mad king, that is why he went I suppose, to get near the dragons. He wants to find them and that is why he sent me. He thought that Griff will lead him to Targaryens so he wanted eyes on Griff.”

“Wait a moment,” Ashara raised her hand, “Varys?” The boy nodded.

“There is more,” the boy said then, seemingly resolving himself to just speak, perhaps even looking relieved she thought. “When he was little, Blackheart sold him to the mummers who then sold him to a sorcerer and that one cut it off for him. They wanted Maelys’ brood gone from the company so Blackheart and Florys Peake can take control of it, that is what he told me.”

“Maelys was called Monstrous for a reason, I have no doubt,” she nodded, “so you are telling me… Varys is his?”

“Yes,” the boy nodded, “but they all think him a bastard. They think Maelys forced himself on Daena, because Maelys failed to hatch the dragon egg. He gave his firstborn to the fire, tried to hatch a dragon. Because only death can pay for life, any maegi would tell you that. But the egg did not hatch for the life of his boy, so they thought that his brood were in truth bastards and Daena never said the words to him. So when he fell, when Blackheart was elected, they got rid of his younger one. That is how I know it.”

“And you say that is Varys,” Ashara whispered for the boy kept whispering, and she was by now completely immersed in the boy’s story, even trying to believe it, “and he is your cousin, how?”

“My mother,” the boy sighed, “my mother had the name… I think that is why we crossed under the bridge twice in the Sorrows. I was lost in my thoughts about Garin’s curse and I said too much, Gorys asked if I am Blackfyre and so he brought Garin’s curse on us methinks.”

“Garin’s curse,” Ashara raised an eyebrow, “it is greyscale, that is what Jon told me.”

“Garin cursed the dragonlords,” the boy explained, “Griff told me the same but I think greyscale is just his way to tie new servants to his curse, hunting the dragons until all of them are gone like his people.”

“What is the relevance of this…”

“Nothing, really,” the boy gave her a faint smile, “forgive me, I should focus. There is not much time, soon they will finish their discussion downstairs and Griff will come. Tell him nothing about it, please. My cousin has mice in this house, and in Peake’s. I mean to find them.”

“Why,” she asked, “why tell me?”

“Because you were kind to me,” the boy stood. “Because I think you are right about things, because I… I have a plan. But I need to find the mice first.”

“A plan, you say.”

“Yes, a plan of sorts,” the boy nodded, “but I need your help.”

“My help…”

“Yes, I need your help,” the boy repeated with pleading eyes, “Brendel Byrne wants to name me his squire.”

Ashara raised an eyebrow in surprise, “what is wrong with that?”

“I need to be able to move around freely,” the boy explained with pleading eyes, “I cannot be his squire because then I need to stay by his side and he’s no fool, I could not sneak away like I did now. I also need to stay close to your family. I need to be seen… it is hard to explain. I need to be seen doing my work, because I need some time so I can find the mice. I cannot be Byrne’s squire and do this, I cannot be his squire at all.”

“And once you find the mice as you call them…”

“That, I am yet to figure,” the boy said, “depends, I guess. But they will report... I need to be quicker than them, because then all that would remain would be my report, and then… then I can do what you told me to do.”

“You mean… avenge yourself?”

“Perhaps,” the boy gave her a smile, “I want to… I need time to figure it out, I guess. But I also want to be useful, lady… Ashara. Griff is coming.”

Yes, she could also hear the steps. “Will you help?” The boy asked.

“Go now,” she replied instead for she found, it was all too much to believe. She needed to think about this, first of all. It was way too much to just believe. The steps stopped at the door and the boy disappeared behind the curtain. She thought to check if the boy was climbing down the balcony as he said he would but just then, Jon opened the door. She felt as if she’s been caught, sitting in that chair.

“Thought I will find you asleep,” Jon gave her a smile.

“Thought you will never show up,” she countered, “company business, I take it.”

“Sort of. The girl is a septa apparently,” Jon explained as he began changing, “Toyne wants us to take her in, says she could teach the children of the Faith.”

“That girl said nothing to me since we arrived, not a single word,” she shrugged, “she is giving me looks. I am not entirely sure…”

“Where would we find a septa, then,” Jon asked her. “I agree, it is not the best idea, but I cannot think of better and I would need a reason to refuse. What about the boy, Haldon? You took him in I hear.”

“A Halfmaester,” she explained, “knows his history, seems to have a good mind of his own and most importantly, Blackheart only picked him up in Selhorys on the way here, so there may be a chance that he would not just be spying on us.”

“Spying,” Jon stopped mid-motion, his lips turned into a slight grin. “I see time with me is changing your views on things.”

“I find your views more grounded by each day, it is true,” she declared. “Tell me about the house, Gorys told me that you found one.”

“Moreover, you shall come and see on the morrow,” he explained. “Truth is, Gorys knows several landlords because of the rents he is managing. I wanted one that he knows nothing about, Ash, because I wanted none of the company’s influence over it, if you get my meaning. As for the house, it needs work.”

“That is exactly what he told me,” she laughed, “he said you like derelict things.”

“Well, I just thought…” he pulled his shift on his naked form, “I thought we could sort it perhaps, the company will stay for a few weeks anyways and with help perhaps even I could do it. It is not as bad as Gorys thinks. And, riverfront like you wished.”

“With help,” she remarked, “perfect then, for I thought to ask if you could take another squire. There, more help.”

“Why would I want another squire,” Jon asked genuinely surprised, “is the one I have not enough to worry about?”

“The one I have in mind is better with the sword, I hear.”

At that, Jon looked at her positively stunned. “Perhaps once the linen is off his finger. Why would we take in that boy, Ash? Truly, I think not.”

“Hear me out, before you decide,” she said as she stood. She climbed into bed, settled in his embrace as soon as he joined her. “Gorys told me in Braavos that if you house your squire, you make three tenth more, because you are to provide for the squire. So, I thought, if you have two, they can share a room and they would have company of the same age. More gold for less expense for feeding and clothing one more boy really is not much more, and we all would be better off, including the boy.”

“More headache,” he sighed. “And you would pick that boy of all.”

“He’s dutiful, you must admit,” she reasoned, “besides, I know no other boys in the company. Denys squires for Blackheart with his brother and truly he’s a bit of a handful anyways. Then there’s Malo, and the Lyseni, for all I know. They also seem to get on well enough.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“This cannot be all,” Jon laughed behind her, “you saved the boy’s arse in Pentos, now you want to take him in.”

“Perhaps I want to give the boy a fair chance,” she whispered, “whatever he was in the past, he was it not of his own free will. Think about it, we would be better off while he has a proper home perhaps for the first time of his life.”

“Gods save me from you finding more orphans,” Jon declared, “you would take them all in.”

“If only I could.”

“From what I hear, Brendel Byrne may name the boy his squire, that is the truth of it,” Jon told her then.

“Does he have a wife, children, other squire boys to keep this boy company?” She argued, “see, he would be better off with us. He needs a bit of childhood.” And he would spend it spying on others, she thought. Perhaps the boy had the madness that Targaryens were known to have, but in any case, it was as she said, they could do good by the boy, a little.

“For the gold, you say,” he sighed.

“And for the boy,” she pushed.

“I shall think about it,” he concluded then, “and that is the end of it for now. Sleep.”

Sleep didn’t come to her easily. For the first time, Jon fell asleep even before she did, for she kept thinking about what all the boy told her. The boy was of Blackfyre blood he claimed, Varys was of Blackfyre blood… son of Maelys the Monstrous, Jon would find that very interesting considering what Jon told her about Varys. Though most likely Jon wouldn’t believe a word coming from the boy. She wondered if she believed it. Moreover, whether she could trust the boy. In any case, she concluded that it would be easier to keep an eye on the boy was the boy housed with them, for if what the boy said was true, she needed to keep an eye on the boy, of that she was certain. Oh, how she wished to be able to discuss this with Jon. But at the same time, she felt it best to keep it to herself, for now at the least, and not trouble her husband with more on top of all the things that needed doing and worrying about these days. Yes, the boy needs to be kept close, if the boy speaks the truth, then it is best to keep him close. Perhaps the experience on the journey here and the talks opened the boy’s eyes. For who would come up with such a story was it not true? How would the boy even know about Varys was the boy not telling the truth? The boy confided in her, she concluded.

There was something else about this, as well. Ashara wasn’t a fool, at least she considered herself smart enough to be more than the next Westerosi highborn girl, not counting her disastrous experience with Ned Stark for that was most foolish, no doubt. The boy was pretty, looked like a Targaryen. Jon told her, Varys used to look at him as if he knew all his secrets. Perhaps he did know all Jon’s secrets, if as the boy said, Varys employed spies. And if so, then sending a boy like Lysono Maar to Jon would make a lot of sense, as much as she could tell, and if the boy’s story was true, even if Jon’s suspicions were true, then Varys was the kind of man who would do such a thing and count on it. The boy told her nothing more about how he was to ‘keep eyes on’ her husband but she could figure as much. If indeed Varys sent the boy, then the boy wasn’t to simply keep eyes on Varys’ target. Jon is not the kind of man who can just be told what to do, he isn’t even someone who can easily be forced to do whatever one wanted from him. No, the boy was to do more, like the boy told her before, when they first spoke - they say he could wrap a man around his finger in no time if he’s set himself to it, that is what the boy said, they, most likely referring to Varys then, and the man was to be her own husband. And now, she asked Jon to keep the boy close. Indeed, she will need to keep an eye on the boy.

Something bothered her about this, more than anything else. If the boy was sent to seduce her husband, then, she concluded, the boy has been trained for that purpose. Could be, for the boy was only fourteen of age, and Varys arrived in Kings Landing long before she did. Could be then, that Varys concluded long ago to make use of Jon’s fondness of Rhaegar, his closeness to the prince, could Varys have sent this boy to be trained in Lys for that purpose? The thought made her stomach turn. All this could have been true, or she could have indeed become paranoid like Jon. Or it all could have been made up by the boy, a trained liar, no doubt. But if the boy made it up, she couldn’t explain how the boy knew that Varys even existed. There had to be at least some truth to it. She’s decided to figure out just how much, before she involves anyone in this. Before she involves Jon, for sooner or later Jon will need to be involved. She can’t keep manipulating her husband and now, after tonight, it was already clear that once Jon learned the truth about her intentions with the boy, there’ll be some problems with how she went about it.

She laid awake in the night, wondering about this all. By the time she felt that sleep could perhaps come to her for she’s set her mind in order, there were sounds, so then she was kept awake some more by those. She wondered if they were expected to make such sounds. They did no such thing, the notion didn’t even come to her, not in this house. It seemed that it came to Jon even less. In truth, they didn’t do anything like it since that first time on the boat when Jon woke her. So many things happened since, she reasoned. Jon told her that things will return to normal and more for he’s had ideas. She found that she didn’t mind that things didn’t turn to ‘more’ yet, not in this house. Once they’ve their own place, though… it wasn’t so bad at all. Well, it wasn’t a gentle thing for certain but it wasn’t bad at all, wasn’t something she’d say no to repeating that’s for sure. That was the last thought, then sleep finally overtook her, despite the sounds.

The farther they rode on the paved street, the more she liked it. Farther and farther away from the captain-general’s house, she thought, they rode for a better half of an hour by now and the further they got the more she felt like herself. She glanced back at the two boys behind them. Both had their eyes scanning the street, looking at the people who kept looking at THEM.

They were to bring the one boy, Malo. There was a bit of to and fro, for both Jon and she worried about leaving the babes in the house and they spent the morning shushing among themselves about how to sort it. That Ser Rolly would be told to stay with them babes was of no question, but she’s had to ask her husband to ask Howland Reed to stay. She felt a tingle of guilt even thinking about it now. Jon found it curious that she’d have him to ask, and so she’s told her husband what she’s learned from Howland Reed. About Arthur. To her complete surprise Jon made nothing of it. In truth, it even angered her that Jon thought it nothing, told her that it is just how it was to be in a battle. That honour is a nice thing to have but if it is a matter of life or death, then the right choice may be a dishonourable one. Jon reasoned about the Stoney Sept, the battle he lost against the stag, told her that he should’ve just set it ablaze and she didn’t like that reasoning, not at all. But Jon asked Howland Reed to stay and so she let the matter slide. For now. One thing certain, she will need to set this right, both with Jon and with Howland Reed, but it was too new, too raw to talk about just yet. She also had to give some thought to Jon’s reasoning to her, that she should consider all the good things Howland Reed has done for her for without Reed she likely would not have made it to him. She had to admit, that was true.

They were to bring Malo for Malo was Jon’s squire now, and Ashara wondered about what all Malo’s duties could have been, considering that he’s been the captain-general’s squire before Jon’s. No matter how innocent and dutiful that boy was, she found herself questioning everyone, just like Jon would. The Lyseni asked if he could come as well, and Jon agreed without as much as asking why. She wondered if it meant that Jon will take in the boy, but she found it better not to push the matter.

The houses on this street were surrounded by walls just the same, but here not all those walls were neatly white washed. There were different colours of stone walls, some houses behind those walls seemed quite bigger than even the captain-general’s house and some she couldn’t even see so must’ve been small one-storey buildings. Looking ahead she could see a richly dressed man standing on the street as if waiting for them, and so she concluded that they were arriving. The man was… round, let’s just call it that. Two slaves stood beside him with a horse. He wore a rich silken robe with a thick gold chain around his neck and his hair hung to his shoulders in oiled ringlets. He had a funny pointy beard and even funnier curled mustache.

They all dismounted in front of the man who merely waved and one of them slaves took the reins of their horses. She saw the boys looking around, Malo more curiously, the Lyseni with more suspicion in his eyes.

“So, this is the Lady,” the man spoke in honeyed voice, with a wide grin under his curling mustache. She held out her hand and the man imitated a kiss on her wrist, “Benaeron Thychar, my lady.” Now that’s a name she will certainly forget, Ashara mused, as the man already turned to Jon and Gorys.

“So, as I told you I have come out this morning to survey the house,” he already moved toward the gate, a large wooden double gate with iron cross bar not unlike a Westerosi gate. It also filled the whole arch under the wall and thus there was no peeking through to see the property behind it, and the wall was high, made up of white stone of different sizes, or perhaps white washed. She liked it, so far, she liked it.

The man opened the gate, “We make quick work of it,” he chattered, “a few days, at most, that is unless you mean to move walls? Suppose the lady shall tell us her desire, then we can make quick work of it.”

“I told you that we can sort it,” Jon remarked sternly.

“Of course,” the man didn’t even flinch, “but why not, we can make quick work of it all and then the lady shall be most pleased.” Ashara chuckled at the reasoning, clearly this man thought that the way to a successful rental was through her. She stepped through the gate.

The garden was somewhat overgrown but there were palm trees, even two poplars to one side albeit smaller, clearly in need of some care. They weren’t meant to grow in this climate, she knew - they were to be found in the Stormlands. They were no doubt adding to Jon’s reasons why he preferred this particular house. Three slaves were busying themselves with the gardens, grass was being cut, one was working in flower beds in front of the house. Tall hedge surrounded the garden just under the wall.

“That is good,” the Lyseni boy stepped to her whispering in her ear, “makes it harder to climb the wall with high hedge under it.” A young boy was just about to start cutting those high hedges.

“Leave the hedgerow,” Ashara called out, “I prefer it high.”

The man only waved the slave boy away who ran and began work under one of the poplars instead. Ashara nodded to the Lyseni her thanks.

The house itself was a tall, two storey building, with a wide porch in front, paved with the same white-ish stone. Round columns held up the tiled roof above it, a few steps leading to its double door. The door has been painted a pale blue, all the window shutters have been painted the same blue, but the paint was now peeling off. Its walls may have been whitewashed once, but they clearly needed the scrubbing now that they were already receiving, two more slaves busy at work.

They entered the house and she immediately noted the marble tiling under her feet for it was a most curious, intricate black and white veined marble the like of which she hasn’t seen before. This will be expensive to rent unless... “This marble isn’t in very good shape,” she remarked glancing at the man named Benareon Tychar, she tried to memorise the name knowing well that she would forget anyways. The wide hallway was flanked by a carved fire place on one side, a double door on the other, with curving steps to the upper floor in front of them. “The steps need new guard,” she added, seeing the broken stone guard that was even missing in places. “I’ve two little ones, the last I want is one of them falling down the stairs. We need good ironwork guard on the stairs, and the wood planks sanded for they’ll be climbing, the marble need polishing. We need guard on the windows as well, in truth. And this fire surround,” she stepped to her latest target, “broken. My husband is right, there’s a lot of work to make this house suitable. I’m not entirely sure about this.”

“Oh, but we can make a quick work of it all,” the man bit, “come lady, see the solar, such a bright large room and it has a porch toward the riverfront…”

“I’d see the kitchen instead,” she shrugged. She glanced at Jon, at Gorys, both of them had that cheeky, knowing look on their faces. “Is there a vegetable garden in the back? I suppose so…”

“Oh lady, we do no such thing…”

“But we do such things,” she interrupted the man, “we need a suitable plot in the back garden, or perhaps to the side of the house? Easily accessible from the kitchen. I tell you, that and the privy chambers and the arrangement of those will make or break this. Are all the rooms on the upper floor?”

“Four rooms upstairs,” the man nodded, “two down here below, three privy chambers upstairs and one on this floor, come, let me show you,” the man wasn’t grinning near as much now, she thought. He led them through past the steps, the kitchen was to the side behind that large fireplace, in an L shape with door to the side of the house. She glanced out, there was indeed space there for a garden and access to the back. The two rooms on this floor were small, way too small for her taste, had old narrow wooden bunk beds in them on two walls and barely space between to even turn around. No doubt slaves were meant to sleep there, for even the windows were tiny to the side facing the wall, and the rooms were anchoring the downstairs privy. It smelled.

In the upper floor the situation looked considerably better in terms of arrangement, a large room with two double doors to an actual balcony to one side. She glanced down, could see a paved porch under the balcony. The privy chamber seemed comfortable enough, and even had a large iron tub installed. The man saw her eyeing it and explained all the piping work done toward the river. All the waste was let in the river, the man claiming it meant less digging to clear privy holes under. That could’ve been good in truth, she thought. Two of the other rooms of good size flanked another chamber in the middle, above what she concluded downstairs to be the future room to house their dining table, and a third room on the other side of the stairs again had its own privy chamber albeit smaller, no tub in that one. There were iron steps to above beside it, and one more room albeit filled with dust and broken furnishings could be found under the roof.

There were outbuildings as well. The back garden in truth was much to like, with a pair of lemon trees and a small pond that she loudly complained about needing a guard lest her little ones fall into the water, but in truth she liked it very much. The outbuildings consisted of three small one room houses built tightly next to each other like columns sharing walls, they each had their entry into a small room with privy in the back and stairs to an upper room suitable for sleeping, and on the street-side attached to these were open stables almost to the street wall and large enough for about eight horses at most, she judged. In truth, the property was perfect, she concluded. And it was all surrounded by those high stone walls and the high hedge under them that the Lyseni said was making it harder to climb in. She could see why; one climbs the walls but finds themselves above a hedgerow that could not be climbed and the walls were too high, the hedges too wide to simply jump.

“Well,” she sighed giving Jon a visibly weary look. “So much dirt and rubbish.”

“We shall clean it all up, my lady,” the man spoke swiftly.

“I was hoping for stone baths,” she sighed.

“Oh, of course, I forgot,” the man called out, “come lady, it needs some cleaning up it is true for it has not been in use for a time,” the man led them back in the house and through the door under the stairs. Two tubs in a room which even had benches of marble. “More marble for us to somehow polish back to life, I see…” she remarked.

“Gorys, I am not entirely certain about this,” she turned to the young paymaster as soon as they were out of the house once more, “I was hoping for some things and this needs so much work, if we take it that would mean weeks if not months before we could move in. I will not have the boys polish marble floors or sand floor planks or scrub walls either. And that mess in the attic is horrendous. And the smell of those rooms by the kitchen even worse. There’s no water in the baths below, all the piping needs work on it I am certain, perhaps even replacing… privy holes need cleaning because the smell is unbearable, and next to the kitchen! And all the fire surrounds were broken. Light fittings were missing in the rooms, nowhere to place candles or torches at all. And all the stairs need making safe for the little ones. There is just so much to do with this place, I cannot see how…”

“We shall do all you desire, my lady,” the man declared solemnly, no doubt wondering at the cost of it all.

“I let you discourse with our Gorys and my husband,” she sighed, “so much work, it gives me headache just to think about it all. Come boys, let’s see the river view,” she pulled away the two squire boys leaving the man with Jon and Gorys.

“I cannot tell if you like it or not, my Lady,” Malo laughed. “But it is a huge place. Bigger than Blackheart’s.”

“I do like it,” she winked at Malo, “very much, in truth. But the man need not to know that. Let Gorys negotiate for the man is keen to rent it to us, if he thinks that I need convincing then perhaps he will give a better price. Look, there’s even a small pier. As if we had boats.”

They stopped by the small pier. “Truth be told,” she said, sitting down in the grass, the boys following her example, “I think it perfect. Ser Rolly and Dalla could take the room with its own chamber upstairs and you boys can take a room upstairs as well, share the privy with the babes which means you would have it to yourselves anyway. By the time they need separate rooms you shall be grown men of the company and no longer squires for years even. Haldon could take one of these outer rooms, the septa another, seeing that they are both grown. The attic could be used as well, perhaps for Haldon, a maester needs space for all his things after all. The ground floor space need cleaning up and those two rooms perhaps opened to make one room of suitable size and then we could house the housekeeper there, if not in the third outbuilding. Or perhaps we could use them for storage for I mean to have our own garden, so much easier to grow our own food, you shall see. Once we find a housekeeper, and I shall tell Gorys to find gardener who knows how to handle vegetables. And we need furnishings, the house is in fact empty if one discounts all the rubbish.”

They sat for a while in silence, before Jon came to them. “Ash, what colour you want the shutters,” he asked.

“The blue is fine,” she gave Jon a smile, “looks nice with the dark tiled roof methinks. Jon, tell the man not to cut down the ivy on the side of the house, I like it… oh and make sure to include furnishings, those curtained beds and proper mattresses and commodes and chests and whatnot...”

“Have no worry,” Jon laughed, “it is as good as done. You halved the price of it as well and it will be sorted. I told the man that it needs done in a week so he’s sent for more hands and carts. To take away all that rubbish. He seems keen to get in on the business of renting to the company, as well and Gorys gave him ideas so it is all good, in the end, you just need to sit with Gorys to give him a list of what needs doing.”

“Good,” she nodded. Jon left and she turned, taking in the sight of the house. She could imagine it, once the walls are cleaned up and whitewashed once more, and the shutters repainted, curtains hung and with chairs on that covered porch. Yes, she liked it. She could imagine it being home.

“Malo,” the boy stood as soon as he’s heard his name, making Ashara chuckle at his foresight, “go listen in what they say, I want your ears on this arrangement. Making sure that man doesn’t play us, I need to know what they agree.”

Silly excuse it was, the Lyseni raised an eyebrow at it but Malo didn’t even flinch. Of course not, no doubt he’s had similar tasks from Blackheart, Ashara thought.

“You mean to speak with me, Lady… Ashara,” the Lyseni asked.

“That, I do,” she nodded, “I mean to tell you that it is up to Jon. I did what I could, now however, if he sorts it then I need something from you in return.”

The boy only nodded. “You need me to tell you what I find, I suppose,” he said.

“Exactly that,” she smiled. “And something else. You are trained to find things, find out people’s secrets… would you look into something for me? It needs nothing of… you know.”

The boy nodded. “Perhaps it will be nothing… I would like to know more about that girl, Lemore.”

“She is Westerosi,” Lysono remarked.

“Who could tell,” Ashara sighed, “she is silent, always looking and never saying a word.”

“She does speak,” Lysono’s lips curled into a mysterious smile, “I heard her argue with Blackheart before supper yesterday.”

“Perhaps you already have what I need, then,” Ashara laughed, “what was it about?”

“Blackheart wants her to join your household,” the boy explained, “and she said that it would be a disgrace to Simon’s memory.”

“Simon…” she thought aloud, “the woman Ilaena was keen to discuss Ser Simon Toyne during supper. Thought it was my brother who’s slain the man.”

“That woman,” Lysono’s eyes narrowed, “Blackheart’s woman… I think she had moontea this morn. I recognise the smell of it.”

“Now that, is interesting,” Ashara was surprised. Interesting indeed, for the captain-general had no children. “When?”

“Before sunrise,” the boy explained, “I went out during the night, when I returned, she was up, she was in the kitchen with the cook. I smelled moontea.”

“You went out…”

“I was following the servants,” the boy shrugged, “nothing interesting though. They met no one, they live three houses apart near the market, one of them has a woman and two little ones, the other lives with an old couple, his parents I presume. Not a nice place where they live, either. Suppose the two of them are nothing more than what they seem, but I mean to keep watching.”

“You really mean this…” she realised aloud, before catching herself. “So, we are spying now on the household, since you involved me.”

“I mean no trouble,” the boy whispered, “But I mean to find them. You will know when I found them. And… thank you, Lady Ashara.”

Ashara gave the boy a wide smile in return. “Suppose you shall make the next few days interesting, at the least,” she told the boy, “But you ought to know, if this turns dangerous, any of it, I will tell my husband about it.”

The boy nodded thoughtfully, “I expect nothing less, but still… thank you.”

Chapter Text

GORYS

Must go and see the house with Griff’s Lady.

Gorys wanted to curse aloud, though he hasn’t even opened his eyes yet. As he did, taking a deep breath his gaze studied the rays of sunshine streaming through the thin crack between the window shutters, trying to reclaim some of the quiet morning to himself. Why, oh why did his first thought have to be about that damned house on such a nice morning?

He sat up with a sigh. Indeed, he will have to take Griff’s lady to the house today. He reached for the scroll on the table, unrolled it. Didn’t matter, he told himself, on this seventeenth day of house renovation and bills and inventories and endless arguments, it was even a surprise that he didn’t dream about that accursed house.

Blame Griff, for being so peculiarly picky. No, he couldn’t just pick one of the houses at the ready. He had to pick the most derelict rubble of a house. With the most argumentative landlord who clearly thought that if he kept whinging for long enough, Gorys would take care at least some of his bills. The man seemingly made it his mission to shower Gorys with his bills.

For the most part, it was foolish to expect Gorys to pick up the cost. Or the company, for that matter. That Griff won’t pay for it, Gorys was certain of since the first bill presented to him. He duly took it to Blackheart, had a lengthy discussion about the cost of ironwork rails that had to be made and fitted. That discussion was more a monologue from the captain-general about how Gorys had to just stand his ground, had to learn how to, if he indeed wanted to be paymaster. The only useful thing he’s learned was that at the least he will not have to present any bills to Griff. No, Blackheart took it upon the company to foot the bills that Gorys could not refuse, and so Gorys now had on his shoulders the weight of preventing Benaeron Tychar from emptying a company chest. Or two, or three, who knows with all the bills the man kept whinging about. Gorys didn’t know how many company chests there were in truth, or where they were, how much gold they contained – he was not the paymaster, after all.

The lengthy lesson was good for one thing. Gorys, so deeply out of his depth when it came to this charge of housing the Lady Ashara ‘befitting her station’, has been given some ideas how to refuse the landlord. “Easy,” Blackeart told him, “We will not pay for anything that is not movable, Gorys. Unless he means to gift that damned house to the Lady Ashara once he’s done it up. It is his property; damn he should get it in order himself.”

This one excuse worked for Gorys for the first week like a charm. Even on the second week, he managed. He himself began whinging about how long it all took, how the pipes weren’t sorted and there was no water in the baths, how the downstairs privy still could be smelled in the whole house, how the shutters were yet to be painted and the staircase guard yet to be fitted… he found excuses upon excuses with things to complain about.

Sadly though, Benaeron Tychar began to figure how to go around his excuses. The man was no longer whinging about the cost of ironwork rails. He began whinging about the manpower, how hard it was to find good craftsmen to work at such short notice, the waiting lists, the extra fees to jump lines… Gorys resisted. Did Benaeron Tychar not promise a few days? Two weeks surely is more than a few days, perhaps he shall show other properties to the Lady… Well, that excuse lasted a mere two days. By the beginning of the third week, Tychar figured a new way to try and milk Gorys for more gold. He began presenting Gorys with inventories.

He scanned through the scroll. He spent the better half of last night trying to figure what was to go where on the extensive list of furnishings, he’s numbered the locations and neatly numbered the items as he could, and then he listed them out room by room. According to Benaeron Tychar, they needed three dining tables and no less than thirty and four chairs, most of which Gorys could not even place because they were only listed as, chair 1 and chair 2 and so on. Thirty and four chairs, however the list only contained two beds. They were listed as, bed with canopy and bed without canopy. That was all. To Gorys’ dismay, there were other things listed he could not figure the use of. Curtains, seven times, linen curtain, brocade curtain, mosquito curtain. What the difference was between the linen curtain and the mosquito curtain, Gorys still wondered. And there were only two beds.

He rolled up the scroll again, stood and neatly put the scroll into the small bag he’s began to carry since the seventh day, exactly a week into this hellish charge, exactly ten days ago, he reminded himself. It was not even his own bag. It was the maester boy’s, Haldon his name was. The boy saw Gorys carrying around his scrolls and offered him the bag, until they all move into that house, and the boy told him that once the work is done he can get himself a bag for he will have need for his own again. True, Gorys thought, it was most practical to carry around all his scrolls. After all, he will be paymaster one day, he smiled to himself – if he ever gets past this task of housing Griff’s lot, for clearly, Blackheart viewed the ordeal as a test of Gorys’ capabilities.

There was nothing to it, he better got going, he thought with a sigh. He picked up his towel, locked up his room and left for the bath below, hoping there not be a crowd so early in the morn. In that damned house there were two large stone baths. Marble, not even the coarse limestone washed so coarse by daily use and little care, as the bath he’s shared with the other occupants in his lot. He made a quick work of washing, glad for the lack of company, if not dismayed by the water being so cold still, all the while wondering about what it would be like to just be able to go down to the attic like he did now, but in his own house, not having to share the bath with anyone ever if he so wished. At the least the water was clean.

His lot was still one of the better ones. This whole misery about a house, the first time he’s ever been involved so deeply in actually settling a family in a house, this kept reminding him that he’s only had a room. Not that he needed more than a room. He chose well, when he took the room. It faced east, he woke with the morning sun and that was the best part of his day whenever he could sleep in his own room. It would not heat up in the afternoons like the rooms on the other side surely must’ve. It had a large window, so large that it had double shutters fitted. Gorys grew up in a room that albeit was of similar size, had windows so high up, close to the ceiling, they never needed shutters. They faced the inner courtyard, always shaded by the house itself, a tree-storey building of no doubt better apartments on the upper floors. It was a tiny courtyard. Mother used to hang clothing there to dry, he used to play chase with his sister around the clothing when he was a small boy. He remembered how many times they pulled down freshly washed linens into the mud. Mother never scolded them. Father scolded them once, and mother argued, let it be, they were children, they needed to be children.

This lot had no courtyard. In fact, it was so closely built next to the lots beside it, there was barely space for a grown man to lead through a horse. The horses were stabled in the back, and stable had to be paid for extra but Gorys always kept a horse here. At first, he cleaned the space himself, but the past year or so, he paid the landlord’s stableboy to do it for him. Small luxury, that was, but very much worth it not having to clean out the horse shit. And his room was not in the basement either. It was on the second floor, the highest to go if one did not want to live with the slanted ceilings. His building was also quieter than most. Above him was a larger apartment, with the slanted ceilings, the couple who lived there had no children. The man was an accountant himself, worked in the docks. Gorys liked the man. The woman was always sad and of few words, and soon after moving in Gorys learned that they lost the one child they had to a malady not long before. That was why she was so sad. His neighbours were all young men, even on the first floor. He didn’t know all of them, but those he knew were not of the company, and those he did not know he never saw in the company either. It was better this way, truly, for Gorys knew, some in the company thought he’s had the means to get to the gold. Truly, he did not. He was not the paymaster. Not yet, anyways.

He swiftly dressed, checked once more that the bill and his own version of it was in Haldon’s bag, as well as empty scrolls, ink pot and quill. He checked once more that the pot was securely closed as well – the last thing he needed was the ink to spill in Haldon’s bag, though this bag was really something else. It had tiny little compartments, he could neatly tidy his scrolls in separate pockets and there was a pocket perfectly fitted for his ink pot, and tiny little strings on the inner side of the flap, for quills. Haldon was right, Gorys needed a bag like this, even though he could not figure the role of some of the smaller pockets in it yet. Now he fixed the bag across a shoulder, and once more looking around the room, he readied himself for the day ahead for a moment.

As he opened his door again, he almost stepped on the tiny thing on the floor, tiny red thing. He leaned down to pick it up. It was a tiny ship. Made of seagrass still drying, it had a tiny red sail to it, and a pole even, tied to its tiny till, a small piece of branch. Gorys looked around, perhaps a child lost its toy. But there were no sounds, nobody on the corridor. It was too early for some of them, too late for some others, those who woke before the sun to get to their work places and used the bath at the end of their day to wash off a day’s work. Nobody in sight. Gorys took the small ship, shallow, like the Shy Maid he thought. The sail of the Shy Maid was not painted red, it was a dirty grey canvas. He put the ship on his desk, and locked up the room.

The day could’ve gone better. Gorys found the lady in the foulest of moods, and Benaeron Tychar’s appearance at the house only added to it. Of course, the man tried to win the lady Ashara’s approval for as much the works complete as the bills, and so he appeared shortly after they arrived at the house. No doubt one of his slave-servants ran to alert the man to the lady’s arrival.

“You must be sorely mistaken,” the Lady Ashara declared to the man who now attempted for the third time to show her a scroll which by the looks of it didn’t make it to Gorys yet. “Were we buying the property, I’d be interested, but surely you understand that I will not pay for your renovation of your own property.” The lady shrugged and turned from the man, her eyes scanning the room once more before she left, back toward the entrance hall.

“Still no guard,” she snapped at the landlord, “three weeks and still no guard on the staircase, at this pace we will never move in!”

Gorys raised an eyebrow. Beside him, Malo fiddled with his own fingers, as if he wanted to be anywhere else but here. He looked like he bit into a lemon and then ate it all, and said nothing to Gorys since he arrived at Blackheart’s. Gorys wondered about that as well, the foul mood that seemed to take over both of them. Only the Lyseni seemed somewhat normal, and that told volumes to Gorys for the Lyseni by default was silent and watchful, nothing he’d consider normal from a squire boy.

“What is their problem,” Gorys whispered as soon as the Lyseni stopped beside him. Malo wandered away, out to the back porch by himself, while the lady went upstairs with the landlord in tow. They could hear her disapproving words.

“Blackheart sent Griff this morn to ride ahead to Valysar,” the Lyseni said nonchalantly, “meet with the Company. He took that young Peake with him as well. So he’s gone, I take it that is her problem.”

Gorys only nodded, wondering about it. “Why,” he asked inadvertedly, not even expecting an answer but more thinking aloud.

“He is to take over charge,” the boy lowered his voice, “Laswell Peake is to ride forth with his brother. And another one I forgot the name of. Harry something.”

“Strickland,” Gorys added, “he’s in charge of the elephants. But…” he turned toward the boy, “how do you know?”

“I have eyes and ears,” the boy shrugged nonchalantly. “I also know that Malo went to see his mother two days past, had leave from Blackheart. And since then, he is different.”

“Why,” Gorys asked again, thinking aloud again.

“That I know not,” the Lyseni glanced at him, “there is only one of me, I cannot know everything. Perhaps you ought to ask him, I was to tell you for surely you could do more about it. But that was before the Lady’s mood turned.”

Gorys only nodded. “Do me a favour, if you please,” he turned to the Lyseni, “go up and if the man tries to have her agreement to anything, tell her I am to handle. I speak to Malo.”

The Lyseni ran, took the steps two at once. Gorys wondered about it for a moment before he turned and made his way to Malo Jayn, sitting in the grass in the back garden, fiddling. Gorys sat down beside the boy who in truth was of his age, without a word, thinking about another time when he found a boy sitting alone. Well that one didn’t turn out overly well, he reminded himself.

“Anything I can help you with,” he asked Malo, but the boy only shook his head.

“Well then,” Gorys sighed, “tell of it anyway. Sometimes telling is enough.”

“Blackheart sent Griff forth…”

“I know,” Gorys turned toward the boy, “I meant you. Perhaps I can help.”

“Nobody can help,” Malo sighed, “sometimes there is no help. It is what it is.”

“And what is it?” But the boy just shook his head, biting his lower lip, staring down at his own hands. Gorys thought, well, that other time was the same, the boy wasn’t to tell at first, perhaps he shall just give it time and something will come forth that gives him some indication for this boy truly seemed like a lost puppy, and not in the way Gorys knew from his own recent experience. So he sat and waited. It didn’t take long in truth, not at all.

“Keep to yourself,” Malo raised his gaze suddenly to meet his, “I am to leave the Company.”

“Why would you do such a thing,” Gorys was stunned, “You wanted to be a knight since I’ve known you, and you made good progress on the journey…”

“I did,” Malo gave him a sad smile, “but I need to earn. Mother cannot… you know. So I need to find work else… There is no time, I ran out of time. I need to earn, I cannot just squire, there is no gold in that. I shall tell Blackheart after supper and leave on the morrow. I decided.”

It came to Gorys, he never really asked what Malo’s mother was doing these days. He knew what she’s been doing prior, but that was not something anyone spoke of, really, and especially not in front of Malo. He turned toward the noise to see the Lyseni ran toward them.

“You are to come,” he told Gorys, “It is about some inventory, the man says you agreed and she knows nothing about it.” Gorys wanted to curse for not seeing this coming. Of course, the man would try to have her agreement by claiming he had Gorys’ own agreement, as soon as Gorys wasn’t there beside her. He stood.

“We speak later,” he told Malo, “Speak to none before we speak, none at all.” And he ran back to the house and straight up the stairs. He found them in the bedchamber that he now knew was to belong to the wetnurse and Ser Rolly.

“I agreed to nothing,” he declared as soon as he saw them, “I have your inventory and I am quite unhappy with it…” he fiddled for a moment before he presented the scroll from Haldon’s bag, alongside his own scroll, which he unrolled. The lady Ashara immediately began to study his list.

“Thirty and four chairs?” She asked in disbelief.

“And only two beds of no description or size,” Gorys added, “sound like you listed whatever you had, and…”

“Well that solves it,” the Lady interrupted him, turning toward the man. “Just get this damned house ready! We sort the rest ourselves.” Gorys felt his feet turn to stone at hearing that. “Come, Gorys, I’ve seen enough,” the lady turned and so he followed, wondering how he was to sort furnishings for he really, really had no idea where to even begin.

The ride back was uneventful. Gorys as usual settled in Blackheart’s little solar, if it could be called such. He’s had other work to do, he was to ready the chequers, update the actual chequers and then he was to complete the monthly reports of incoming and outgoing expenditures and once he’s done that he was still to figure out where to find furnishings, preferably without having to ask Blackheart. The house was unusually noisy, he struggled to concentrate. He felt almost relieved when there was a knock on the door, expecting Malo to come and talk to him about his matter but instead, the Lyseni’s head appeared.

“May I?”

Gorys only nodded. The boy came and sat in the chair opposite him. That was good, Gorys thought. At the least if Blackheart was next to come through that door, he will make nothing of it.

“I have an idea,” the Lyseni declared, his eyes shining mirthfully like Gorys hasn’t seen them since before the boy’s misfortune in the camp outside Braavos.

“An idea,” he sat back in his chair.

“Indeed,” the boy said, leaning forward with sheer excitement on his face as if he was to share something revolutionary, “when I lived in Lys, next to the pillow house was a shop that sold wooden toys and the like. An old man ran it, there were apprentices and he taught them how to carve things of wood and how to build things. So I thought, surely there are such shops in every city? I doubt people in Volon Therys buy their things all the way from Lys and if there are toy shops there will be furniture shops, after all, the two cannot be so different. And those surely will have apprentices work. And surely, the work of apprentices is cheaper, as well. That is my idea to solve your problem.”

Gorys nodded, wondering about it. “I suppose,” he said, “I suppose I could make overtures. Still doesn’t solve the problem though.”

“Why?” The boy asked honestly surprised, “surely we can count how much of whatever we need. Surely there’s to be beds enough and desks and tables and commodes and chests... It is easy, you can make a list.”

“I have not even thought about it this way,” Gorys admitted with a sigh of relief as he understood what the boy meant, “that landlord kept showering me with his own lists, I suppose I became lost in them. I should have just done it this way.”

“Glad to help,” Lysono winked. “So you can make a list. I lived in a mansion before, methinks I can tell you what is needed to make it befitting the Lady’s station.”

“I have not thought about that either,” Gorys admitted gratefully. In no time the boy moved to sit next to him, ready to begin, so Gorys rolled out a new empty parchment, and began writing whatever Lysono told him.

In the end they crossed a few items off their new inventory thinking them excessive, but for the first time in seventeen days, Gorys felt as if he was in control of the matter, looking through the lengthy list he’s compiled with the Lyseni. “I shall discuss with the Lady,” he could hear his own relief in his voice, as he’s put down the quill back into the inkwell. “How do you know what a Maester needs?”

“Ehm,” the boy laughed, “I asked Haldon. I told him of the house and the attic that would be his office and the outbuildings as well. He promised to teach me some things of my interest.”

“Like what,” Gorys turned toward the boy.

“Things,” the boy shrugged, and so Gorys left it be. “Did Malo tell you of his problem?”

Gorys let out a sigh. “He needs to start earning,” he whispered with the tiniest sense of guilt he brushed aside in the back of his mind, “tell none about it. He would tell Blackheart after supper so I need to figure how to help him before supper. Would be sad for him to leave now. But he is to care for his mother, there are bills to pay.”

“Because of his mother,” the Lyseni whispered, “his mother is a bedwarmer. Was.”

“Tell none about that either,” Gorys nodded, “was?”

“Well, he is of your age,” the boy explained, “which means that his mother is way past the age of when that is profitable. I know it, I have seen it enough.”

“I never thought of that,” Gorys remarked.

“But you visited enough pillowhoyses to know,” Lysono explained further as if it was the most natural thing to discourse about, “the girls and the boys, they are always young. In Lys, once their bodies begin to change and their faces begin to show the lines, they are paired with other bed warmers to breed instead. That is, if they look the part.”

“I have an idea,” the idea came suddenly to Gorys. It was outlandish in truth, but why not? “I know nothing about what Malo’s mother can do, though. I have no idea what a housekeeper does, either. But if Malo’s mother became Griff’s housekeeper… what does a housekeeper do? Laswell Peake has no housekeeper, and I know nothing about Blackheart’s housekeeper.”

“They manage the house” the Lyseni laughed aloud. “What did your mother do?”

“Cooked and washed and bought food and managed our coin… mainly washed,” Gorys explained, “she was a washer woman.”

“It could work,” Lysono declared to him, “From what I have seen, most of it is really the same. And telling the servants what to do. Sort of… I’ve seen it in Pentos. Most of it was making sure everything gets done. I shall ask Malo in here and you can ask him what his mother can do. Surely if she knows how to wash linens she can do the job? And if she cannot, Malo can teach her how to wash the linens.”

The boy stood and left without even waiting for Gorys’ agreement. Sitting back in the chair, Gorys wondered about it. His eyes scanned through the list in front of him, the list he just completed with the help of the Lyseni. What an interesting turn of events, Gorys thought. The Lyseni came to him once more, but needed nothing from him. Not even his silence. In truth, Gorys almost forgot what it felt like to be helped, and told what to do and how to solve things. It felt good to be helped, truly it did. Now that he looked at the list once more, he wondered why it was so hard for him to get to this point, so hard that he could not even figure the way himself. Perhaps it was so, he became lost in all the details and inventories showered on him by the landlord. Perhaps that was the man’s aim as well, smother him with it all until so much time passes and Gorys has to just give in, to be able to proceed. He had to admit, he liked the progress made this day. He even liked the idea of finding furniture makers, though he couldn’t figure where to start. Perhaps on the morrow he shall ride around and see if he could find the craftsmen he needed. The boy was right, surely in a city such as this, there were some of them. If he allowed himself, Gorys would’ve felt like a fool for not having thought about this before. He was grateful for the Lyseni.

The door opened dragging him back from thoughts before those arrived at the point of the Lyseni himself, but instead of Lysono the Lady Ashara stood in the doorway.

“I see you are hard at work,” she stepped in and closed the door. “I came to apologise, after all you gave no reason for my lack of good manners today.”

“It is all well, my lady,” Gorys stood, motioning for the lady to sit, “Methinks this house tries both of our patience. The man is quite unbearable, I have nothing against you putting him back in his place.”

“But now you’ve to find all the furnishings,” the lady protested. “Perhaps I should’ve…”

“It is being sorted,” Gorys waved it away, turning the scroll in front of him around so the lady could read it. “On the morrow I look around for craftsmen and shops. Just need you to have a look, see if there is anything missed.”

She took the scroll, read it attentively. Gorys felt a slight guilt over his lack of telling of Lysono’s role in producing it. Just at that moment Lysono opened the door with Malo, both boys startled in the doorway. The Lady only glanced up and waved them in, so now both came to sit opposite Gorys at the table, waiting silently. Lysono kept glancing at Gorys, while Malo just kept looking down with a face as if he was caught stealing dessert from the kitchens.

“Here,” the lady put down the scroll, turning it to show Gorys what she referred to, “No bunk beds in my house. I suppose that is how slaves are housed? I want the boys to have their own beds, and their own commodes and chests as well.”

“Not a problem,” Gorys swiftly crossed the bunk beds and scribbled the ladies’ additions next to it. The three of them sat opposite him. He was to make something of it, he thought as he put down the quill.

“Lady,” he began, glancing at Malo, “I was wondering, perhaps we ought to go through the employments as well and well, housekeeper is to be housed with Haldon and the Septa in the outbuildings… I was wondering what will the work be…”

The Lady raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Run the household, Gorys,” she explained, “manage the servants, the maid and the door boys, the cook, manage things such as the washing done and the shopping…”

Gorys nodded glancing at Malo, “So we were thinking perhaps Malo’s mother could do it.”
Malo looked at him shocked, then at the Lady.

“You were thinking,” the Lady gave him a mischievous grin, “looks like Malo had no idea about it.”

“Lysono and I were thinking,” Gorys explained hesitantly, “well, Malo’s mother is looking for steady work and I suppose she knows a thing or two about managing households after all she raised Malo mainly by herself… I know not, really.”

“I am not entirely sure…” Malo murmured.

“Why not,” the Lyseni asked, “just tell the Lady all about it.”

“That would be a good start,” the Lady declared, seeing the sheer dread on Malo’s face.

“Go on,” Gorys nodded in encouragement, “think of it this way, it cannot get any worse, but it can get better.”

“Wise words,” the Lady Ashara said kindly. “I suppose you will now tell me why you have been so sad?” She turned to Malo.

“Did not think it so visible,” Malo murmured, “I apologise. It is just… it is what Gorys said, my mother cannot make enough to keep our place and so… well I thought to leave the company, to find work. I was to tell Blackheart about it after supper.”

“Well then,” the lady sat back in her chair, “I agree with Gorys. We need a housekeeper, your mother needs the work, so why not? Your mother then could be close to you as well. When the company is around, which I hear will not be so often.” Her last words wiped the smile off her face.

“I am not entirely sure,” Malo repeated fearfully. “My mother, I…”

“Well then,” the Lady declared, “I know about your mother, Malo. I know of her… profession. Let us see if we can make this work? After all, then there would be no worry of you having to leave the Company.”

“Really?” Malo looked up hopefully.

“Most certainly,” the lady smiled, “and we all have one less problem to deal with, as well. Now find me a good cook, a well behaving maid, and I shall be happy!”

“If I may…” Lysono spoke, “I would ask Duncan when he arrives.”

“You mean…” Gorys raised an eyebrow, “His mother as well?”

“Well,” the Lyseni shrugged, “Their mother is also alone now. That is why Denys weeped a few days past, he heard from Haldon of that man Blackheart cut the throat of in Selhorys. Said he was supporting them since his father fell. Gerold his name was.”

“I know of that story,” the Lady nodded solemnly, “the man’s wound festered, Haldon could not save him.”

“Let us hope she knows how to cook, then,” Gorys’ lips turned to a smile as he spoke.

“Exactly so,” the lady declared, in a visibly better mood as well, “this is much to my liking. No strangers to live under our roof, but women who’s sons serve in the company, who’s sons I know… I like it very much.”

“Two more problems solved, then,” Gorys concluded with relief. This day was proving to be his most productive ever since this misery of a charge began.

“Perhaps on the morrow the boys and I could visit Malo’s mother and meet her,” the lady thought aloud, “seeing there is nothing else to do here, for I will not set foot in that accursed house once more until it is ready.”

“Now that is a surprise,” Blackheart said opening the door. “I see there is some business done here.”

“Sorting inventories, servants and the like,” the Lady explained as she stood. “We were about to finish.”

“That is good for I need the room,” Blackheart walked in straight away. Gorys saw Laswell Peake through the doorway. It was true then. Blackheart sent Griff to ride forth and called back Laswell. No doubt with Harry Strickland, just like Lysono told him earlier. “My Lady, mind you to take these boys and task them to train instead of sitting here. I saw your knight in the courtyard.”

Their knight referred to Ser Rolly. Blackheart called the man Griff’s knight, Gorys wondered whether the captain-general even learned Rolly’s name. But just yesterday he sparred with Rolly, to the loud cheering of Denys Strong. The captain-general seemed to easily disarm Griff’s knight again and again, so much so that it made Gorys wonder if he ever truly defeated Blackheart. Or the man merely grew bored with him that one time so pretended it just to give him his spurs and be done with the matter.

“Most certainly,” the Lady Ashara nodded, “it is time for training. Gorys…”

“Gorys stays,” Blackheart declared in that tone of his that none ever dared to argue with. Gorys swiftly packed up his belongings on the table, his scrolls and lists, wondering what could have been so important to have both Laswell and Harry Strickland as well as himself present for it. Lady Ashara seemed to make nothing of it though, she swiftly left with the two boys in tow. Gorys wondered about Malo’s mother. Whether the lady really knew about her.

He watched the men entering the room: Laswell Peake, followed by his brother Torman. Harry Strickland, as expected, somewhat limping. Brendel Byrne closed the door behind himself, indicating that nobody else was to join them. Gorys wondered about just what kind of meeting he has found himself in, as they all sat and so he followed their example.

“Myles,” Strickland pulled off his left boot to Gorys surprise, “mind you send for a bowl of warm water, I’ve blisters.”

“You’re worse than a maid, Harry,” Torman laughed.

“You’d say so,” Strickland shrugged, “but I would not mind in the least considering I’d be sitting in my tent with my feet in a nice warm bowl of water had we not been summoned.”

“You’ll get your bowl of water,” Blackheart grinned, “business first.”

“Tell me this is not about the babe,” Strickland argued, “Suppose she arrived safely with Griff’s pretty little wife, no reason to ride forth like this for a babe.”

“Did you go and see,” Blackheart turned to Laswell instead of a reply. Gorys couldn’t help but notice the man’s stoic face as he nodded. “And?”

“And I agree with Brendel’s assessment,” Laswell nodded solemnly.

“Well that is three of five then,” Blackheart declared as he sat back in his armchair. “Now the question is what we do about it.”

“Forgive me,” Gorys spoke, “I am not entirely certain of what we are discussing.”

“You remember your oath,” Blackheart turned to him. Gorys felt as if he did something terribly wrong, but he nodded. “We are discussing the Targaryen babe, Gorys.”

“Well, not exactly,” Brendel chuckled, “We are discussing a babe, for sure, but not the one you know of, Gorys. Let us just say it aloud shall we? Griff’s boy is not Griff’s boy, that is what we are discussing here. That babe is a Targaryen, has eyes the same as the other babe and that girl is certainly a Targaryen. Two red dragons.”

Strickland raised an eyebrow, before he laughed aloud. Gorys watched as the captain-general’s face hardened listening to the laughter.

“Louder, Harry,” Blackheart scoffed, “there may be a few neighbors not listening yet.” Torman stood.

“I go see them babes,” he declared, “what a mess. I want to see for myself.” He simply left. Gorys wondered at the lack of order on this gathering. There was none of the reverence to Blackheart that he was used to seeing, Strickland pulled off his boots nursing some blisters, Brendel Byrne stood to look out the window instead.

“So if I get this right,” Laswell began, “if we are right, Ashara Dayne delivered a Targaryen to Griff. Prince Rhaegar’s?”

“Who else’s?” Blackheart asked, “remember, his silver prince this and that. Well, his silver prince disappeared in the Riverlands at the same time as the Stark girl, Lyanna her name was. It all adds up.”

“None of it adds up to me,” Harry looked up distressed. “Did the prince then conspire to get Griff and the child here or what?”

“Doubtful,” Blackheart said just as Torman returned. Gorys noticed his face white as if he’s seen a ghost. Perhaps he was ought to go and look at Griff’s boy as well, he thought, though he didn’t feel that he’d be as free to do so as Torman Peake was. In truth he didn’t see them babes since they all arrived. Recalling their pretty little faces, he couldn’t figure anything wrong with them.

“Here is what I think happened,” Blackheart began, “and it all adds up with what we know. Prince Rhaegar eloped with the girl. Took her somewhere south. Took with him Ser Arthur Dayne as well. By then the lady Dayne was back at Starfall, belly swelling. She said it was Lord Stark’s doing but we also know, she’s been close to Griff prior that misfortune. Anyways, next we know, Griff disappeared from King’s Landing. They told me that he went to Starfall to court her, sired the boy at that time. Well methinks he did not make it that far. He had no clue about the Lady’s arrival in Braavos, so I doubt he was part of any of it.”

“No, I think what went down is this,” he continued, “we know the king sent the White Bull to find his son, we know the Prince returned without the White Bull and marched north to duly die at the Trident. Neither the White Bull nor Ser Arthur were there to defend their prince, clearly, he wanted them elsewhere. No doubt they were to guard the woman, no doubt heavy with his child for why else would he leave the finest of his white cloaks to guard her if not for her carrying his brood. And the next we know, Stark left after the sacking of King’s Landing, was said to have gone to find his sister.”

“Now here’s where it becomes interesting,” Blackheart explained, “For the Lady Ashara herself told me that Stark arrived at Starfall returning Dawn. Dawn, their ancestral sword. That confirms the rumour that somehow Stark bested Ser Arthur and got hold of the sword. The Lady told me that she faked her own death and rode north, with Lord Howland Reed aiding her. Lord Reed who is guest under my roof now, and more importantly, bannerman to Stark. He delivered Ashara Dayne and the babe to Griff in Braavos.”

“And we know, Stark picked up his wife and newborn son at Riverrun and rode straight to Winterfell. I am certain that he was the one who he delivered the purple-eyed boy to Ashara Dayne. I am certain he did so to hide the boy for if I am right, the boy is his brood and who else to know better than him what a dragon babe would mean to his new king. However it came about, Lord Reed and Lady Dayne chose to seek out our Griff, with or without Stark’s approval. I remember their message, said nothing about anything, but Griff understood it was about the Lady Ashara, right away. He left me believe all along that he was mourning the Lady Ashara.”

“Even Gorys can tell you the rest of it, for he was there,” Blackheart concluded. “Griff claimed the boy. He parted with me after our visit to Ser Willem Darry, went to seek out Howland Reed. The next morn, he claimed he’s got a woman with a son borne to him. I think not, I think the three of them conspired to hide away the boy.”

“I’ve some questions,” Torman spoke. “Firstly, how did Griff even know who’s boy it was so certainly that he tarnished his own honour for it. It’s Griff, for Gods’ sake, the man is an honourable prick if there ever was one. I suppose it was based on more than the mere word of Ashara Dayne. Or Howland Reed.”

“I am more interested in whether the boy is a trueborn,” Laswell declared, “if it’s a bastard then it matters exactly nothing. Our focus is the girl. But if it’s trueborn… now that is a wholly different thing altogether.”

“And that is what only Griff can tell us,” Brendel Byrne concluded with a strange knowing look at Blackheart.

“I disagree,” Blackheart countered, “and I am certain that Griff knew of the boy. I told you, he disappeared from King’s Landing. He returned shortly before he’s been named Hand. I doubt it to have been as they claim with him having gone to court the Lady Ashara Dayne. No, he went to see his silver prince, I’ve no doubt. And where the prince was, there was the Stark girl with her swelling belly. Griff knew.”

“I will say it again,” Brendel argued, “Laswell speaks true. The fuck cares about a bastard. But methinks it’s no bastard and Griff knows the truth of it.”

“Perhaps ask him,” Torman’s voice betrayed his frustration, “after all none of us will read it off his face. Clearly he is a better liar than that. Unless this is all bullshit and he sired the boy on the woman like he claims.”

“You saw the babes?” Blackheart turned toward him. Gorys just listened amazed. He tried to process what all he’s heard. Blackheart thought Griff’s boy not Griff’s. It sounded impossible.

“Aye,” Torman nodded, “they have the same eyes. Without the story, that may as well be coincidence.”

“How in the seven hells would Griff sire a boy looking the same as a Targaryen,” Blackheart asked annoyed.

“Ask him,” Torman shrugged, “Once he returns for you sent him off just to get us here for this nonsense. Perhaps he didn’t sire the boy on her and neither did Rhaegar Targaryen and it is just a bastard she bore and brought to Griff, the fool eating it up as she served it. Myles, you’ve got to see it for what it is. Bunch of theories.”

“Finally one of you speaks my mind,” Harry sighed. “The fuck do we care even if they are red dragons. Not our business. We’ve got it good, Myles. There’s no black dragon, you’ve just got to leave it be.”

“Fuck that,” Blackheart scoffed. “That is not what I swore when I’ve been elected. Your father, Harry, your father made me swear. Derrold Strickland had me swear, so did Florys Peake, so did Brendel’s father Reynard.”

“Well,” Brendel shrugged, “I am not my father, not even by my name.”

“Neither am I,” Harry Strickland scoffed, “though at the least I’ve the name. Four generations of Stricklands since Daemon the First, now tell me what in the seven hells is there in Westeros that we have to bother with a couple of tit-suckling babes for it. We’ve got it good here, Myles. Let us discuss Qohor instead.”

“Fuck Qohor,” Blackheart grunted, “this is the Golden Company, for fuck’s sake!!” He raised his voice as he slammed his fist onto the table. “Fucking grow up to your charge!”

Gorys wondered if he could shrink even smaller in the chair. He swiftly made it to sit further away, in the corner, hoping they all forgot about him while he tried to figure all that he’s heard. Laswell Peak stood, reaching out both his hands as if he’s had to separate them in a fight or something.

“Calm your nerves, all of you,” he declared calmly. The man’s always been calm, Gorys thought. Never seen Peake loose his nerve, not even when those two bravos cut down that knight in Braavos.

“You all made your point,” Laswell began, “We have all seen them babes…”

“I have not,” Strickland interrupted, “and I care not.” Blackheart looked at him as if he was about to cut his throat.

“By the Gods,” the captain-general said coldly, “your only luck Harry is that you are of my blood. Stupid shit that you are.”

Gorys was stunned. Strickland was of Blackheart’s blood? But then he remembered what Lysono told him: Blackheart and the Peakes, their grandmothers were twins, the twin daughters of Aenys Blackfyre. Laswell continued before Gorys could begin to wonder how Strickland came into that picture.

“Fine, here is what I think,” the man said, “Myles speaks it true. Fuck all your opinions about how good we have it here, we are Westerosi, we all swore to our fathers as they swore to theirs and those swore to Bittersteel. Nobody chooses the blood, accept it. The sooner you do, the better, both of you. Grow up to the task at hand, it is past time you stopped bickering about it.”

“As for the damned babes,” Laswell continued, “we all, except Harry, we have seen them. We all agree, they look too much alike. And Torman is right, it may be coincidence, I am sorry Myles. The woman has purple eyes, suppose she has the blood. None of us knows enough of House Dayne to say otherwise.”

“She claimed to Haldon that she had the blood of Brightflame,” Blackheart sighed, “Maegor or what his son’s name was. She claimed that he returned to Dorne, that her cousin is a silverhead even.”

“See?” Laswell asked him, “so it is, we have no proof. Griff however, he will know.”

“I give it to Myles,” Brendel spoke as Laswell sat back, “he is right about Connington. The man ever had eyes for silver haired boys only. I doubt he fucked a woman even once in his life.”

“He did,” Blackheart surrendered to the conversation, “He got on his wife on the way down here.”

Brendel looked at Gorys surprised. So did Torman, so did Blackheart. Gorys wanted to disappear.

“You would know,” Brendel told him.

“It is true,” Gorys murmured hesitantly, “I have heard them.”

“Well then,” Brendel concluded, “we’ve nothing, really. Theories, like Torman says.”

Blackheart let out a deep sigh as he sat back once more in his chair.

“I will never believe that Griff sired that boy,” he declared calmly. “There is too much coincidence in it. Right until Reed’s missive, he never even mentioned her, not once. He sent one missive to Starfall, never even got a reply from her. That is not a woman who then crosses the Narrow Sea for her man, pretends his own death to do so. No, something changed her mind, something Howland Reed was well aware of, something that made Griff forsake his damn cherished honour. That boy is not his, I am certain of it.”

“If he gets on the wife…” Torman began.

“What of it,” Blackheart shrugged, “he’s still the same honourable fool that he ever was. He said the words to her, suppose in his mind he foreswore the silver haired boys so it’s her or nothing. She’s quite the beauty.”

“That she is,” Torman laughed, “Damned Griff. Lucky bastard.”

“Not if he claimed a Targaryen,” Laswell argued. “Fine, it may be a theory but if not… we have to figure whether it is trueborn. We all agreed to finance this endeavour with the girl, if the boy is trueborn that changes things.”

“We still spend the same gold anyways,” Brendel noted, “the point is not the gold. The point is whether we have the heir or Connington does. Though it is as I told Myles, he handed over our red dragon to a Connington as well so… who knows, even if the boy is a bastard, they only need to wed them now. Who knows what their plan is until we sit them down and ask.”

“I will not agree to that,” Blackheart declared.

“And why not,” Torman asked, “Seems to me, that is the only way to proceed with this, Myles.”

“Myles thinks it improper,” Brendel answered instead, “Griff is not of the blood. Not that it matters, considering our Gorys sitting here all along no matter how he tries to be invisible. He’s not of the blood either and he’s here.”

“He’s here because Griff chose his tent to tell me his story,” Blackheart explained, “And because he handles the gold. Either Gorys or the old bastard and considering how that damned old prick still sings Maelys’ praises my choice is Gorys, no doubt.”

“Well then let us call in the lady and ask her,” Torman suggested.

“I think not,” Blackheart countered, “Griff and that woman are two peas in a pod. She will not speak without him.”

“And he will not speak either,” Laswell added, “we are going around in circles. Either we ask or we will never know. I prefer knowing what they know.”

“Think about it,” Brendel came back to the table, sat down as he began explaining, “If what Myles suspects is true, it is brilliant. Griff is now a serjeant of the Golden Company, part of every damned decision we make. Hells, he is leading the damned lot now for all of us are here, and he’s been charged to lead by Myles. They raise them babes, even without the girl they would raise the boy, teach him who he is, and with him turn the Company once he comes of age. No doubt that would be their plan, and it is brilliant. They barely even need us, and we are already agreed to pay for it all.”

“Slow burning candle that is,” Laswell remarked.

“Better than the last plan,” Torman argued, “I said it then and I would say any time, Simon’s plan was shit from the start.”

“It was,” Blackheart sighed, “leave Simon be in his grave. I agree with Brendel, sixteen years enough to turn the Company for a Targaryen. I’ve no doubt, after all I thought of doing the same for the girl.”

Torman suddenly turned toward Gorys. “I would be interested in what our young paymaster makes of this.”

“I am not,” Gorys managed to say, “Paymaster.”

“What of it,” Brendel argued, “Speak up, Gorys.”

“I make nothing of it,” Gorys managed to find the words, “If I understood it, you lot took Griff’s boy for a Targaryen for it looks like the girl, but you have no proof. But you want to leave Griff out of it. And there was something about blood that I would not even begin to fathom. Are you…” Gorys swallowed hard, “Are you Blackfyres? Is that true? I mean, there is word in the Company… Are you?”

Blackheart gave Gorys a grin. “Well you figured in the end, Gorys,” he said. “It was my grandmother, was sister to Laswell and Torman’s grandmother. Twins to be exact, borne to Aenys son of Daemon Blackfyre. Harry here, he speaks of four generations of Stricklands but he conveniently omits who bore the first, Serena the youngest of Daemon Blackfyre whom Bittersteel wed to Ser Robb Reyne. And Brendel…”

“Leave it,” Brendel interrupted. “My name is mine to share.”

“So be it,” Blackheart shrugged. “Remember what I told you when you joined up, Gorys?”

“You told me multiple times,” Gorys nodded, “This is the Golden Company, the company of Bittersteel. Those who sign up shall sign up to the cause as much as for the gold or they never make it.”

“Except the cause is dead,” Harry sighed. “And actually, Serena bore a girl, the second Rohanne and Bittersteel wed her to the first Strickland. To be exact. And that was four generations ago. I’ve less blood that your lot so you could leave me out of it.”

“Three generations or four generations, matters little,” Brendel said, Blackheart nodding in approval. “To speak the truth, if Griff has the trueborn heir to the Seven Kingdoms, I sign up. So be it, we can do this with a red dragon. If it’s trueborn.”

“Not if we exclude him and his woman,” Torman chuckled.

“Why not,” Blackheart asked, “who says they are to know? They raise the boy regardless, no doubt according to the boy’s true name. Lemore will teach them of the faith, Haldon can teach them the rest, all we need to do is keep an eye on them. Make sure the Conningtons raise that boy right.”

“And the girl,” Laswell added, “After all, we agreed to support the girl. The boy, that is a theory.”

“And what if the stag consolidates his hold…”

“That is where we come to play,” Blackheart interrupted Torman Peake. “All we need to do is make sure that the stag remains uneasy on his stolen throne of swords. Keep our connections involved, make our plans.”

“I still think it would pay off to involve the Conningtons,” Brendel said. “Who knows, they may even have the North behind them, if the theory is true the boy is as much a wolf as he is a red dragon.”

“Would make a difference, I agree,” Laswell nodded. “True we all have our friends but none of us could claim influence such as that. Stark is warden of the north.”

“See,” Brendel sat back, “We can do this. But we need Connington.”

“I think not,” Blackheart argued. “How did you say, Brendel? He’s a fucking drunkard is what you told me. I say let us keep an eye on him. Sixteen years is a long time, there is no rush.”

“I will be a fucking old man by that time,” Torman sighed, “Not the most ideal to fight a fucking invasion.”

“I will be lucky to even see it, let alone to fight it,” Blackheart nodded, “but it is what it is. A hundred years have passed, if it takes sixteen more, so be it.”

“What about the other boy,” Laswell asked. “He is Seven. That would only be nine years and we know that one is trueborn.”

“If he survives,” Blackheart sighed, “Griff says that one takes after his mad father. Not ideal.”

“See,” Brendel grinned, “Told you Myles, Griff knows more than all of your spies combined. We need him.”

“Would he want to share, though,” Laswell asked, “After all it is as you say, he’s already a serjeant. He may be a drunkard but he ain’t a fool, he knows we would turn. I’ve no doubt.”

“Because we would,” Brendel nodded, “it is plainly obvious. We’ve no black dragon to hail, we need a damned dragon. Else we are little more than a bunch of bandits. We need a king to crown.”

“As Haldon told me,” Blackheart spoke, “History is written by the victors. Either we crown a king, or we perish for good. I doubt there to be one more return to Essos at the end of it, not at the scale we need Westeros to rebel.”

“If the stag could do it surely we can do it just the same,” Torman said wistfully.

There was a knock on the door. Ilaena appeared in the doorway.

“Supper,” she spoke nonchalantly.

“Let us have supper with Lady Connington then,” Blackheart rose, “And Lord Howland Reed.”

As they left, Torman turned to Gorys. “Welcome Edoryen,” he whispered, “just know, if you speak a word of any of this to anyone, I’ll cut your throat myself. I hope that is clear.”

Gorys only managed to nod. He excused himself from supper, better not sit at the table to wonder about all he’s heard. That he will wonder about it, he had no doubt. He felt as if in a daze all through his ride home, and then, he still felt in a daze as he undressed, prepared to sleep. He didn’t even think about his missed supper, to his complete surprise all he could think of was a flagon of wine for now he surely had need of it. For the first time in his life, Gorys felt the need to make himself mindlessly drunk. Perhaps then he could fall asleep and wake tomorrow having forgotten everything he’s heard. It was not to be, for Gorys stored no wine in his room, he never drank alone.

He laid in his bed in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Lysono was right, Blackheart was a Blackfyre and so was Laswell and his brother Torman. And Pyke who Blackheart sent off with Griff to bring home the company for he’s had Laswell and Torman ride ahead with Harry Strickland just to discuss a theory that Griff’s boy was in truth not Griff’s. Harry Strickland was a Blackfyre, even. And Brendel, no doubt, Gorys didn’t even need to know Brendel’s lineage after all he’s heard today. In truth, Gorys began to wonder if he was capable of becoming paymaster after today. Firstly, he got stuck on what he viewed as his last test by Blackheart, sorting this grand undertaking of housing Griff’s lot befitting the station of the Lady Ashara Dayne. He needed the Lyseni’s fresh take on the whole matter to be able to finally make some progress that didn’t depend on either the lady or that damned landlord of theirs. And then he was told more secrets, as if the ones already in his keeping were not enough, about Griff’s girl, now also Griff’s boy. They even suspected Griff’s whole marriage to be just a sham, but Gorys knew better. They didn’t speak to the Lady Ashara, they weren’t the one she aided by telling her story. They didn’t know how highly she thought of Griff, they never heard Griff speak of her either. Well, Blackheart did, but the captain-general seemed to have forgotten. No wonder, considering Blackheart not having seen. None of them saw, Gorys thought. They didn’t hear how those two spoke to each other, how their voice changed. They didn’t see how their hands touched. They could not have known that it was no sham, Gorys concluded. But then again, they suspected Griff’s boy. Before leaving, Gorys went to see them babes. He studied them, and so he thought now he understood why they suspected the boy. The boy had eyes the same as the girl.

There was a soft knock on the door. So soft, Gorys thought it was not even on his own door, so he didn’t move. But there was a knock again on the door. He got out of bed with a sigh, grabbed his dagger. No matter, he had to be vigilant, he learned that on the journey south. Especially when he’d expect none at his room so late in the night. He unlocked the door, leaving the chain hooked on it, and peaked out.

“Thought you asleep,” the Lyseni whispered. “Should have used the window to get in.”

“What…” Gorys began to ask.

“Let me in,” the Lyseni interrupted, “I rather would not be seen standing here.”

So be it, Gorys thought. What of it, the day cannot become stranger than it already has been. He unhooked the chain and opened the door.

“Your problem is you wearing that read cloak of yours,” Gorys told the boy as he moved to light a candle, only sparing a thought to the fact that he wore nothing but an old shift barely down to his knees. “Even in the dark I can tell it apart because of its colour. Of course you are seen, then.”

“The art of hiding in plain sight,” the boy remarked. “I am seen when I am fine to be seen. I am fine to be seen on the streets, but I rather would not reveal which one is your door. I cannot just turn my cloak inside out on the street, after all. But I turn it inside out when I wish to remain unseen.”

“That is a riddle I feel it is too late for,” Gorys sighed, “what are you even telling me.”

“That I brought you supper?” The boy showed him the small bundle in his hand. “From Blackheart’s kitchen straight to you, I bet the roast still warm. And I am certain that you had no supper.”

“That is true,” Gorys sighed as he dumped himself on a chair. The boy laid the bundle in front of him, then produced a small flagon from the inside of his cloak. “I’ve put some honey in it,” he said, “I could not find the wine. I see you found it,” the boy said as he picked up the little ship from Gorys’ table. The one Gorys found in front of his door just this morn.

“Thought it was a child’s lost toy,” he explained as he unpacked the small bundle. In it he found some cheese, biscuits and a few slices of roast. He found, he’s been hungry after all, the sight of food made him hungry. He began to stuff himself.

“I made it,” the boy explained, “there is too much free time during the days.”

“Why leave it at my door,” Gorys asked with mouth full, “how do you know even…”

“Which one is your door?” The boy smiled at him nonchalantly, “it is what I do, I know things. Who did Blackheart shout at today? We heard him shout at someone that they ought to grow up.”

“I don’t remember,” Gorys shrugged. The boy leaned forward resting his elbows on the table in front of him, his lips turning cheekily into a grin.

“Do yourself a favour Gorys,” he teased, “do not try to lie, you are awful at it.”

Gorys wondered about it for a moment. “You know I cannot tell.”

“I know because you tried to lie,” the boy nodded, still smiling at him. Gorys wondered whether he should feel uncomfortable about this whole strange situation, the Lyseni showing up at his door in the hour of the wolf. After today though, he felt as if it was even normal, something to be expected. What else could have crowned this day than the Lyseni showing up, he thought.

“What are you even doing here?”

“I brought you supper,” the boy shrugged, “and I came for information you may have. Honestly, that is why I am here.”

“I will not share what is said on meetings,” Gorys sat up straight, feeling panic rush through him.

“I care not what was said on the meeting,” the boy shrugged, “truly, I was just curious about the shouting. I am certain it was not at you though. I wanted to ask you about the cook.”

“The cook,” Gorys asked stunned.

“How long has he been serving in Blackheart’s house?”

Gorys wondered about it, “he’s been there longer than my time,” he said, “why would you want to know about the cook?”

“He gives moontea to Blackheart’s woman,” the boy explained. Gorys almost spit his food. “It is true. Four times since Blackheart returned they’ve lain together, four times she drank moontea in the morn. And she fakes at least some of it judging by the sounds of it. Early she wakes and has moontea, and the cook is always there. They never discourse, so I figured it must have been going on for a while.”

Gorys only nodded, trying to speedily stuff the remainder of the food into himself. Trying hard not to think about what sounds Lysono referred to. The boy as if reading his mind, said nothing more, as if waiting for him to finish. “Do you have cups here,” he asked once Gorys was done.

“Only the one,” Gorys sighed, “I am afraid I am not furnished to host guests,” he explained, “and it has been a day so long that I cannot even feel bad about it.”

“There is nothing to feel bad about,” the boy said, as he opened the flagon. He sipped from it, “just perfect,” he handed it to Gorys. The mead was sweet and fruity and cold, Gorys drank heartily. He wondered as he put it down whether the boy put anything else other than honey into it. But the boy followed his example and drank.

“I cannot stay long,” Lysono said then, “it is just, I lost the cook on the streets. Damn that man, he must’ve caught sight of me following. So I thought perhaps you know more about him, makes the night less wasted, and you skipped supper.”

Gorys only nodded. “Why would you follow the cook,” he wondered aloud, “why would you even follow anyone?”

“It is what I do, Gorys,” the boy said nonchalantly. “This is what I know to do. You know your letters and numbers, I know how to be mice.”

“Mice.”

“Spy,” Lysono chuckled, “The lady also didn’t know the word.”

“Lady Ashara?” Gorys’ eyes grew wide, “She knows you sneak out at night to follow people?”

“Sort of,” the boy shrugged, “perhaps you could help me with something else, though.”

“If you tell me why the Lady Ashara would agree to you sneaking out at night to come here,” Gorys declared.

“Well, she knows not where I go,” Lysono explained, “we share certain interests, that is all.”

“Certain interests,” Gorys repeated, “Is that why she asked Griff to take you in as his squire? I know she did.”

“I asked her,” Lysono nodded, “I cannot go around at night if I am to be Brendel Byrne’s squire, I needed her help. I needed to be seen doing my job.”

“Your job,” Gorys repeated once more the boy’s words. They boy’s eyes met his as the boy took a deep breath. “I tell you if you tell me,” the boy whispered, “have you ever heard the name, Daerys?”

Gorys thought for a moment, “I think not,” he concluded aloud, “who is Daerys?”

“You heard the name Varys?”

Gorys thought about that as well. That name, he’s heard once before. Yes, he clearly remembered, it was mentioned in Braavos, during a discussion between Blackheart, Griff and Lady Ashara.

“I see that you have,” the boy whispered, “truly Gorys, you are so easy to read. I shall teach you how to hide your thoughts, it will serve you well as paymaster. I shall teach you how to lie.”

“I am not exactly sure that I need that skill,” Gorys remarked.

“But you do,” the boy smiled at him apologetically. “That is, if you want to make it as paymaster. I can read off your face your whole day.”

“Try me,” Gorys protested, more defensively than he hoped.

“If I would, you would spill all of Blackheart’s secrets to me,” the boy said nonchalantly, “not just the ones you heard on today’s meeting. Those ones made you looking so weary since for I remember when we left you with Blackheart, you were quite relieved. Do not ask me to try, I am well trained to discover everything you would hide from me.”

“I doubt you could make me tell any of it,” Gorys defended himself, “I do not spill secrets.”

“I have no such doubts as you,” the boy laughed, “best not discourse it. I had you, I know what you like. I promise you, I will never do that to you. You’ve my word.”

That is quite a relief, Gorys thought, wondering why he thought so. “Who’s Varys?”

“Let’s see,” the boy’s face turned serious, “Something for something. What do you know about him?”

“He’s a man in King’s Landing,” Gorys shrugged.

“Not just any man,” the boy said, “I doubt he could be called a man.”

“Because he is a eunuch?”

“See, you do know,” Lysono nodded, “what else?”

“He may be a spy,” Gorys admitted. “I heard of him, that is all.”

“From Griff, I take it,” the boy added, to Gorys’ surprise. “You look surprised but it is easy to conclude. Griff lived in King’s Landing, close to Prince Rhaegar. As close as two can get when they share the bed from time to time, to speak the truth of it. You see, that is something my cousin took great interest in, and Griff, he’s suspicious of everyone. I am certain that he saw cousin for what he was.”

Gorys just listened, wondering. “Wait,” he even raised a hand as he realised, “he is your cousin? Does Griff know?”

“He does not,” Lysono said solemnly, “The Lady knows, though. I cannot just tell Griff, he would never believe me. I need proof. Hence why I sneak out at night and follow people - I need to find the mice in Blackheart’s house. And in Laswell Peake’s, that would help as well.”

“Mice,” Gorys wondered, “you mean, spies. In Blackheart’s and Laswell’s house. Good Gods!”

“Thought you care little for the Seven,” the boy smiled at him apologetically.

“Whatever Gods,” Gorys said, still stunned by the realisation of what all he’s heard. “Every fucking one of the three hundred deity that has a temple in Lys” he cursed. Lysono laughed aloud.

“Forgive me,” the boy said, “I never heard you curse before.”

“So let us be straight,” Gorys concluded instead of reply, “This… Varys, he’s a spy in King’s Landing, spied on Griff and his silver prince, and… he spies on Blackheart?”

“Exactly so,” Lysono nodded.

“And you,” Gorys sat up straight once more, “You are one of his spies, are you not?”

“Or so he thinks,” the boy whispered, “Truly Gorys. Best not ask me, I know not yet what to do. Methinks I am to find them. Then I figure what to do with them. First I have to find them.”

“What a fucking mess,” Gorys declared. “The whole damn company is a fucking mess.”

“It sure is,” Lysono nodded. “I changed my mind.”

“Changed your mind about what?”

“About why I came,” the boy whispered, his eyes settling on Gorys, dark and unreadable. “I need to forget. Let us to your bed.”

“I cannot do that,” Gorys whispered. “Besides, it leads to nothing good.”

“I am sorry for what was,” Lysono sighed, “I truly am. I tell you as it is, I was doing my work, and then I was not, it was not work anymore. I could not do it anymore. Do you understand? I did not mean to hurt.”

“You said so before,” Gorys said factually, “how could that be your work… with me?”

“It is best not to speak about it,” the boy sighed. “I told you, you know me little. I am not what you thought me to be. I was raised to be something far worse than that. But methinks you may be right.”

“Right about what?”

“I could be something else, you said,” Lysono whispered wistfully, “Methinks you are right. You and the Lady both. So here we are.”

“Here we are,” Gorys repeated once more the boy’s words, wondering about it. “The Lady told me things too, you know.”

“What things?”

Gorys drank from the flagon then handed it to the boy. “Drink.” The boy paused for a moment, Gorys felt as if the boy was reading his mind. But then he drank. “She told me, you would lay with people like me for that is the only way you know how to be cared for. That is what you were taught, and that is what she told me. She told me to not do it, so you learn to accept care without.”

Lysono looked at him with wondering eyes for a moment before he drank some more. “That… she is not wrong about that, I suppose.”

“Exactly so,” Gorys agreed, “and you prefer girls, you said so yourself.”

“I have not,” the boy smirked, “that would have been a lie. I said I am to find myself a girl one day, or something like it. Yes, I remember I have said that when we set sail. Methinks unlike you I know exactly what I like.”

“Unlike me?”

“Indeed,” the boy chuckled, “One day I shall take you to a proper pillowhouse. Though, I can bring the pillowhouse to you, in truth. Just not the girl for I am not like Yndros of the twilight, I do not change to female when I rut. As you well know.”

“Who’s Yndros?”

“One of our deities, to speak plainly,” the boy explained, “he is male by day. But he is female by night. His acolytes change gender when they rut, or so they claim. They like rutting.”

“How could they change gender,” Gorys wondered aloud. He took the flagon and drank. The sweetness of the mead felt like balm after such a long and heavy day.

“That I cannot tell,” Lysono shrugged, “I never saw any of it. What I cannot see, I cannot claim true. I think it a mere myth, something to tell the bedslaves. Make it easier to accept that they do little else but rutting all day, methinks.”

“I doubt they view it like that,” Gorys remarked.

“No they do not,” the boy nodded, “they view it as work, something they must do and do well else it only will get worse for them. Rutting, that is free when one just wants to, without being forced to do so. Like I am now. I liked it with you.”

“I doubt it,” Gorys remarked, surprised at how easily the remark came to him.

“I am not lying,” the boy laughed, “You only ever rutted whenever you wanted to, you would not understand. For me, that is different. I know well the difference.” The boy stood, came to him and knelt down in front of him, his eyes locked on Gorys’. “It has been a long and tedious time with all this journey and and all of it. Lot to think about. I want to forget.”

“I told you…” Gorys spoke hesitantly. Damn this boy, he thought, why was he so pretty, so desirable? What was the boy doing to him?

The boy sat back on the floor in front of him. “I say it as it is for I mean to be upfront about it,” he declared. “I thought about this. I made no decision but I thought about it quite a lot, and now that I am here, methinks I made up my mind.”

“Made up your mind,” Gorys found himself repeating again, as if he was under a spell. Yes, he felt as if a spell settled on him he thought, but instead of weighing him down it felt as if he’s been lifted onto a cloud. Perhaps he was becoming drunk on mere mead in his mentally exhausted state, he wondered. “About what?”

“What if you and I,” the boy spoke on that sweet voice of his that Gorys remembered of from that one night he spent with this boy, “we could just have fun. Just come together time to time and have some fun. I know you figured by now that you have no such love for me, you know I have nothing like that for you. Just fun.”

“You mean this,” Gorys asked in surprise.

“I think so,” Lysono nodded, “I mean not to play, not to seduce you. Just… we come together to rut. That is all. I will not pry into your things while we do it, either, I will not pry into the secrets you keep. I know you, I know you would not use it. I give you my word that I will not use it either. I just want to have fun, it helps me clear my mind and focus. I feel like I will explode soon, I need to clear my mind.”

Gorys felt that he seriously had to give this some thought. Not that he felt able to, because damn this boy, he reminded himself, this boy had a spell on him, no doubt. Yes, Gorys concluded, he wanted it, he felt keen to take the boy’s offer. Why not? He was keeper of the boy’s secrets, he gave his word. He kept his word.

“Just one thing,” Lysono said as he stood. He began to strip. “If you and I are in the same room, and if Blackheart enters, do not look at me, as if I was not even there at all you should focus your mind on someone else entirely. Your look gives you away. I shall teach you better but for now, no look at me. When he’s in the room. You can look at me now, though.”

Gorys did. Damn this boy so beautiful, he thought, the sight of his naked form in the candle light was enough to stir Gorys’ blood. “I hope you have some sort of grease,” the boy chuckled in his carefree manner Gorys knew from that one time, “I did not come as prepared as last time.”

Gorys only nodded. His mind was gone already, he never even made the decision. Only rutting, the boy said. Why not? He took the hand the boy offered, his other hand grabbed the half-full flagon of mead. Why not? He asked himself as he followed the boy to his bed. Then he asked himself no more for the boy knew exactly what to do with him, the boy remembered. He left no time for Gorys to form any more thoughts at all.

Chapter Text

GRIFF

“I cannot believe it,” the prince as much as dumped himself onto the bench, the first sign of exhaustion as far as Jon could tell, after having spent hours with sword in hand. The prince never showed sign of weakness, just as he never seemed to tire, even those damned silver curls of his remained perfectly braided, Jon’s eyes now focused on studying those damned braids on the prince’s head. A braid to hold back the hair from his face as he spars, how clever is that, he thought for there was no thought that would not end with how clever, how beautiful… he watched that damned braid, his eyes studying it and studying the temple from where it sprung and the thin blue line barely visible under skin. How unfathomable that there were veins under the pale porcelain skin, that blood flowed in them just as it did in his own veins, that this being of such superior quality in every level would indeed be just a man not so dissimilar to himself. His eyes fixed on the vein, following the usual pattern, study of a shapely eyebrow hair by tiny hair he would be able to count them in his fixation. He should, for he best remained focused on the brow and never ever lower his gaze enough to see those lashes curling above those deep dark purple eyes. He could not allow himself to lower his gaze for he would notice the slight blushing of cheeks, the straight nose, the lips full and parted and he would notice the prince in all his beauty as he sat there somewhat panting. And his mind would begin as it always did whenever he allowed himself to lose focus and take in the sight, his mind would take him on a merry ride showering him of images so shameful he would never be able to confess to them, even to himself. Even the fear setting in was enough for he knew well what he has not seen, his blood rushing as his feet turned to stone. Gods, he prayed in his mind as he always did. Gods. “Near four years,” he’s heard the prince’s smooth baritone of voice, yes it has been near four years and the voice only deepened as the prince grew from boy to man. There is no need for reminder, Jon could have counted the days on his own, he needed no help. “What if any have you learned Jon,” the prince raised his gaze to meet his and he felt his cheeks burn, his gaze falling to study his own boots, the lines in the leather showing use, every patch of dirt, he’d count the particles if that was what it took, he told himself. Anything to hide his shame. “How am I supposed to knight you, at this rate I shall never,” he’s heard the prince. That is all fine. He’d need no spurs to serve and he would not mind, truly he would not mind to squire all his life for his silver prince. Yes, that would be a life worth living. His cheeks burned. He understood, they burned of the lie as much as in his shame now, and yet, he would have never admitted either of it.

“Come,” the prince stood and he leaned to pick up his sword, “you have no need for that.” Fine. He followed. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered the thin trail of sweat slowly flowing down the back of his neck, but his eyes were on the prince. He followed. Gods those braids, he thought, just focus on the damn braids and see nothing else. Wherever they were going, that didn’t register. It took through corridors, steps and more arched corridors, and if he looked around he would have noticed that these were steps he’s never taken before but all he could think of were those damned braids. His silver prince. His mind registered the clumping of steel, in his peripheral sight he caught glimpse of white and the shining of silver. He dared not raise his gaze to learn which one of the white cloaks it was. He dared not to think which doorway he crossed, he stepped in and holding his gaze firmly on the ground he dared not to look, to see that this was a place he has never seen before. If he looked, he’d wake, the spell on him would diminish in an instant as he’d open his eyes and all that would remain would be the burning need in his loins, left to his hand to sort and make a quick work of it, quick and silent lest anyone hears and oh Gods, let there be no thoughts, no images of silver braids and full lips slightly parted in panting and pale porcelain cheeks blushing… he’s heard the latch on a door attempting to snap him out of his trance. Just look on the ground, he reminded himself. Thick woolen rug covered the stone floor here, his mind latched on the pattern.

“Look at me,” the prince declared and panic rushed through him. He can’t. He can’t raise his gaze for if he did… “I command it.”

He raised his gaze despite the task seeming insurmountable, slowly, full of fear. Fear that his silver prince will see, that once just once his carefully curated mask shall fall. “Now speak up.”

“I swear I almost had you on your right, my prince,” he managed the words, his own voice so alien to him, yet so well trained, none of those words betrayed his pounding heart and the knot in his throat. He swallowed hard, his eyes meeting those deep set purple eyes and yet he was as if he saw nothing, he forced himself to ignore. For if he did not…

“No you have not,” the prince turned from him, to his complete shock began to unlace his overcoat. Jon looked around. This could not be real, this was a dream. He’ll be woken by his own panting and his own seed sticky on his skin wetting his shift, after this. Good gods. He stood in a place, was this… it could not be. His legs once more turned to stone, this could not be. “You never had me,” he’s heard the prince, calm and measured voice speaking the truth, the words repeating in his mind as if the reminder he needed to wake, he’s never had his silver prince. “Perhaps you never will,” Rhaegar turned toward him, as he pulled that overcoat off his arms. He reached and unlaced the neckline of his shirt. His voice was calm, his face betrayed no emotion, for now, now Jon looked, trying desperately to grasp at something that would tell him that this was the exact moment he’s been longing for since… just like Rhaegar said, it’s been near four years. In a moon’s turn, a little less, Jon shall be a man grown, his sixteenth nameday was upon him.

The prince tilted his head slightly sideways as he always did whenever something caught his eye. “Tell me Jon,” he said in that calm, flat voice of his, “was I to ask for your advice on certain matters… Matters oft left unspoken even among the closest of companions, would you ease my worries being my ever so steadfast friend as I know you to be?”

Jon’s mind drew a blank. As usual, Rhaegar switched from one unspoken topic to another so seamlessly he was left trying to figure how he would ever catch up, feeling the need to assure his silver prince. The ever so steadfast friend that he was to his silver prince, Jon reminded himself bitterly. “Of course, my prince,” his voice betrayed none of the turmoil in his chest, “what ever I could do to ease your mind.”

“I am not certain,” Rhaegar dropped himself onto a recliner. Jon just wondered what if anything he was to do. The prince did not offer him a seat. “I am not at all certain that you would not disdain,” Rhaegar declared, “the matter which troubles me, I feel perhaps you could advise me how to get what I want.”

“Surely you could have the world if you ever wanted it, my prince,” Jon mumbled. What a silly thing to say to such a careful wording that gave him nothing, no indication at all of what this discourse was about.

Rhaegar shuffled, he crossed his legs on the recliner leaning back, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Jon felt the gaze on him, not daring to meet it, once again.

“Tell me Jon,” the prince spoke, “in your experience… Gods.” The prince sighed, drawing Jon’s gaze on him. “This is not easy. Promise me you will not forsake our friendship shall I disappoint you with my musings.”

“I could never do that, my prince,” he rushed the words swiftly.

“Well then, I say as it is,” Rhaegar declared nonchalantly, as if the task that burdened him so suddenly became nothing more than a passing worry. “I know you have the experience I seek, and so I would ask. Had I wanted to lay claim and conquer another, how is best to go about it considering my position and the delicate nature of my desire?”

Jon wondered about it, trying to scramble some coherent thoughts for his heart that a moment ago was so heavily pumping in his chest now wanted nothing more but to cease altogether and shatter into a million pieces. Preferably without his mask of an ‘ever so steadfast friend’ falling while his whole being died within until he would finally cease to breathe. “I… I never had a paramour,” he managed the words.

“Oh that I know,” Rhaegar’s reply came fast, too fast to allow Jon any time for recovery.

“Truly, my prince,” he stood straight as he spoke, doing his utmost to man up, to suck it up as he reminded himself, “you could have any you wanted.”

“That I know as well,” Rhaegar chattered, “I am not seeking your advice in the art of seduction, I am well aware of my advantages in that regard. It is not the admiration of a weeping maid I crave, Jon. You know of the place by Fishmonger’s Square, tall white washed building with a single door to the side, just off the alley.”

Jon wanted to run, anywhere but to stay here for even a moment longer. He knew the place of course he knew it, the most discreet where one such as himself, the abomination that he was, could find consolation, no questions asked. He swallowed hard.

“I see that you do,” Rhaegar sighed, “see, you are truly the best I could ask for to tell me. Had I wanted the strength of a man, one man in particular, in my bed, you could tell me how is best to go about having what I want. It is not the weeping and wailing of maids I want, Jon. It is a man I crave to conquer.”

Jon slowly exhaled, cold sweat breaking out soaking his linen shirt. Anywhere but here, good Gods, lift him up and take him anywhere but here. “That place,” he began, feeling all the shame he felt whenever he entered that single door just off the alley his silver prince spoke about, “they ask no questions. Hood over your head, my prince, speak your wishes, pay and choose.” There, he said it. It was done. He confessed to his shame, the abomination that he was. The world didn’t end, Jon reminded himself.

“You misunderstand,” Rhaegar chattered as if he caught no sign of Jon’s shame. A boy could hope, Jon assured himself. A boy, almost a man grown. An abomination. “I care not for the whores, you know that very well.”

“Forgive me, my prince,” Jon tried to excuse himself, as he often did whenever he said anything that could have meant the slightest of offense. He didn’t even need to think about it, the fear too great, too overpowering. Fear of losing his silver prince. “I am not certain I understand, I meant no offense…”

“I know you meant no offense,” Rhaegar sighed, “Gods Jon, help me.”

“Of course, my prince…”

“Of course, your prince,” Rhaegar repeated, “tell me, has there ever been a time when you wished to just loose pretences?” Of course, Jon wanted to say, of course my prince. “Perhaps there was a time when you lost these pretences, if for a moment or two,” Rhaegar mused, “Tell me Jon, what is it like?”

“What… what is what like…”

“What is it like to bury your flesh in a man’s body,” Rhaegar whispered, stunning Jon to the floor where he stood, “Think on it, I know… I know those are only paid for, must be nothing compared to one you would desire but had you had one you craved, have you ever felt such desire? To crave one like that, to conquer… tell me and do not disdain. You gave me your word.”

Jon inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. So be it, his heart torn open, he dropped his shoulders giving in. “I confess,” he said lowly, “I have never claimed one I desired as such. I would not know.”

“I see,” he’s heard Rhaegar’s voice, “And have you been claimed by such? Have you ever been claimed like that, Jon? Tell me true.”

He realised he’s bit his lower lip so hard he’s drawn his own blood, the steely taste of it on his tongue. “I have…” he began, telling it true but then he realised, “Not like that. I mean…” he felt a rush of panic as he searched for the words. “Not by one I desired like that… only the one time.”

“I see,” Rhaegar only nodded, “when?”

“Must be almost three years past by now,” Jon confessed to that one time, “when my mother passed, father called me back home.”

“I remember that time,” Rhaegar nodded once more, “you were sorely missed while you were away. I remember my visit to Griffin’s Roost very well.”

So do I, Jon thought with all the pain of his broken heart. He said nothing.

“And so,” Rhaegar continued his strange interrogation, “why? If it was not one you desired, why?”

Because I could never have the one I desired, Jon wished to say. “I needed to know,” he professed instead, surprising himself even with his own honesty. “I needed to know for certain.”

“Know what?”

“Whether I am…” he felt his eyes burning.

“You are, what?”

An abomination, he wished to say. A sword-swallower. He said nothing, sucking on his lower lip to draw more of the blood and the pain. To distract himself of the other source of pain that cut far deeper into his being, if only for a moment.

“Were you and I raised in Dorne,” Rhaegar declared, “Nobody would even blink, Jon. Nobody.”

You and I, Jon repeated in his mind. You and I, his silver prince said.

“What did it feel like?”

“Truly,” Jon sighed, “as if I’ve been torn open.” That was no lie. It’s been an agony that couldn’t end soon enough, in truth.

“That one time,” the prince said, “it is sad.” It is, Jon thought. Sad, indeed, for he was nothing more than a sad mistake that should’ve never been born at all, an abomination, a monster, a sword-swallower, and since that one time he knew it for certain for even through that agony he felt pleasure, he felt relief. “I had hoped that you never gave yourself,” Rhaegar declared. Jon looked up, at the prince but Rhaegar’s face betrayed no emotions. No, Rhaegar was a master of masking himself, hiding from the whole world if he so wished, behind the facade of his beauty. “You see, if you never gave yourself, perhaps you would have never felt such shame as that which I see on your face now. No, you would be still untouched and innocent as you were, yet to be conquered and shown that it is all right. It is all right Jon.”

He felt a damned tear break free, swiftly rolling down his left cheek but he didn’t dare to move and wipe it away. “I have long wondered about this,” Rhaegar said then, as he stood. “I tried to figure, why would you raise such facades to separate yourself from me?” He stepped in front of Jon, wiped away the tear with his thumb. “We used to be able to speak freely, and since my visit to Griffin’s Roost… now I know why you became so calculated around me since then.” Jon swallowed hard, doing his damnest not to protest against those words, not to lie. “Love can be beautiful, Jon. Love is love. It is not pick and choose, it is just love and desire, it is to give in to, to be felt and fulfilled.”

All his strength he’s put into not breaking down in tears. He wished the floor underneath him opened and swallowed him whole and at the same time, he wished for Rhaegar’s thumb to return to his cheek, to feel the touch of his skin. “Methinks, it was a mistake,” Rhaegar whispered. “See, so much time you have wasted in hiding because of that one time. I know, Jon. Now I understand.”

He whimpered, trying his damnest to swallow it down. “Now I tell you as it is,” Rhaegar whispered, “I wish it had been me. It should have been me.”

He looked, straight into Rhaegar’s eyes but those deep purple globes told him nothing. He’s dreaming, Jon told himself. Yes, this is surreal, it cannot be real, it is but a dream. He will wake. “I owe you my apology, Jon,” Rhaegar said then, as he turned from him. No, Jon wanted to scream, stay. I’ll weep a thousand tears and a thousand more if you wipe them away one by one with your thumb…

“I thought to wait,” Rhaegar said as he stepped to the table on the side. He poured wine, Jon watched as he poured wine into two chalices. He raised one toward him. Jon took it, emptied it, handed it back. Rhaegar only gave him a slight smirk as he simply handed him the other chalice, filling the one he handed back and sipping from it, slowly with his purple eyes fixed on Jon. “You surely understand,” he said, “You were not of age. Even I was not of age and you were so young. It would have been improper. I felt it improper. Now I see what a mistake I have made.”

“Mistake,” Jon repeated, as if in a trance. What was his silver prince telling him?

“Yes. To my shame, a mistake of grave consequences,” Rhaegar said calmly as he settled leaning against that table, “for one, you felt the need to be certain you say, and so you gave it away at such a young age. For two, this has been the shittest conversation I ever had. I cannot go around it more carefully, but if I don’t shame you into tears you would never drop your facade, Jon. You would never tell me, I am certain.”

Jon chuckled, swiftly raising a hand in front of his mouth. “Forgive me,” he mumbled, “my prince, I… I never heard you curse.”

“Well there you go then,” Rhaegar sighed, “this is one big pile of shit. How long would you have me wait? Let me win on the yard while I know well that you are capable enough to defeat me, my prince this and my prince that. Fuck that, Jon. In a moon’s turn you’ll be a man grown.”

Jon only nodded. “Seeing as you’ve experience, I see no reason to wait,” Rhaegar chattered, “let us speak plainly. It should have been me that one time, Jon. You are MY griffin. You told me so yourself, have you forgotten?”

Yes this was most definitely a dream. No, he’s not forgotten it. “At Summerhall,” he nodded, “I remember.” Yes, he remembered. Was shortly before father recalled him, they rode out to Summerhall, he’s been oh so proud for the prince having asked for his company. He knew what Summerhall meant to Rhaegar. He only ever rode out there with Ser Arthur in tow, only for protection. But then he asked Jon. Rhaegar just had his fifteenth nameday before it, in Jon’s eyes he was already a man grown and the center of the world.

“Whatever,” Rhaegar emptied his chalice. “Enough of this nonsense. Come,” he moved toward the curtained arch, disappeared beyond the heavy brocade curtains. Jon followed. Whatever there was to come, he thought, at the least he could console himself with Rhaegar’s words. Rhaegar wished it had been him. Rhaegar knew. The world still didn’t end, Jon reminded himself. He didn’t wake yet.

His gaze fell on the bed, enormous bed surrounded by the sheer white of linens. This was a dream, Jon reminded himself. Rhaegar stopped in front of the bed, turned toward him. Dream or not, this was too fast, Jon thought. Way too fast, Rhaegar pulled him in with both arms and the next thing he registered was Rhaegar’s delicious lips clashing against his. Oh he gave in, swiftly, gladly, all the while waiting to wake. He still didn’t wake.

The rest of it was a blur. He wanted to memorise, to remember, but truly his nerves took over. He remembered somewhat of his clumsy attempt at a blowjob, trying to figure how it was done to him and mimicking as he could, in his mind screaming that he was sucking on Rhaegar’s flesh for it was truly unbelievable. He’s never done a blowjob before, it was a miserable attempt, he knew. He remembered the feeling of being torn open once more, his fingers sinking into the linens, grabbing so hard that his knuckles turned white. He remembered biting down the growl as he’s been spread and filled, the arms that pulled up his torso. Yes, he could clearly remember the sound of skin clashing as he’s been fucked while Rhaegar held him tight against himself, but truly, the rest of it was a blur. He didn’t remember whether he peaked or not, he could only recall the white heat of it and the gripping of it in his loins fighting for space in his brain beside the pains as he’s been filled again and again, trying his damnest not to make a sound. He remembered Rhaegar pull away from him, tossing him forward as he did so, the emptiness he felt in his backside, his openness and soreness and his longing to be filled again as soon as Rhaegar left him. He remembered looking at the white drop slowly making its way down on the inside of his thigh. Rhaegar’s seed. Gods, the world has become a beautiful place, no matter how he felt torn open and aching.

“Go on, get comfortable,” he’s heard Rhaegar, and so he climbed up on the bed, “I am not done with you yet.” He turned to see, trying to believe the words he’s heard. Trying to believe all of it. Rhaegar was pouring wine, looking at him. “Why in the seven hells was this so hard,” he asked.

“I know not…”

“I know that,” Rhaegar interrupted, “do you know how damn hard it is to interrogate you like that? I felt like a damned fool. You made me feel like a damned fool.”

“That was not my intention, my…”

“I know that too,” Rhaegar smirked before he sipped from his chalice, “and I have a name. Use it. I cannot rut with you Jon if you keep up the my prince this and that.”

He only nodded for what was there to say? “That is, if you want more of it,” Rhaegar declared, his eyes unreadable as his gaze pierced Jon’s.

“I do,” he rushed the words.

“Do you,” Rhaegar asked again. “Do you really?”

“I do,” Jon declared without hesitation. It wasn’t something to even think about, not even for a moment.

“Well then,” Rhaegar came close, “I am sorry, Jon.” He sat down on the side of the bed. Jon tried to look at his face but all he could look at was… “Do you hear me? I am sorry. I am sorry I have waited. Should have just got on with it when I went to Griffin’s Roost. After all that is why I had to go. Or at Summerhall, before you gave yourself away. Yes, I should’ve just done that, despite our age. Damn you were too young to give it away, Jon.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Lay back,” Rhaegar as much as ordered him and so he did. The prince climbed atop him, settling on his thighs. “I suppose looking at me will take time,” he said nonchalantly, “I truly fucked this up. I fucked you up. It should have been me Jon.”

“I suppose,” he managed the words.

“Suppose?” Rhaegar laughed. “You know it. But we cannot change the past. I assure you though, from now it shall be different. I have expectations, and I shall make good after my mistake..” His hands began to work Jon’s hardening flesh. “And you are mine,” Rhaegar declared, “I care not who it was, but there shall be no other, no whores nothing. You are mine. And you better man up and fight me on the yard as you know to do for I am done with your pretences. I’ll be the one to give your spurs and I tell you, it shall be the greatest honour for me…” surely Rhaegar was just chattering, Jon could barely hear it anymore, trying damn hard not to spill in the prince’s hands roughly working him, the pleasure of it multiplied by the knowledge of who’s fingers were so hastily wanking him, “and you are mine. That is all. You are my griffin. A dragon does not share, it claims what is his.” He shuffled, kicked Jon’s legs aside. Jon stopped thinking altogether. He lost control over his own body and limbs, he remembered his legs being moved and his body being folded, and he remembered being taken and his body pumped into as his mind did what all it could to make him take it silently, his hands gripping his thighs while his mind kept repeating it: this is not a dream. Rhaegar was fucking him and he didn’t wake, this is not a dream. This is real. He remembered being tossed and turned and taken again, laying on his stomach he remembered biting on a pillow while being pounded into so hard that he was seeing stars but damn it was so good to know who took him so roughly, impatiently. He belonged to Rhaegar. As he bit hard on the pillow trying and failing to swallow his growls that was his only coherent thought. His silver prince claimed him. The world was such a beautiful place to live in. He spilled himself on Rhaegar’s sheets whining through his orgasm like a maid would, while Rhaegar fucked him into a brainless dummy. The world became perfect.

He couldn’t tell how he got back into his own chamber. It was dark already and he missed supper, and he recalled as he sunk into the hot bath he ordered, he recalled how his legs were still shaking. He sat in the hot water, rejoicing in how his backside ached, feeling like a fool. But he rejoiced in it even the day after, as he’s had to sit through a lecture he could not even bother to pay attention to, he kept shuffling to find comfort in the chair while rejoicing in his own soreness. Rhaegar sent for him that eve and he went so happily, his steps felt like jumping on clouds. He didn’t mind in the least the soreness when Rhaegar had him that night, he gladly stripped and went on his hands and knees on Rhaegar’s fresh bedlinens and he even denied his soreness to his silver prince, only feeling slight remorse for being caught in a lie. Not that Rhaegar minded. He wasn’t a gentle lover. Jon didn’t want a gentle lover either, or any kind of lover - he wanted only his silver prince. He wanted to be conquered, just like Rhaegar said that he wanted to conquer. Jon gladly gave himself over to be conquered. The world became such a beautiful place to live in, he kept telling himself. The third day Rhaegar called for him to spar and he’s done his best without pretending, he’s beaten his silver prince. Ser Willem seemed glad enough that he’s finally done so, as Rhaegar had him kneel and charged him to defend the innocent and whatever else. That night he received a blowjob as reward, lasted only minutes for who’d last longer being rewarded like that by his silver prince? Nobody, but then again, nobody else received such a reward, only he, only Jon Connington of Griffin’s Roost. Climbing on Rhaegar’s fresh linen sheets on his hands and knees became his new favourite, he didn’t even think about the single door off the alley just by Fisherman’s Square anymore. He didn’t need to pay for quick fucks in shame. He didn’t fuck anyone and still he was happiest he’s ever been. He learned to drop his facades surprisingly quickly. He got used to Rhaegar’s cursing, sometimes even when Rhaegar was pumping into him, he was cursing him. Jon liked it. It made the world truly whole, beautifully perfect.

The world was a rain soaked pile of horse shit, Griff concluded. It’s been a long while since he’s been rain soaked down to his small clothes, but of course the sky opened up and weeped on the one day he had charge of nine thousand and nine hundred fifty. He tried to make sense of his charge, what in the seven hells it was that made Blackheart charge him to take the company on the short march from Valysar to Volon Therys only to win a day with Laswell Peake. And Strickland of all people. Griff could make no sense of it at all, the rain made it even more unbearable.

The problem was also that the charge proved to be way too short to set his mind in order. Not that he had a problem with his mind, he was absolutely certain that the problem was not with his mind. He had a vague memory from around the time after his twelfth nameday. He was soon to be sent to King’s Landing, his father hoping for him to win a place as a royal squire, to be taught beside the Crown Prince by Ser Willem Darry. It was the greatest honour to win such a place, Jon knew it well. He dreaded it. He’s never been to King’s Landing, he’s never seen the king or even the crown prince, and truly, his mind was fully pre-occupied by his misery. His stolen glances at boys his age. That one time he literally spied out a boy and a girl in the stables, watched them until they finished, his hand in his breeches and his mind overtaken by panic - why oh why didn’t it get hard at the sight. He knew it could, he began to wake with his shift soaked in sticky seed, and sometimes even before it, having to use his hand or turn over onto his stomach to rub himself against the sheets until he spilled. But the sight of that girl’s tits hanging out her dress did absolutely nothing to him.

No, his problems weren’t of the mind. He began to wonder how that one time on the Shy Maid he managed it, for the few times he’s tried since, they were miserable failures. He’d kiss his wife in the dark, he’d try touching her, feel out her tits perhaps, but a tit in his palm did nothing to him, he’d end up desperately yanking at himself trying to get it up while kissing her. Until he gave up. She would whisper something along the lines of it being only natural in Blackheart’s house, with all the stress he’s under, but he would know, it wasn’t natural. He knew because he’d wake in the night, and he no longer had such notions as not sorting it with her by his side. He should’ve woken her, but the one time he thought of doing so, his body told him crystal clearly how that’s to result, he needed no finishing after that. He was an abomination, he kept reminding himself, a man who can’t even get on his wife.

Wherever this stupid rain came from, he thought, he may as well make use of it just to win some more time, turning back to see the cart behind him get stuck for the fifth time. He gave the order. The collective sigh he’s heard only assured him that it was all right, it was just fine to take yet another day before he has to face the problem again.

Laying his head down to sleep in a tent erected on muddy ground felt like relief that night. He had to figure it out, he had to make something of it. And yet his mind kept returning to Rhaegar. Ever since he rode out north, Rhaegar has been on his mind without a pause. Rhaegar, and memories. Memories were enough for his body to respond, and yet the warm flesh of his wife under his palms could not elicit the same response in him. He wanted it, oh he wanted it so much. He remembered clearly the feeling of it, the hot tight wetness of her, the elation, the relief of spilling himself into her body. He could not figure how to bring it about again, his body simply wasn’t willing.

“It is a game,” Rhaegar smirked, “just sit tight. Make yourself comfortable.” Jon pulled the pillows up behind him, sinking into the softness of Rhaegar’s bed. “I will enjoy this,” he could hear Rhaegar smirk even in his voice. Mischievous, carefree, a whole different side of Rhaegar than he’s known before. Before Rhaegar had enough of Jon’s cold masks and well-mannered pretences and thoroughly fucked Jon into his mattress to break down all the walls Jon built to hide his desire, what he thought to be his shame. The memory of it stirred Jon’s blood.

“You are so bloody easy to arouse,” Rhaegar laughed as he climbed on the bed. “I bet you’re thinking about it.”

“I am,” he professed easily. Such revelations came effortlessly to him now, just as normal as the whole act became. There were no more feelings of being torn open just as there were no more feelings of shame. He became used to it just as much as he’s accepted himself, he knew.

“Well,” Rhaegar smirked, leaning over him he untied a curtain, “Let’s play.” He took the silk ribbon that’s been holding back one of his bed curtains, took Jon’s wrists one by one, tied them to the bedpost. “Forgive me Jon, but I have no trust in you,” he laughed, “you’d touch yourself. I know you too well.” Yes, he became accustomed to do that as well. He’d kneel on this bed, gladly giving himself while he’d work on his own release, trying to time it just right to match Rhaegar’s for whenever he succeeded, it was ground shaking as if the Gods themselves intervened to make it clear: this was all right. Just like Rhaegar told him: it was all right.

The game Rhaegar came up with was mind-blowing in the most frustrating and agonising way. Rhaegar thought it funny, Jon far less so. He wanted to be claimed and conquered. Rhaegar was doing no such thing. Instead, he was for lack of better word fiddling with Jon’s nipples. Jon learned his nipples were probably the most sensitive parts of his whole body, for they now drove him crazy. He was hard and ready, all he wanted was to be claimed. Not fiddled with. Even when Rhaegar finally left them be, his nipples were driving him nuts. And the game only became even more frustrating after. What’s a finger compared, Jon thought, a damned pointing finger. He didn’t want a finger, he craved far more than a single finger. But Rhaegar spread his limbs wide only to give him nothing more but a pointing finger. He oiled it so much so that Jon barely felt a thing, it was so little to quench his longing to be filled. A damned finger. Rhaegar would curl that damned finger at times, touching pieces of him inside that shot waves of intense heat through him. Whenever he did that, Jon felt the urge to just move, roll his hips to get just a little more of it before it stopped. Because it always stopped.

Time stopped, Jon couldn’t tell when, his mind drew blank long before it. Every fibre of his body turned one by one to focus on the one single thing: to chase the shots of white heat, to live every part of every moment of them, endlessly craving them. Every inch of his body gave in to the game after a while. At some point Rhaegar must’ve taken pity, the thought formed in the back of Jon’s mind before it disappeared just as swiftly as it came, his focus on the thumb that rubbed him just under his balls. He would’ve been glad for more, but there was no more. There was a finger moving in him and a thumb. Another thumb on a damned accursed nipple. He rolled his hips, he wondered if the whining sounds came from his own throat, securing his feet he began rolling his hips on that one finger. He was desperate. He was also proud, he would not beg. He lost count of the times it was on the tip of his tongue, to beg please, just please. Make it stop. But make it more. But make it stop. More and more.

In the end, he felt every last bit of him broken by the game. His mind exhausted, his body tense, when his orgasm came on him, it found him utterly defenseless. It came so swiftly, all he was capable of was to thrust up his hip against that one accursed finger and give in. He felt that damned finger finally stay on the right spot but now, as his orgasm shook him, what he craved until this moment proved way too much to bear, that damned finger rubbing inside him as he spilled himself. It was long and harsh. No, Jon didn’t like this game. He dropped his exhausted body back onto the mattress, he didn’t even realise that he was holding himself up for far longer even than his release, every muscle in his thighs aching after the effort. His mind barely registered Rhaegar releasing his wrists, folding his legs against his torso. “Delicious,” he’s heard the silky whisper of his silver prince and then finally, he’s been claimed, he was being fucked. He’s been conquered, more than ever before it, more than he thought he ever could be, the realisation came just as Rhaegar finally pulled from him. All he wanted was to curl up, rolling onto his side, his legs still folded against his torso. Now he’s been truly conquered for he’s never felt himself so small, so vulnerable. An arm wrapped around him from behind, providing him with instant consolation, perhaps even with reassurance, just as Rhaegar told him before: it was all right. Perhaps it was just as well being cracked open so widely that his very soul felt laid bare, no matter how his pride, his stubborn griffin blood tried to protest against such notions. “My griffin,” he’s heard Rhaegar whisper, “Sleep is in order.” He didn’t need to be told twice, sleep claimed his exhausted mind so quickly, he barely even arrived at the realisation that he shall sleep in Rhaegar’s bed, in Rhaegar’s chamber, for the first time ever in his short but miserable life.

He woke in cold sweat, his shirt soaked in his own sweat, sticking to his torso. Sleeping at the ready, he felt breeches and small clothes holding him together too tightly, too uncomfortably. The fleeting thought came to ease himself but he brushed it away, his mind too weary, the pain of loss too great. His eyes burned with tears he knew he was to shed and yet instinctively he fought to keep them at bay. His pride and his aching heart were almost too much to bear. Perhaps this was it then, Griff thought bitterly. This was the end, this was Aerys’ punishment. He believed so for he knew, he cannot keep this up much longer. He cannot wake like this every night, and he certainly cannot do so with Ashara laying beside him. How long before he caved in, before he took his own dagger to his wrists to make it stop. Why, oh why did Robert not take the shot. Why did he startle at the flying dagger. Should’ve just taken the shot, crush Griff’s skull, give him an end. Just as he’s given Rhaegar an end. Then at the least he’d console himself in whichever of the seven hells he was confined in for the rest of eternity, that Rhaegar was beside him. Wherever abominations such as him go. Wherever dead princes go for he knew, he’d fight his way through all seven of hells and all seven faces of the Seven, hells he’d fight all three hundred deities of Lys if that was what it took to be with Rhaegar again. He knew he would.

He breathed out, slowly, inhaling to fill his lungs, holding onto the air just to feel it. To feel alive. He was alive. He had responsibilities. He had Rhaegar’s son, he even had Rhaegar’s sister. He could not afford to think of the dagger in his boot, how easily it would cut through skin and nerves and yes, veins on his wrist. How his blood would flow freely and how he’d watch silently as life would flow away from him. He could not afford himself the luxury of an end. This was Aerys’ justice meted out to him - he had to stay alive. He had to be father, be husband, be everything he thought himself incapable to be ever since he could remember.

So be it, Griff thought as he sat up on his sleeping mat. He looked up, but Rhaegar’s ghost made no appearance tonight. He was alone. Resting his elbows on his knees, he buried his head into his palms. This was no way, he knew. He could not pretend, he knew. Rhaegar tore down the walls he’s built, there was no way for him to shield himself, not from this.

He laid back after a time, staring into the black nothingness, his mind strangely clear. So be it, he told himself, pressing his eyes closed. Rhaegar would not appear, and he had to keep going, he had to find a way to keep on living. On the morrow he shall share bed again with his wife and on countless days after it, he has to become father, husband. But tonight, in a silent camp in a tent among many, he could be someone else, he thought. There was no way to fight it, no way to keep running. He had to face it. He let out a deep sigh. So be it. Rain down on me with all your wrath. Show me, take what ever you want.

It’s been two years, more or less. Jon grew into a man, grew muscles of a man, he even attempted at growing a beard just to emphasise, more to himself than anyone else, he was now a man grown. Inside, he’s grown as well. He learned acceptance. He learned how to hold his head high hearing the whispers behind his back, ‘sword-swallower’. He learned to ignore; ignore the despising eyes on him, just as much as to ignore his own jealousy. He learned gratitude; being grateful for any who would not look at him with disdain, as much as to be grateful for the times when he could just be himself. Those were the times he’s spent in Rhaegar’s chambers, they became his sanctuary.

He never asked for anything, he never complained. He had nothing more to give, all he had he’s given already, there was no part of himself he denied. Lately, he argued more often with himself in the silence of his own chamber. He thought of all the reasons he was to give, all the elaborately formed disputations he’d raise, but he never got to that point. Rhaegar seemed as if he knew nothing of Jon’s desperation and Jon never risked it, never grew up to the task of speaking openly about any of it. Never asked for what he wanted. The frustration was almost too much to bear, to hide. His only moments free of it were spent on his hands and knees if not on his back with his legs pulled close to himself, drowning in ecstasy, that as soon as his passion peaked and he spent himself, he began to despise, to feel too little to tame the growing unease and disappointment deep within. He no longer tried to match his timing, he chased his own release, just to make sure he’s had it before Rhaegar would pull from him. Most times, his mind cleared so much after already that he could make out the muscle spasms inside himself as Rhaegar released. He could not pretend, he’s never been good at pretending, he’s had no walls to hide behind either. It wasn’t enough, he knew. It could never have been enough.

He let loose all his frustration on the yard. Myles Mooton and Richard Lonmouth, Rhaegar’s squires had it harder from him for he’d fight them like a madman, often only held back by Ser Willem’s last minute orders to stand down before he spilled blood. He had nothing against them, really. It was the only way he knew how to release the boiling disappointment inside him. He had no reason for it, he kept telling himself, and still, it grew and grew, he felt it poisoning his mind. He knew it will poison his time with Rhaegar, if he allowed it. He had to face it for he had to make it go away, before he lost the little happiness he held so dear.

“If I knew you less, I would think you attempt to rid yourself from me,” he’s said coldly before he caught himself. Words once spoken cannot be taken back, he felt Rhaegar’s gaze settle on him.

“And what would make you think so,” Rhaegar asked in that annoyingly emotionless voice of his that never betrayed what truly was on his mind. Jon could only guess the attention he was given by Rhaegar’s willingness to put aside that damned harp he’s been fiddling with for the better part of the hour.

“Ashara Dayne,” Jon tried hard not to raise his voice, “Really?!”

“She’s a good match,” Rhaegar repeated his reasoning, “The best anyone could ask for. In fact, some ask for it.”

“Who,” Jon raised an eyebrow.

“Willas Tyrell, for one,” Rhaegar shrugged, “And as much as I love you dearly, Tyrell is a far better match than you are for a girl of her standing. So perhaps you should consider it before your chance is gone for you shall find none other like her, I can assure you of that.”

“Perhaps I want to find none,” Jon spit the words.

“You are such a fool sometimes,” Rhaegar said calmly, “A love struck fool. You are the heir of your house Jon. Sooner or later you have to breed.”

“Perhaps I want none of that either.”

“What do you want, then,” Rhaegar stood from the windowsill. “I will not name you into the Kingsguard. That is gone, Jon, I will not strip you of your rank and lordship. What kind of king would I become if I did that to you of all people?”

“First you need to become king,” Jon bit back.

“True enough,” Rhaegar poured wine in a chalice before he turned toward him again, leaning against the table. The times when Rhaegar would pour wine for him were gone, Jon thought bitterly. “So I ask you again, what do you want?”

He bit back the words. All of the reasons and disputations he’s carefully lined up, he bit them down once more. He kept his silence, feeling like the coward he was for doing so.

“See,” Rhaegar declared just as emotionlessly, “You cannot even tell. How long are you planning to boil over it? You cannot fight this. It is just how things are, Jon. We all have to grow up and breed, it is what it is.”

“I recall you say,” Jon sighed desperately, “were you and I born in Dorne…”

“We were not born in Dorne,” Rhaegar interrupted with just a flicker of annoyance.

“Then breed, you are doing a marvellous job at it,” Jon scoffed, “just put some babes in your wife and be done with it. Where is it said that I must do the same? You said so yourself, Tyrell is a better match. The fuck knows why you keep going back anyway.”

“Back - where?” Rhaegar tilted his head slightly sideways, something Jon used to adore about him. Now he felt it disturbing. Of course Rhaegar would ask for an explanation of THIS.

“Back to her bed,” he grunted, “and you understood me clearly the first time.”

“You are such a fool,” Rhaegar laughed, “you know nothing, Jon. You’ve no idea.”

“Enlighten me, then,” Jon growled.

“Now that would be hard for me to do,” Rhaegar clearly amused himself at his expense. “You blush so hard when you are jealous.”

“Fucking change the topic like you always do,” Jon looked away from him.

“Whatever,” Rhaegar emptied his chalice. “You can sit here boiling if you so wish. But I am telling you, I expect you man up and ask the lady Ashara Dayne. Now, I go to bed. Boil over it until you can swallow it, Jon.”

Part of him was left stunned frozen into the armchair because for the first time, he argued and see, for the first time Rhaegar literally left him where he was. Another part of him kept raging. He cared not how his cheeks blushed of his jealousy, he cared not about breeding either. He cared nothing for this whole conversation in truth. What was there to talk about? Rhaegar was right in one thing, only - it was what it was. He, Jon Connington could not do a damn thing about it. Curse the Gods for making him fall so hard for a man that was also his prince. Was it a mere stable boy, he could easily handle and live out his life fucking the stable boy. He had no need for breeding. He could not breed, the one time he tried to get it up over a girl he failed miserably. Though truth be told, he was of twelve years back then. Truth be told, he wasn’t fucking anyone either.

“Come to bed,” he’s heard Rhaegar and part of him wanted to protest. Still, he stood, his legs took him across to the bedchamber. His limbs had a mind of their own, surely, for his hands freed him of his clothing, his legs stepped out of boots and breeches. He acutely felt hate toward himself, and he could not even tell why.

“I will leave for Dragonstone on the morrow,” Rhaegar sat up on the bed. “So stop standing there, it shall be a while until the next time.”

There’s never been a first time, the thought came, say it. There could not be a next time of something that never happened before. Jon felt like exploding in his pent up frustration. He climbed on the bed, pushed Rhaegar back down into the mattress. “I said, enlighten me,” he grunted, “I bet you cannot, you cannot reason.”

“I still have no vagina, thank the Gods,” Rhaegar laughed. “But you really should stick yourself into one. It would change your mind, I am sure of it.”

“I would rather stick it elsewhere,” he leaned down, teasing pale skin on neck.

“I bet you would,” Rhaegar mused, “is that why you’re boiling? Your pride?”

“Fuck that,” Jon scoffed, “In fact, fuck you as well, Rhaegar. Fuck you to the seventh of hells.”

“You wish,” Rhaegar had no inclination of what all he’s been fighting to hide, Jon thought, “and it would be the fifth of hells.”

“So be it then,” he sat up, “I fuck you hard the way you like to do me, and then I go burn in the fifth of hells for all I care. You get your wish.”

“Meaning,” Rhaegar raised an eyebrow, “you give up and ask…”

“Whatever,” Jon growled, “you want me to wed, fine, I shall wed sometime. No rush, is there now, and I doubt I can even get it up for her but fine. Whatever you want. You always get what you want.”

“I am a dragon,” Rhaegar chattered, “I told you enough. I take what I want.”

“So do I,” he mumbled, as he lowered himself on the naked body. He’s gonna take what HE wanted. Starting with having to suck Rhaegar mindless for he will not even get close to what he now set himself to take unless Rhaegar grew needy enough. And Rhaegar never grew needy enough.

Never, until this night. It took hours in truth, but sometime during those hours Jon began to understand the game, then to even enjoy it. Now he could clearly see what drove Rhaegar’s game, what Rhaegar took from him that night he first slept in Rhaegar’s bed, and many times since. Oh he enjoyed this, very much so. Whimpered words praising his fingers were like Rhaegar’s latest song to his ears, drops of sweat on porcelain skin became his new favourite to get drunk on. And the damned nipples, they were his greatest weapon he realised, tongue tracing, lips locking to suckle on hardened nipple while fingers curling, rubbing rough spots hidden deep, eliciting the sweetest of songs Rhaegar ever wrote.

“Fuck me then,” Rhaegar whispered, and Jon raised his head, eyes searching the depth of purple in Rhaegar’s. “Just get on with it, damn you,” Rhaegar tossed his head back into the pillows, panting hard in anticipation as he gave way to himself. “Just take care if you can, I never gave myself you know that well enough.”

Well that changed this night. For long after, Jon considered it the best night of his life. In truth, it was only the first. He would not be able to count those that came after. He learned his silver prince enough to learn the how, how to get what he wanted, how to bring forth the sweetest of songs, music only his ears were meant to hear.

He never asked Ashara Dayne. Truth be told, they never even spoke of her after. Jon sunk into a new kind of bliss that night, often wondering why it’s been so hard to get there. He should’ve just asked, or better - he should’ve been the griffin he’s always been, he should’ve just taken his due.

He wondered about the poplar as he studied the branches above him, hiding view of the starry sky above. The house long became quiet, since he came out here by himself. Breathe in, breathe out, slowly, to feel the air fill his lungs, hold it in for a moment. To feel alive. Feel the grass tickle the skin on the back of his neck, feel his blood slowly reach its boiling point.

He wondered if he could tell apart the sound of skirts from any other, in truth, for he could clearly tell who they belonged to as soon as he’s heard them. He didn’t move, eyes closed he breathed his last in this calmth, held it in, before he allowed the air to depart from his lungs.

“Will you now sleep in the gardens,” Ashara knelt down next to him.

“No I will not,” he answered calmly, “I merely took time for myself.”

“Yourself,” Ashara repeated, “or your memories?”

“I am done with memories, Ash.”

She didn’t reply. She didn’t believe him, he knew. He said nothing either. Her presence brought forth a certain peace in him as it always did, and he had no will to disturb it with words.

“I meant to tell you something,” her whisper broke the silence. “I meant to tell you even before…” she sighed, paused for a moment. “It matters little.”

He opened his eyes, settled his gaze on her. “I know it,” she whispered. “I meant to tell you that I know it. So I meant to say, if you ever wanted…”

“I doubt this needs saying,” he reached to take her hand.

“But it does need saying,” she argued. “So if you ever wanted, if you found a man... I meant to tell you that I will understand.”

He paused in exhale, for a moment. Studied her face, but it was just as emotionless as he’s known another beautiful face to have been all the time, every time he searched it for even the smallest sign of emotion. “I will not be whoring, if that is what you mean,” he declared calmly, “I will not do that to you, Ash.”

“That is good,” she sighed, “but what I mean, if you found someone...”

“There is no one to be found,” he sat up, turning toward her. “It is as Rhaegar told me once. Just how things are. Sooner or later we all have to grow up. And breed, he said that as well. Fuck him to the seventh of hells. The fifth. Not the seventh.”

“What are you even talking about,” Ashara asked with clear confusion in her eyes, “have you heard what I told you?”

“Loud and clear,” he stood, helped her up from the grass. “And I am telling you, there is none to be found, none I can think of. It is what it is. Come,” he motioned toward the house.

“Not until you tell me,” she held back his hand, “I need to know. Jon please, I need to know.”

“I have nothing to say,” he whispered. “Truly Ash, I have nothing to say. Come and let me show you how to make this pile of shit work for us.”

“Show me?”

“Aye, show you,” he smirked, his sarcasm apparent, “Fuck Rhaegar and his games, I’ve an idea. And I still know nothing about women so… There is some learning and figuring for the both of us. Best we get on with it before I explode.”

***

“Why are you never real?
Whenever you appear you leave me with that grace
I am trembling with fear
But I know that you will disappear
Just as I awake, a whisper in my ear

Well I believe
Somewhere in the past something was between you and I
My dear
And it remains with me to this day
No matter what I do this scar will never fade

So let’s make trouble in the dream world
Hijack heaven with another memory now
I make the most of the turning tide
It just split what’s left of the burning silence
Don’t wait cos this could be the last time
You turn up in the reveries of my mind
I wake up to a suicide frenzy
Loaded dreams still leave me empty
I believe
Somewhere in the past something was between you and I
My dear
And it remains with me to this day
No matter what I do this wound will never heal

Why are you never real?
The shifting states you follow me through unrevealed
Just let me go or take me with you…”

Chapter Text

THE LYSENI

He watched from atop the gatepost, knowing well that they could not see him, the trees hiding him from their view. He could not understand a word they spoke. In truth, they should not have been here. He was mice, he knew how to move without a sound, but it was damn hard to do when you could tell, there was one listening to the silence itself. Griff laid in the grass eyes closed, seemingly focused on his breathing. Lysono wondered about it. He barely made it to the gate and the Lady appeared. Their chatter provided him with the opportunity to climb, but he remained at his post, watching them.

Cousin has been so wrong about Griff, Lysono thought. Cousin has been wrong about everything in truth, let’s just be honest, at least with himself. Griff took the lady’s hand but she was unwilling to go back into the house, and they spoke some more. Then she followed Griff into the house. These two, Lysono mused, no doubt they struggled to get past the very fact that Griff would’ve preferred her to be a man. No matter how Lysono found her quite admirable, she had the wrong things on offer for Griff that much was absolutely clear knowing what all Lysono knew about Griff and about men in general. Whatever, he will not linger on them for now, he decided. He was absolutely certain by now, they only had that one time, on the ship. He didn’t begin yet to untangle how they managed to make twins if they couldn’t even manage a proper fuck, that could wait. Griff was miserable, the Lady even more so - he could read it off their faces in truth. Well, they couldn’t just go to Gorys’ room like he did, he chuckled to himself before he jumped off, landing confidently on his two feet on the street. He pressed his back against the wall and watched, but there was no movement. It was refreshing in truth, somehow Volon Therys seemed free of mice. It wasn’t refreshing to realise though, that only meant the job was much harder than he expected when he’s set himself on this course. It wasn’t mice he was looking for in truth. He leaned down, his fingers making out the handle of the dagger in his boot. He spared a split moment of a thought to whether Griff already noticed that he stole back his dagger. He needed the dagger, for his task proved to be far more serious than finding some stray mice to work on. It was easy to turn mice. He had not even the slightest idea how he’d approach turning what he expected he’ll find at the end of this. He had no misconceptions about it now, it was as he foresaw - he will have to kill before this work was over.

He made his way to his destination, swiftly, but silently, all the while his thoughts were elsewhere. He was in his element in the night, freely moving he needed no focus spared on remaining nimble like a cat in the dark. His cloak turned inside out, he knew well that he also remained unseen, nothing more but a dark shadow. Exactly as he wanted.

His thoughts were in Gorys’ room. To be exact, his thoughts were on Gorys Edoryen. He’s spent a few delicious hours with Gorys Edoryen the other night. Just as he hoped, his mind cleared and his focus sharpened but there was more to it. He actually enjoyed himself. Yes, he would not mind a repeat. Gorys was so pliable in bed, he chuckled to himself. And eager, too. And damn inexperienced but that’s something he can work on. Yes, he shall teach Gorys some tricks, starting with how to properly use his fingers so Lysono doesn’t have to finish the job just to get properly prepared, when he’d rather just enjoy the intensity of what it could be like. The rest of it wasn’t even much to linger on, Gorys wasn’t standing out in any way from the countless others he had, if not for the fact that he was quite willing with Gorys, more than willing, he actually found himself wanting, for a change. Not to mention the most peculiar thing about Gorys, which was that somehow Lysono found himself actually having some trust in the man. That was an interesting development. He could build on that, perhaps, and teach Gorys some tricks. And he definitely had to teach Gorys how to lie. Oh, Lysono had ideas of what all to teach Gorys. He knew as well, he wasn’t doing wrong by Gorys this time, there was nothing to bring forth the guilt that plagued him during the journey south. At the end of it, Gorys will perhaps grow into what Lysono thought a paymaster should be like. He had no doubt, Blackheart chose Gorys for Gorys was so damn honest, it was as Lysono said, he could read Gorys’ whole day off the young man’s face. He did have a quite comely face, Lysono admitted to himself readily, yes, Gorys was easy on the eye enough for him to not have to bother about finding the man desirable either. Surely Gorys gave no trouble to Blackheart in his job, and that was exactly why Blackheart chose him. But Lysono knew better. Honesty like that served nobody well ever, and definitely not one who was supposed to guard the gold. No, he shall teach Gorys how to lie, how to hide whatever was on his mind. In the end, it’s something for something. Gorys can give him what he needed - the time off work to recharge his mind and refocus. He’ll give Gorys the tools the man needs to actually make it as paymaster. Yes, that was a good trade, he won’t feel bad about that.

He arrived at his destination, even his panting silent after he ran for the better part of the hour. He arrived in time, he knew. He’s spent the past three nights to figure this out. It was as he’s told Gorys, he’s lost sight of the cook. He’s spent the better part of the past two weeks following this damned cook. The cook was good, he had to admit. Even if he didn’t know about the moontea, this alone would’ve told him that he was onto something. Yes, he had to actually put effort into this. Follow the cook. Lose him. Then the next night, he’d wait exactly where he lost the man. He figured, after losing him twice, the man will be more lax seeing that he wasn’t followed. It wasn’t so easy as he expected though. He had to wait three nights, he realised that the cook had different paths. Not a worry, Lysono was patient. He could wait. On the third night, the man appeared just as he expected, leading him further, before he lost the man again. That was frustrating, but now he knew what he shall do about it. His plan worked. So he waited. And so now, now he knew exactly where the cook’s been leading him. He climbed the wall effortlessly, if not for that damned pinky finger. He didn’t allow himself even a hiss, though. He was better than that. He settled atop the wall, hidden behind the branches of a tree, the path to the house within his sight.

There was light. He had to be careful, he reminded himself. He waited. A few hours must’ve passed, he caught himself yawning a few times. Even worse, he began wondering whether he’ll have sufficient time to get back into his bed. He’s given up on the sleep. Perhaps on the morrow he shall visit Gorys, get himself spent and then he’ll sleep in Gorys’ bed a little. He studied the house, single storey building that has surely seen better days, but the garden was well maintained. He glanced down - the hedgerow has been cut. Rookie mistake, he chuckled to himself. Clearly, they expected no mice here. He wondered whether he should get closer, climb the wall, perhaps go down the chimney to actually hear what was going on inside. There was a problem with it, he’d get so dirty he could never pretend he’s spent the night in his bed. The chimney had to be set aside.

Suddenly the door opened and the cook appeared. He was looking back into the house, whispering. Looking out and around the garden and Lysono laid down atop the wall, making sure he could not be seen. The man stepped aside giving way to another man. This one wore a long cloak, hooded and across it he wore something akin to Haldon’s bag that Gorys now carried, but far larger. Damn.

Lysono hoped for a few moments but he knew it was futile. He knew exactly what was happening, he knew he was late. He wasted too much time. As he expected, the man led forth a horse. Well enough, he will be easy to follow with that, as long as he’s slow enough, Lysono assured himself. The cook simply returned to the house, even before the man led the horse through the gate. Lysono moved, at the ready. He watched as the man led the horse away on the streets. Thank the Gods, whichever of them deities decided to make this man walk, Lysono silently jumped off the wall. The man didn’t even look back. He crossed the street, climbed atop. Yes, this was still doable, he assured himself. He ran atop the wall, watching the man cross the square ahead he jumped atop a roof and followed. There’ll be an awful lot of climbing in this, the pinkie finger won’t like it. It had to be done, he had to get ahead of the man, preferably before the man decides to get on that damned horse of his. And before he’s within sight of the guard atop the city walls, yes that would not hurt either. Lysono glanced east. There was no sign of the sun on the horizon, the gates will be closed for a while yet.

He had to figure the man’s path, no matter how he felt the urge to follow, he had to pause and figure. Where the man would go - Pentos, where else. The man was the messenger. Which gate. What path to get there. He had to think hard, he didn’t know this city and it was enormous. In the end, he chose his path, hoping he’s been right. He made his way atop another wall, until he reached the part of the city where there were no more walled houses. These ones were built tightly next to each other, making it easy for him to make his way ahead. He picked the alley, torch light barely entered it from the street ahead. Yes, he man has to cross here, the man was one street behind. He will cross here. He had to. Perhaps he should pray to Yndros, Lysono thought. Or someone, whichever deity would aid him.

He also had to figure what to do with the man. It was well enough to cross the man’s path, but there had to be a plan. In the end, Lysono settled with the craziest idea. He could hear the horse approach. He jumped from the rooftop, landed on his feet. There he turned his cloak swiftly inside out. He’s pulled it back on but kept the hood off his silver head. Leaning against the wall, he waited for the approaching horse. He wondered when was the last time he felt his heart pounding this strongly in his throat. This may be a grave mistake. He leaned down, touched the handle of his dagger in his boot. Then he thought better, he took the dagger and folded it into his cloak. The shadow of the horse appeared at the entrance of the alley.

The man only startled for a moment, before he continued on his way. Yes, Lysono was right, years of experience showed, he picked the right path.

“Lysono Maar,” the man whispered, Lysono could hear the smirk through his voice. “I heard you prefer the streets at night.”

“Once a mice, always a mice, I suppose,” Lysono said on that honeyed voice of his that he’s used whenever he wished the seduction to be quickly over with. He didn’t mean to seduce the man, of course he didn’t. He just needed some time to figure how to go about this now that his worst fear materialised. At the least, his heart calmed. The sense of danger set in, the instinct to survive won over. His focus sharpened. “The streets are free. I would know if we met before.”

“Was a long time ago, boy,” the man replied calmly. “We could discourse about it. You gave me a pleasant hour hard to forget that one time.” That cut deep, Lysono swallowed. So the man was one Master Illyrio sent him to. Or shared him with, more likely. Just as likely that the man was a liar, he reminded himself.

“I would recognise your voice of I did,” he shrugged.

“Well said,” the man laughed, “I heard of you, boy. You did not disappoint.”

“Shame I have never heard of you,” he answered swiftly.

“We all are just pieces of a puzzle,” the man’s reply came. “You need not know about me, boy.”

“I would disagree,” Lysono chattered, “Cousin told me to find the messenger, and here you are.”

“Did he now,” the man didn’t even seem to think about it. This wasn’t good enough.

“He told me you will not be prepared,” he shrugged, “he told me to put myself in front of Ilaena and find the messenger so I have a way to home. So here I am.”

“You could have just left it to Ilaena, boy,” the man said, “Besides, should you not spend your nights elsewhere than on the streets?”

“Have you even spoken to Ilaena,” Lysono asked faking disappointment. “The man has a wife now. You lot really are unprepared. I even went to Master Illyrio to warn him, I told him of the wife.”

“The master knows,” the man startled.

“Of course he does,” Lysono shrugged. “Seems I do my job way better than you lot. I suspect even cousin knows of it by now, I delivered my news weeks past.”

“Well then,” the man declared, “your cousin will be most pleased when I deliver my news confirming yours. I heard there were some doubts about you boy. I give it to you, I am impressed.”

“I aim to please,” Lysono chuckled.

“I bet you do,” the man nodded, “I tell you what. Since you have your nights free, we should indeed meet once I returned. I heard much of your skills, think of it as a start of a flourishing friendship.”

Of course. “When you return,” Lysono wondered aloud, “why would I waste my skills on you? You are not my charge, you are merely a messenger.”

“Do not underestimate the messenger,” the man stepped in front of the horse, now only two steps away from Lysono. An arms length, just one more step, Lysono urged silently. One more step.

“You would claim that which is not yours to claim,” Lysono’s voice rang confident, honeyed, sweet like a soothing balm, like a viper right before the bite.

“And who says so,” the man’s smirk audible in his voice once more. Good, Lysono thought. The man bit. They always do. “Who would know?”

“I need no reports of my wasting my skills on a messenger, Messenger,” he declared.

“The messenger reports what he wants to report, boy,” the man shrugged. “Make no enemies where you could make friends.”

The man bit, clearly he bit, Lysono assured himself. He glanced down, raising his gaze slowly taking in the man’s whole frame as he but his lower lip. “I know the name of my friends,” he whispered. “I know not yours.”

“And that is just as well that way,” the man grew confident just as Lysono expected, “it is not my name on offer, boy.” One more step, Lysono silently urged on. He dropped his gaze, bit once more on his lower lip as he did so, watching in the corner of his eye the shadows on the pavement. To know.

“Well then,” the man reached out a hand. One more step, Lysono urged. The man finally lifted a leg, just as that hand reached his cheek, thumb pressing on his skin. It all happened so fast, he didn’t expect it, not at all. The man’s hand turned, in an instant it pressed on his throat, pressing him against the wall.

“Stupid games you play, boy,” the man stepped close just as he turned Lysono’s head aside. Wait, Lysono calmed himself, wait. Not yet. “The sun is yet to rise, the gate yet to open,” the man whispered in his ear. He felt a hand fiddling between their bodies. Yes, the man bit. Wait, not yet. “Methinks we need not wait till my return,” the man’s breathing began to hasten. They’re all the same, Lysono thought, they are all the same. The man pressed himself against him, “you would not want to disappoint, would you, boy” the man hissed. “Now let us see, how much you would like my report to please…”

The man tried to turn him around but if he turns, he loses the dagger. Lysono paniced for only a moment. He will not be turned, this is not a table to be pushed down against. He could not afford such a mistake here and besides, he lost the man, stupid games he played the man said, Lysono had no doubt that the man didn’t believe him. He needed back his control. Just take back control, there will be a next shot. There always is. “Step the fuck back,” he said calmly. “You are right. I want your report to be what I want it to be,” he continued, “and that tells you why I could not leave it to Ilaena.”

“Now we are talking,” the man let go of his throat taking a step back. Once more out of reach. Lysono did his best not to cough.

“Fine,” he declared, giving in. “Cousin told me nothing of you, there you have it. I need to know your report.”

“Perhaps I will tell you, boy,” the man chuckled, “what’s in it for me?”

“You know very well,” Lysono didn’t even flinch, “you know who I am. Anyways, let us speak of the report, business first.”

“Is there anything to speak of,” the man laughed. “There is not, and you know that, else why would you be here? No doubt you are pretty but your charge is yet to bite. Perhaps you failed.”

“I did not fail,” he protested, “I just need more time. Give me more time.”

“That is not up to me,” the man shrugged. Lysono swallowed hard, watching the man take the reins of the horse. No.

“It could be,” he protested.

“You are just a boy,” the man shrugged, “pretty face, pretty arse. Know your limits, little boy.” The man turned from him. No, Lysono wanted to scream.

The man raised his right arm to pull on the hood, hide his face as his eyes moved toward the torch at the entrance of the alley. The last moment, Lysono thought. Well this didn’t go as expected, if he even had expectations. He took no time to find where, and he moved. The dagger slipped on bone, he could not calculate it well enough. He had no practice. But then the dagger slid right through flesh, right into the lung, as he intended. The man grasped, moved, Lysono’s eyes caught the flashing light. A dagger. He pulled, raising his dagger he slit the man’s throat while pushing the man away with his other arm for he had no space for more. He just hoped it will be enough.

It was enough. What a mess, blood was sprinkling everywhere, the man gasping, as if he had spasms. Lysono just watched. Waited, acutely aware that he was covered in the man’s blood. What a mess. He should’ve just jumped and cut the man’s throat or something, there was no point in all this discussion. He knew, did he not know that this is where it’ll lead? Who was he kidding? His eyes burned, he wanted to sob at what a failure this was. The man didn’t even die yet and he was already climbing the wall. On the rooftop he turned east. The sun was yet to show any sign of intention to bring forth a new day. Thank whatever Gods Griff would thank for it, Lysono swallowed hard. The man was now dead. He climbed down, he dragged the man up. He wondered where he got the strength but he managed to hook the man’s arm across the back of the horse, then from the other side he dragged the man’s body across. Good. He could not do anything about the blood, he just had to leave it. About five blocks until what he suspected to be catacombs, shallow tunnels used to lead away waste toward the river. Five blocks. Lead the horse for five blocks. It will be fine.

His legs were shaking. The damned horse was loud. It took half a lifetime to reach the steps down. He still didn’t figure what to do about the horse. In the end he decided, he shall just take it. He will not harm the animal. He tossed the man’s body off the horse, it fell right into the flowing stinking waste. He threw up.

Wiping his mouth after it, he turned his cloak inside out, pulled his hood over his head. He only realised that he didn’t even search the man’s body or his bag. He felt like an idiot. What a botched job this was, what was he thinking?

He led the horse up the stairs once more. Pausing for a moment, he decided on his course. He needed to clean himself up. He needed to clean the blood from his clothing. He needed to clear his mind. There was only one way to go, he didn’t have much time. He needed to be found in his bed in the morn, or at the least somewhere in the house, or in the gardens, he could talk himself out of it as long as he arrives in time, he assured himself. He climbed atop the damned horse, and rode as hard as he could. There was only one place he could go.

He left the horse in the stable, took the steps two at a time. He tried to knock calmly and not just break down the door in front of him. There was no sound.

“Wake up,” he pleaded as his fingers were scratching on the door, to make some kind of sound that’d be enough, “please, wake up… wake up…” he finally heard the key turn in the lock.

“It is me,” he whispered, knowing well that his voice will be recognised, “let me in, I need help.”

Gorys finally opened the door, rubbing his eyes with his other hand. He startled at the sight, so Lysono just stepped in past him.

“What the…” Gorys began, “is that… what… are you hurt?”

“No, I need your help,” he pleaded. “Gorys please.” Gorys just nodded, clearly stunned by his sight. He must’ve looked horrendously covered in blood, Lysono realised. “Is there a bath here, and I need to wash my clothing, my hair… damn.”

“Who’s blood is this,” Gorys asked. Lysono wanted to scream.

“I had to,” he whispered instead, “I could not turn him. I had to…”

“What are you even talking about,” Gorys asked. “Who’s blood…”

“I know not, I…” Lysono panted, “he gave me no name. He was the messenger, I had to, I could not turn him... Please Gorys, is there a bath here, I need to clean up…”

“That you do,” Gorys swallowed hard. “You cannot go down to the baths, this much blood, it would colour the water.”

“Damn,” Lysono felt at breaking point.

“Light the candles, there on the table,” Gorys told him, “I bring water, and then you tell me whatever the fuck you did while we clean you up. I mean it.”

Lysono only nodded. He lit all the seven candles, making a mental note to bring Gorys some candles next time. If Gorys will even allow him through the door after this. Gorys appeared with two enormous jugs in hand and a bowl over his head. If he wasn’t feeling the fright finally catching up with him, Lysono would’ve found the sight funny. Gorys put down the bowl on the table in front of him. “Here,” he said, “I bring more water. Perhaps start with the clothing, before it dries.”

He only nodded. He stripped. So much blood, he filled the bowl with water and in no time the water was dark with blood and he didn’t even finish with his cloak yet. His shirt was covered in blood. Gorys arrived with two more jugs, locked the door behind himself.

“This will not do,” he declared seeing the bowl of water. “We can’t wash out this much here, like this.”

“I need to be back,” Lysono sunk onto a chair. “If I am not back…”

“Blackheart will kick you out without a second thought,” Gorys explained.

“Worse,” Lysono shook his head, “the woman will know.”

“Think this is the time you tell me what the fuck happened,” Gorys remarked, “strip, we got to wash you at the least.” Lysono did as told. Even while unbraiding his hair, blood was dripping from it. “What a mess,” Gorys sighed, “turn around, lean back,” and he moved the bowl under Lysono’s hair. He washed it with soap, it smelled like lemon, like Gorys smelled just last night, Lysono thought. Then Gorys poured clean water over his head. “There, you can wash your face by yourself. And your neck. And your left ear. The rest of you looks clean enough.”

He did as told, Gorys watching him from the chair opposite. “Speak,” he said after a while, “I give you a shirt. Have yours soaked in water, maybe then it washes out. Tell me what happened.”

“I followed the cook,” he began, “I knew it. I lost him too many times, I knew it. I climbed up to watch and… I was late, I had no choice.”

“What are you saying,” Gorys looked at him bewildered, “you cut down Blackheart’s cook?!”

“No, no,” Lysono protested, “the messenger. He was departing from the cook. Horse and all. I left the horse in the stable, I could not kill it. Methinks it a hood horse, I...”

“Messenger, you say,” Gorys refocused him.

“Messenger, he set out toward the northern gate. So I climbed on the rooftops, I found where he’d cross, the darkest alley I could find on his path, I… I just wanted to talk, I think…”

“Presume the talk did not work out then,” Gorys sighed.

“I thought it would,” Lysono finished washing, took the shirt laid on the table by Gorys, “he saw through me. I went at it three times, he saw right through me. Sure I could’ve… clearly he would have bit, but why, Gorys… he told me, I failed, his report had nothing… he was to leave me there. I had to…”

Gorys took a deep breath, “I will not pretend I understand any of this,” he said, “did you kill him then?”

Lysono only nodded, his eyes burning. There were tears wanting to break free, he tried to swallow down the sob.

“Where’s the body,” Gorys asked calmly.

“In the northern canal, I took it down to the catacombs and threw it into the shit…”

“That will come afloat in the river within a week at most,” Gorys told him. “The guard will be looking for you if they fish it out.”

“I had to,” Lysono wiped his eyes.

“Yes, you said so already,” Gorys sighed.

“Have you ever killed anyone,” he asked.

“Never,” Gorys’ reply was calm, as much as it was disappointing for some reason, Lysono thought. He could not tell why, he wished for himself not to stand out so sorely. He was a killer now, the realisation set in.

“I am sorry,” he whimpered, “I am so sorry…”

“For what,” Gorys asked, “I have no clue who it was, no need to be sorry to me. Question is, will anyone look for him?”

“No, he was to ride out.”

“Well, with some luck the current will take him far enough from the harbour,” Gorys sounded as if he was trying to be assuring, Lysono thought. He felt gratitude wash over him. “In a week, down in the canals… perhaps it will even rot enough for none to recognise it.”

“I am sorry,” Lysono whimpered.

“You said so,” Gorys seemed unphased by his apologies. “I take it, the man was to report to your cousin, is that what you believe then?”

“To magister Illirio,” he explained, “and he would write to cousin. He refused to give me more time,” Lysono protested.

“More time for what,” Gorys asked.

“Long story, I…”

“Methinks after this mess you better get on with that long story,” Gorys interrupted him. True enough, Lysono thought. He owed this much. But not now. He had to get back now.

“I come tonight,” he said instead, “I will tell you, I promise. I need to be back. I just… I want to tell, I just…”

“Fine, then,” Gorys shrugged it off, “so there is a bloody horse in the stable,” he asked instead, and Lysono nodded. “I suppose I need to clean up the horse, then,” Gorys stood. He began to dress.

“I cannot thank you enough,” Lysono mumbled.

“No, you cannot,” Gorys turned toward him, his face emotionless, “there’s no rutting that is worth this mess, I hope you know that. You need to get going. Have you washed the cloak?”

“No I…”

“Well then, go without a cloak,” he grabbed his blanket from his bed, “here, hide yourself in this, I have no cloak to give. Bring it back tonight.”

“I will,” Lysono wrapped himself into the blanket. Gorys as much as dragged him out of his room and down the stairs.

“Go now,” he whispered, “I’ll clean up the horse and get it paid in. And the room. And Lysono…” Lysono turned back toward him. “I am pissed, just know that. You dragged me into some shit I cannot even figure, so you better bring back my blanket tonight with an explanation. Now go, you need to be back in time.”

The way back was agonising. He could not climb holding a blanket over his head, but he didn’t need to. He could see the sky began to lighten toward the east. The sun will rise soon. He ran, as fast as he could run while remaining silent. He had to climb the wall preferably without losing Gorys’ blanket and so he tried to tie it in a knot, hoping it’ll last long enough. It did. Then the next problem, he had to figure what to do with it. He folded it. He didn’t even bother to climb up to the window, instead he went to the back door. It’ll be open, he knew.

He could hear the noises from the kitchens, Ilaena was up. There was no smell of moontea, she was discoursing the meal for today. So the cook must be there, Lysono realised. He did not dare to go and look, to be certain. Instead he went straight to the room he shared with Denys and Malo. He had his mat by the wall, ready. Both of them were fast asleep still. He undressed, lingered for a moment with Gorys’ shirt in his hand. Then he pulled it back on, he tucked Gorys’ blanket under his pillow and covered himself with his own blanket. He turned toward the wall, just in time for the tears began to roll. He tried his damnest not to sob, not to wake them. What a mess.

Clearly he’s been exaggerating his own capabilities, Lysono thought to himself while watching Griff showing a really neat move to Malo, how to disarm your opponent without harm. That could have come handy last night, Lysono concluded in desperation. Clearly, he wasn’t near as good as he thought himself to be. He couldn’t figure what to say, his lies were wholly unbelievable as well to one who knew things Lysono didn’t. The only thing he somewhat succeeded in was turning the man’s attention toward his own ‘skills’ as the man called his ability to well, know what to do once he seduced someone. Perhaps he was nothing more than a bedwarmer, he concluded bitterly. It wasn’t good enough.

The day passed by agonisingly slowly. He barely touched his food, even though he watched and only put on his plate what the woman, Ilaena did. The talk around the table didn’t interest him at all. The crannogman had his eyes on him all evening, as well. He sat at the dining table wearing Gorys’ shirt still, wondering whether any of them could look at him and tell. Not that it was Gorys’ shirt, but that he killed a man last night. He kept reminding himself - people don’t actually see much. What they see, can easily be managed by leading them toward what we want them to see. You want one to think you innocent? Look innocent, speak few words, ask basic questions, ask for help and do not even once say or do anything that could be interpreted sexually. Always tie the neck of your shirt, keep your boots clean, keep your hair long and flowing and your face clean. People associate cleanliness and good manners with innocence, just as they do with soft speaking and lack of cursing so manage your voice, choose your words well. Smile a lot and heartily, show the white of your teeth when you laugh. And if you want them to think you could kill a man? Carry a dagger, know how to flip it around in one hand, keep it sharp. Never boast of a kill, if you talk about how you killed a man nobody will believe you. No, focus on a detail or two. Where the lungs are and how to pierce them so the man begins to drown in his own blood, unable to make a sound. You never have to tell you killed him, you only tell of the one detail, only when someone really pries into it. The rest, that one will do the rest. Well, in Lysono’s case he didn’t even need to do any of these, because he’s done them long ago. Most people around this table thought that he’s killed before, just as most of them thought him innocent of it as well.

He was ought to figure what to tell Gorys, for he was to return to Gorys tonight of that he had no doubt. He wanted to return to Gorys. He kept watching them, all of them, feeling like a stranger among them. The deed, what he did last night, it separated him now from them like an invisible wall. He felt like screaming and for some reason he knew, even if he screamed it all out into the open they would not even hear him, the invisible wall could not let them.

He tried to focus elsewhere. Griff was unusually calm and put-together, and the lady slept in the rocking chair on the porch by the crib, and she seemed… well not calm, she seemed restless. These two rutted last night, Lysono had no doubt. He could see on Griff. He could not see it on her, but then again, his knowing eyes were used to reading men, not women. It’s as he told her once, they were mainly men. The training, that went both ways though. She didn’t look as one who’s had a night of fulfilment so perhaps Griff’s training didn’t go both ways, he mused. The fact that his own charge was still not showing sign of willingness toward him bothered him precious little in truth. He was too preoccupied with finding the mice as he still called them, knowing well they weren’t just mice, they were far worse. He could not spare thoughts on why Griff didn’t bite, simply explaining it with the fact that Griff had the lady around as well as, he, Lysono did literally nothing to catch his attention. No, he went to Gorys’ room instead.

His thoughts returned to Gorys. Truth be told, he could not wait to get back to Gorys. Gorys was kind. Gorys didn’t raise his voice, not even once, Gorys didn’t scold him for the colossal failure and the mess he’s made last night. No, Gorys washed the blood out of his hair. Gorys helped. He could not figure what to tell Gorys but that mattered little for he really, really wanted back. Gorys felt safe. Yes, among all these strangers and the walls, Gorys was no stranger at all.

The walk to Gorys was made harder by the fact that he was to cover his head again with a blanket, but at the least, he knew that none will think him to be who he was, now for certain with a blanket over his head. He waited until he’s heard the back door close, knowing well that the cook was gone. He felt a tingle of guilt for he knew, he should’ve continued his work, follow the cook or better said, he should’ve left before the cook to be at the ready when the cook arrived at the house. Also because he needed to be certain. That could wait a day, Gorys said that the body will take about a week to appear. A day could be allowed. Needed to be for he needed to set himself in order. Even if it meant telling Gorys what all there was to tell.

He knocked on the door and right away heard the movement, the door opened wide in front of him.

“I admit I had little fate in you showing up,” he’s heard Gorys just as the man closed the door.

“I had to wait until the cook left,” he explained, “they are all asleep now.”

Gorys only nodded. Lysono took in the sight of the room. To the side, his cloak and shirt was hanging on a line, among other things. “You washed them…”

“I did not,” Gorys shrugged, “I left them in the water. Then I gave the whole lot with my washing to the washer woman here. She didn’t flinch so methinks they weren’t so bloody by the end of it. I scrubbed down the horse though, and the saddle, and I had to scrub the blanket for it had some blood on it. Can’t give the saddle blanket to the washer woman.”

Lysono only nodded. Then he remembered. “Here,” he held out his hand, in it three brand new candles.

“No need,” Gorys chuckled, “what’s the point of stealing Blackheart’s candles for me?”

“Why not,” Lysono declared, “methinks the cook is responsible for them. Small consolation if he gets a scolding. I brought you food as well, and wine. I found the wine.”

“That is good, I suppose,” Gorys sat down by his table, his eyes on Lysono. Gorys was waiting for him to speak, Lysono knew. He still didn’t figure what he’ll say. He folded Gorys’ blanket, neatly tucked it under Gorys’ pillow and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“It is about Maelys,” he began, “my cousin, he thinks to be Maelys’ son. The younger. Maelys burned his first born, he tried to hatch a dragon egg and only death can pay for life. The magic did not take hold and as I know that is why they all think Daena never said the words, the boy was no trueborn.”

Gorys only nodded, so with a deep breath, Lysono continued. “I know not the whole truth of it, if there is any. Lately I find there is little truth to cousin’s stories. But I cannot tell for certain. He said Blackheart sold him to mummers. The mummers sold him to a sorcerer, and that one cut it off for him, threw his piece on the fire to summon some kind of demon he said. Cousin detests magic. He detests Blackheart even more though. And the dragons.”

“To and fro, he thought Griff will lead him to red dragons,” Lysono concluded, “so he sent me to find out what Griff knows. But you see, I was not the first. I’ve heard stories, he’s long had eyes on Blackheart. And Laswell Peake. Those are the Blackfyres, he told me.”

“So you are here to seduce Griff, I take it,” Gorys sat back in his chair.

“Yes,” Lysono sighed, “No, I mean…” he felt his eyes beginning to burn once more. Damn there were tears, he may shed tears before this night is over. “They have my sister. And yes I was trained to seduce people and find their secrets. And to steal things and spy out things and such. I took the job…” deep breath. “I took the job because then I could get away, and I thought, once I got away I can figure how to take my sister from them.”

“And,” Gorys seemed so calm, so unusually calm Lysono thought, as if none of this was surprise to him, “Did you figure a way?”

“Not yet,” he sighed, “This is harder than anything I did before. I just figured, best find the mice first. Not mice, they are no children. Mice are children. These are spies, real spies.”

“Suppose so,” Gorys nodded. “So what now? Who was the one you…”

“He was the messenger,” Lysono explained, “His task is to deliver information, but also to deliver instructions. I could not allow him deliver his report, Gorys. I need them to think me doing my job. I need time.”

“And are you?” Gorys raised an eyebrow, “Doing your… job.”

“Not really,” Lysono smirked, “Griff fucked his wife last night while I was making a mess to stop that from being reported, so I would say… Truly I’ve put little effort into doing my job. None, to be exact. I like the lady too much, that is the truth of it.”

“There is much to like in her, it is true,” Gorys nodded. “So what is the plan then? You were to seduce him, find out what he knows, but you made a mess to stop a… messenger instead. What is the plan? Do you have a plan?”

“Not really,” he answered solemnly, honestly, “I want to find all the spies. If I can silence them…”

“That is a whole lot of killing, from the sounds of it,” Gorys interrupted, “Forgive me to say, but I gave this some thought. I am fairly certain you never even killed a man before last night judging by how you showed up here. You made a damn right mess of it.”

“I did,” Lysono fiddled with his fingers as he spoke, finding it hard to look at Gorys, “Truth be told, I have no idea. I just know that I need to silence them. Then I can report whatever I want to report. I can report doing my job, I can… I can become something else.”

“How’s this something else,” Gorys sighed.

“Something the Lady told me,” he looked up, knowing well that his hope was clear on his face. “Take what they taught me, and use it against them, bring them down and gut them for what they’ve done to me. To us.”

“I see,” Gorys stood with a sigh. “So there are spies, and there is no plan, really. And if I understood this all, there also is little time left to make something out of this mess. I asked for a cup from my neighbor, so now I’ve two. You say you brought wine?”

Lysono only nodded.

“That is good. Let us get drunk,” Gorys smirked, “I can think of little else to do. The past few days have been… tough to say the least.”

“Will you tell on me?”

Gorys stopped mid-motion, looking at him. “I gave you my knightly word,” he said calmly, “and besides, to speak the truth, who would even believe me if I did?”

That is true, Lysono thought. Was this not his reason why he told nothing to Griff? He needed proof.

“We need proof,” he declared.

“No, you need proof,” Gorys handed him a cup, “I need to sort beds and chests and commodes and tables and chairs… Need to get that house sorted, get you lot out of Blackheart’s house.”

“True enough,” he nodded. He sipped from the cup, despite how he felt the urge to just empty it. “I brought you supper,” he whispered.

“I already had supper,” he could hear Gorys’ smile in the words. At least Gorys didn’t seem angry with him, he concluded. “Tell me about your findings,” he said instead, as he settled beside Lysono on the bed, leaning against the wall. So Lysono did the same.

“The cook,” he began, “I am certain that the cook is the connection,” he said, “The woman, Ilaena - she is the spy.”

Gorys raised his eyebrows, “what makes you think so?”

“It is perfect,” he sighed, “Who would speak against her? She is perfectly placed. Just think about it, she knows about every meeting held in the house. She bore Blackheart no children, because she drinks moontea and methinks Blackheart none the wiser about that. She has access to every one of you, she can freely walk around, she can even… if she went and picked up one of Griff’s babes to hold, none would even blink. That is how well placed she is.”

“I lived in the house, you know,” Gorys sighed, “I had the room you sleep in, all to myself. She never did anything like… I know not, really, I have no idea what spies do.”

“That is the point,” Lysono explained, “You see them do nothing but fit in, as if they belong… that is the work, the hard part of it. To win the trust. She must have worked on it for years.”

“And you have no proof,” Gorys concluded, “nothing but… moontea, if that is proof.”

“I have an idea,” Lysono whispered, “I just need to dig into Haldon’s herb book because I forgot what I needed.”

“You want to poison them?”

“Not exactly,” Lysono lightened up, “I want to give her a good belly run, mix into her moontea. Not yet, though. I need to time it right. First I need to figure the rest of it. What to do with the cook.”

“You have no time,” Gorys sighed, “the body, the man you killed will afloat in a few days.”

“Need to get Griff’s lot out of the house,” Lysono changed the topic, “It is not safe. The cook is dangerous, he could do… he could poison them all if that was needed.”

“That, we can agree on,” Gorys nodded. “I am working on that. Need a few days, though. There is something else.”

“What?” Lysono looked at Gorys surprised.

“All this,” Gorys began hesitantly, “I am no liar. I thought about what you said, and you are right, I am no liar. So now I know all this and how am I to keep to myself when you say there are spies and they can read it off my face. Even Blackheart could, he likes to read my troubles off my face and tease me with them.”

“I thought about that too,” Lysono nodded, “You cannot be paymaster if people read off your face where the gold is, either.”

“Well that is what I thought,” Gorys declared solemnly, “after the past few days, I am not even sure about it.”

“Just stay away from Blackheart’s house as you can,” Lysono wanted to advise. “And… when you see them, think about something different.”

“Something different,” Gorys raised an eyebrow. Lysono turned toward him.

“Yes, for example,” he began to explain, “whenever I had to, you know, I would think about something, little thing, I would think about how I like when I do something else. So if I had to do something that was not to my liking, I would think it otherwise. Let’s say, if I had to pretend I have pleasure, I would think about something that gives me the pleasure, think very hard on it. The body responds. So if you see, let us say, you see Ilaena and your mind would say, “she is the spy, she is the spy”. Think about something wholly different. You could think about Griff’s babes, they are lovely. So your face will show as if you saw them and not Ilaena.”

“At this rate, I doubt I could make a different face about Griff’s babes…” Gorys chuckled.

“Well, you could,” Lysono smirked, “Pair things with things. I do that a lot. I see one person, I think of the pair of it. Whenever I had to see to magister Illyrio’s needs I used to think of that boy three house down, his father paid me once to teach him things for he was a shy boy. I had fun with that.”

“My father would have never thought to pay anyone to teach me things,” Gorys declared, “And especially not of that kind.”

“Rich people,” Lysono shrugged, “they do strange things. They cannot figure what to do with all their gold after a while.”

“So you are telling me,” Gorys laughed, “if I see Ilaena and think about you instead, my face will show that instead.”

“Exactly that,” Lysono nodded.

“Well I am not entirely sure,” Gorys seemed to lighten up, Lysono thought, “I am fairly certain that thinking about your blowjob whenever I see Ilaena will do nothing good. I mean… Sure that is a nice thing to think about, but you suck like a man possessed, and I would not want to spill myself into my breeches thinking about it, all in front of Ilaena.”

Lysono laughed heartily. “I do not…” he argued, “I mean I am not possessed.”

“Not yet anyway,” Gorys refilled their cups, “a week or two more chasing spies and you may as well become one. Now that would crown your success with this job of yours.”

“And that is why I came to you,” Lysono whispered. “Get my mind off all of it and get my blood rush.”

“The blood that rushed was what I washed out of your hair last night,” Gorys remarked, “Truly, what were you thinking?”

“I was not thinking,” he sighed, “that was the problem, methinks. I need to plan better. And I need to come to you more. It’s damn hard to be in this all the time every day, I need to be able to switch off my mind and well… it is a good way to switch off.”

“Use your hand,” Gorys laughed before he emptied his cup.

“Is it the same for you when you use your hand,” Lysono teased, “I am certain that your hand cannot compare to even my hand. And you have not even allowed me properly use it yet.”

“And I will not,” Gorys declared as he poured wine for himself. “Not even if I get drunk tonight.”

“I accept the challenge,” Lysono teased, “besides, easiest way to show you what I want from you is doing it to you. Now, empty your cup and lay back. Methinks I am about to become a little possessed.”

A clear mind, everything is easier to handle with a clear mind. Lysono sat in the grass watching Griff training with Malo. He’s already had his turn, had a whole hour at the least, he was fairly confident that he could now disarm a man without a single cut. That was a useful skill, if not a little too late. Though the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that the man had to die. He was just as certain that nobody will look for the man. Not for at least another full turn of the moon. He thought about it a lot, in truth. Logically, the man would report as normal which meant, the man setting out most likely had nothing to do with anything, it was a scheduled occurrence. Now he will not report. This meant two things, though. One, Pentos was far away, and one man surely could not to the job of delivering information and instructions when it was so far away. Meaning, there must have been two of them, at the least, if not three. One man to set out, another soon to arrive at the cook’s house, which most likely has been paid for by magister Illyrio, as well, leading to the second conclusion. The house was key, and Lysono now knew for certain where it was. That was progress.

He settled on his course of action. He didn’t need to follow anyone anymore, he realised - all he needed to do was watching the house. The only problem with that was, he could not watch the house during the days and he could only sneak out for a few hours during the nights. Gorys was right, the sooner Griff’s house was ready, the better it was for once there, Lysono could move more freely. Or at least so he hoped. He didn’t begin to figure yet how he’ll handle that Griff will become the head of the house - Blackheart paid them little mind in truth, but Griff, he seemed hellbent to train them and such. Then there was also Ser Rolly. Blackheart had nobody guarding his place, most likely because every living soul in this city knew who he was and where he lived and knew better than to cross him. But once they move, Ser Rolly will take up that job. Lysono will have to figure how to pass by Ser Rolly.

The rest of it didn’t bother him much. There was a maid to be hired from the town, she will be at Griff’s house during the days. Besides her, there will be two door boys, or runners. Nothing to bother with until Lysono meets them, and all he will need to confirm is they never set foot in the cook’s house - meaning, they won’t be spies. He spoke about this with Gorys, Gorys was looking for the right people. It was Gorys’ idea, since the Lady declared her appreciation of hiring Malo’s mother and Duncan’s as well, Gorys was looking for hires through Duncan’s mother now. Blackheart gave leave to Duncan and Denys to stay with their mother a few days, as well and that helped. Truth was that Duncan had nowhere to stay in the house, but still, it helped. Lysono was not at all certain that he could have sneaked out during the nights with Duncan sharing their room. He liked Duncan, very much so - but Duncan was sharp, way too sharp.

As for his actual charge, he concluded that Griff and the Lady were doing the figuring out of their matter, and he concluded that his own figuring out of how they managed to make twin babes if they couldn’t even get on with it can wait until he sorted the rest. Of course it was fishy but there were things more stinky than this, considering the man’s body somewhere in the canals slowly floating toward the river, and Lysono’s absolute lack of progress finding a way to the rest of the spies thus far. For example in Laswell Peake’s house. Truly, his way of following the cook made him proud. He knew how to find the rest of them because he followed the cook. At least he did something right. Now if only he could watch that damned house during some days, to actually see what was happening there. Or better, he needs to go down the chimney and listen. And for that, he needs Gorys’ help, and this time at the least he could be prepared. Apart from the body floating around in the canals, everything else was in truth coming together nicely.

There was something else. He realised of course that there was only one of him and he will not be able to watch the cook’s house as much as he would want to. It was something that he liked the idea of, very much. What if he needed to do no watching? He’s been mice once. He could actually use what he’s seen and learned, just like the Lady Ashara told him to, and become someone else. Become the one who had the mice. He thought about this a lot, while Gorys was sleeping off the wine last night. All he needs is finding the right ones, two maybe three of them. The only problem is, he would also need to find the gold to pay them. He knew well cousin’s method. Cousin kept the mice filthy and only gave enough for it to keep returning, keep wanting work. No work done meant no payment. And the payment was mainly food, in truth. Lysono had better ideas, exactly because he’s been nice before.

It was something to discuss with Gorys and in truth he could hardly wait until the house settles to sleep tonight and he can sneak out to Gorys again. There was a lesson in this too, yet another thing that cousin hammered into his head that’s now been proven untrue. He needed no assets. He only needed friends. And Gorys, he was a terrible asset and really though to manage, and see, as a friend Gorys was gold. Lysono could hardly believe just how precious that was. But then again, he realised it already - he never before had a friend.

“I’ve been wondering about you,” he’s heard behind himself and turned. Ilaena stood behind him, and so he stood, doing exactly as he’s advised Gorys to do: shifting his focus onto being possessed, as Gorys would call it.

“Wondering what, lady,” he asked.

“Wondering what a pretty boy like you does during the nights,” she smiled, “clearly the turtles didn’t steal your tongue for methinks the one who did was more handsome? Or is it a pretty girl you sneak away to?”

He bit his lower lip, “I…” he began, wondering what there was to say. What a stupid oversight he’s made. Of course. Of course she kept an eye on him.

“You,” Ilaena laughed, “yes, you. So, is it a boy or a girl? Methinks it a boy. Or perhaps a man of the company?” She hooked her arm into his, “Now come on, I am more than ready to hear a spicy love story.”

“There really is nothing,” he whispered, lowering his gaze. “Will you tell on me, lady?”

“Not if you tell me who’s won such affections from you that you sneak out at night,” she winked at him.

“I cannot,” Lysono said sheepishly, “I cannot cause trouble…”

“So it is a man of the company,” Ilaena interrupted him, “Of course, Myles disapproves of such things. Let’s see,” she chattered, pulling Lysono away toward the house. “Methinks it must be a young one, a handsome one, one a squire boy would spend much time with… perhaps another squire boy? Oh my, is it Duncan? He’s a handsome one!”

Lysono just said nothing. Poor Duncan, he thought, for he will not deny… “No, wait. Duncan is at his mother’s… Methinks your one has his own place, else why sneak out in the night… no, no. A young handsome one with his own place in the town, since you cannot sneak as far as the camp… oh my! Is it Gorys then?”

Lysono tried to scramble some thought that was not related to Gorys. Failed. “Of course it is our Gorys,” she chattered, “I can see on your pretty face. You’re blushing!” Was he? No, he really didn’t feel his cheeks burn, he definitely wasn’t blushing. Don’t fall for it, he reminded himself.

“Truth be told,” he whispered, “I wish it was so, but I have other reasons. Please tell nothing on me, lady.”

“Other reasons,” she stopped them, turning toward Lysono, “what better reason than a young man like Gorys…”

“When I was little,” Lysono thought hard, very hard about magister Illyrio, as he spoke, “we lived in Pentos. On the streets so at night we would not sleep for it is dangerous, lady. I like the streets at night. So I tend to walk, and think. It is hard otherwise.”

She studied him for a long moment, “Walk and think,” she repeated his words. “And how is your training going, pretty one? I saw you spar with our prickly Griff…”

Now, think on Gorys. Think on Gorys last night learning how to use his fingers properly. Lysono’s face lit up, and now he felt his cheeks burning. “He thought me a move to disarm someone without harming them. I like it much,” he chattered, “He keeps teaching us things like that. One would think it all about how to use the sword and cut down people but truly, he knows so much more, he knows it is not about killing, he is a true knight... I like that, very much so. I think there is no better swordsman in the company, and I saw some on the march training. There is none like Griff. He can finish them off in no time without even breaking a sweat!”

Ilaena laughed aloud, “just wait till he spars with Blackheart, you shall see your hopes dashed,” she mused, “You’ll regret squiring for Griff then, I have no doubt.”

“Never,” Lysono shook his head. “I asked for it, in truth. He fished me out of the water in the sorrows, he… he saved my life, he…”

“Did he now,” Ilaena wondered aloud, “I see, I see. You are blushing like a maid! Now I see,” she chattered, leaning close to Lysono to whisper, “So you mean no trouble for the prickly one won your affections?”

“He did not,” Lysono did his best impersonation of being found out, “I mean, he does not, I mean… Please lady. He cannot find me out, then he would not let me squire… please.”

“Oh worry not, my little pretty,” Ilaena patted his cheek laughing, “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you, lady,” Lysono sighed of relief.

“Let us hope,” she declared, “his prickly self won’t break your innocent little heart in the end.”

Lysono’s lips curled into the slightest of smirks, “not so innocent,” he whispered. “As they say, slow tides wash away the stones.”

“That they do,” she nodded, before she left Lysono. He turned, his eyes on Griff still busy with Malo. He slowly exhaled. Mistake number two made, uncovered, addressed as best as he could, now he’s hopefully just passed the first examination by one who knows well what he’s been charged to do. Gorys was right, in truth. He didn’t have much time.

Chapter Text

BLACKHEART

“What did the boy say,” he stood in the doorway leaning against the wall. Watching the training, watching Ilaena chatter with the Lyseni. Actually, he couldn’t care less about the training. He’s been watching it because of the Lyseni.

“Foolish one, that boy is,” Ilaena laughed, leaning close to him.

“May be trouble for the lady Dayne, though,” she whispered, “Though anyone can tell, Griff is not one for women. What was she thinking?”

“You tell me, you’re the woman,” Myles chuckled, “half the time I cannot even fathom what you are thinking.”

“Thought you mind it,” Ilaena looked at him with that annoyingly questioning look on her pretty face, the one that used to make him question why he was having this woman in the first place. It was never love, and the lust was more of a habit now than actually something he looked forward to. In truth, there was really nothing going for her, nothing but habit. Aging men like to stick to their habits, he concluded a long time ago.

“The boy?” Myles turned toward her, “word is, he likes redheads. He’s already had it with Gorys. There is nothing to mind, either he grows out of his foolishness or he shall be gone soon enough. Methinks he bit more than he could chew with Griff anyway.”

“If you say so,” Ilaena shrugged it off and left him. The Lyseni sat back in the grass watching the training, Myles leaned back against the wall watching the Lyseni.

Strange, this boy was, Myles still couldn’t put a finger on it, why the boy bothered him so much. Now that he’s spent half a moon’s turn with this lot under his roof, he could figure it even less. The boy bugged him even more, as time passed - so much more that he kept putting off questioning the boy about the events in Pentos, something he should’ve done already, he knew. Truth be told though, they all bugged him, the house was stuffed and uncomfortable, he could not wait until they all just pack up and leave and return the house to what it was without them. Gorys has not shown up since the meeting of the blood, and so Myles hoped that the boy is busying himself hard at work sorting the matter.

He reached into his pocket, unrolled the small scroll and read it again. “Lysono Maar. No Maar in Lys, nothing found. Name known in Pentos, bedwarmer. Possible runaway, owner Illyrio Mopatis. Sister unknown. More to follow.” He let out a heavy sigh. Truth was, the company owed to return any runaways who attempted to disappear in its ranks, just like everyone else was required to do so, so was the law of Essos. Slaves were property, and not the kind you could keep were you to find one on the side of the road. Not that he’s always returned them, he reminded himself - he didn’t return Marq Mandrake to wherever that one ran from because well, he could not find where to return the man who as much as burnt a hole into his own face to hide the slaver’s mark. Of course, while it took some time, Myles found out in the end that the man ran from Bhorash, albeit he could not get a name of an owner and that was most likely because Bhorash was the small and filthy port town toward Slaver’s bay where most of them slaves got sold and bought. The fact that the man somehow managed to find his way to Volantis made Myles decide not to attempt the return, firstly, because it was quite an impressive feet in his eyes, secondly because he didn’t want to go near Slaver’s Bay even if he was paid for it. Besides, Marq proved to be quite the asset by that time, as well.

Whether this boy could prove himself to be an asset, was yet to be seen. For all Myles could tell, the boy was as dutiful as he was quiet, simply minding his own business. Or so the boy wished to be seen. Exactly as Brendel described the boy, dutiful but of few words. The Gods played a joke on the boy cursing him with such looks, that is what Brendel said. The boy shall make a fine knight, Brendel told him. Myles saw nothing of a knight in the boy, truly, but he’s had to admit: the boy behaved, if not for this latest show of his preference of redheads and the rest of it he’s learned from his woman when he woke this morn. Foolish boy, like Ilaena said. Foolish to sneak out at night, foolish to be found out by the wrong people, just as much as for sharing such things with Ilaena when even he, Myles shared precious little with Ilaena, even a blind man could see why.

“Myles,” he’s heard Pyke Peake behind him, “you sent for me?”

He turned, “You know Gorys’ place?” The boy nodded. “Good. Tell Laswell I come over for supper, then get Gorys and Brendel over as well.“

“Brendel is in the camp,” the boy gave him a pleading look.

“I know exactly where Brendel is,” Myles declared annoyed, “You better get going. Start with your brother else there is no supper at all. Then Gorys, then Brendel. He’ll ride back with you I am sure of it. Tell your brother to make room for them, as well. I’ve too many in the house as is.”

The boy gave him one of those “why me” looks but he went. The boy was hopeless, Myles thought bitterly. Even the Lyseni proved to be more useful and that boy did absolutely nothing good so far, but at the least that one showed capabilities, even if by doing the wrong things. His eyes settled on the Lyseni, once more. The most curious of things happened just then. The boy looked up, straight at him. The cold sweat ran through Myles in an instant at that gaze, as if he’s known that gaze. How that could be, he could not even fathom, but the boy looked at him as if he could see right into him. He swallowed hard at the thought but he waved over the boy. He turned and made his way to his solar knowing well the boy was following. Time to sort this one and be done with it, he assured himself.

He looked up the boy standing in front of the table as he sat. The boy was damn pretty. Blood boiling pretty. The kind you see and offer payment right away for, hardly able to contain yourself until your breeches come off. Those lips would be the envy of any whore, Myles felt acutely disturbed by that thought and where such thoughts of lips could lead. The boy looked clearly disturbed by the fact that he’s to come into his solar, clearly having no idea of what kind of thoughts he could elicit in a man’s mind. Focus.

“There was something,” he sat back in his armchair, “You said when you lot arrived. In Pentos, you disobeyed Griff to go and see your sister. In the middle of the night. How did that come about?”

“I…” the boy seemed quite distressed, Myles thought. “I could not sneak out during the day.”

“How in the seven hells did you pass Tristan?”

“I did not,” the boy mumbled, “I climbed down from the window.”

Myles only nodded. The boy was climbing walls to sneak out even before then, clearly with a clear head on his neck to avoid the guard. “So what about the sister?”

“She was well,” the boy mumbled again after a pause, clearly to think of what there was to say.

“Give me a name,” Myles declared. The boy looked at him in panic. “Make it two. The sister, and whomever keeps her so well.”

The boy swallowed. “Serra,” he whispered, “and… Magister Illyrio.”

“Magister Illyrio,” Myles repeated. Possible owner Illyrio Mopatis. “So how come that this Magister Illyrio has Serra but you are signed up to the Company, then?”

“I…” For some reason Myles hoped for an answer that won’t include “runaway”, “Magister Illyrio let me go.” Well, not a confessed runaway then but an even less believable story. Myles wanted to laugh and not because he enjoyed himself. In truth, he wanted the boy out of his solar, the boy’s presence made his skin crawl more by every moment.

“Why would Magister Illyrio let you go,” he asked, “Forgive me to say, those Lyseni looks of yours scream of gold. So I take it, this Magister Illyrio owns Serra and likely, yourself. He must have the biggest heart on this side of the Narrow Sea to just let such a good investment investment go, as you say.”

“He does not,” the boy’s eyes shot a cold look at Myles, “own. He does not own me.”

“How did you and Serra end up with Magister Illyrio then?”

“I…” the boy clearly startled. “We lived on the street.”

“An even bigger heart then, how generous of the magister,” Myles smirked, “he took in a pretty Lyseni boy and his sister from the streets, you say, and then he let go of the boy who… wanted to become a sellsword? Is that your story?”

The boy fiddled with his fingers locked in front of himself, looking down. This was no way, Myles thought. If the boy was so smart as to climb down a window to avoid Tristan’s watchful eyes, surely the boy realised that this story would never fly. Just as much that anything said now would only make it worse. For a boy who carried a dagger, and knew how to use it as some claimed, this surely was obvious. He won’t get more out of the boy now, he realised.

“Something else,” he said then, “I hear there was a matter with Gorys Edoryen.”

The boy looked up, panic once more in his eyes. “So it was, then,” Myles nodded, “Do you know what Gorys does in the Company?”

“He…” the boy swallowed hard again, “He is serjeant.”

“That he is, and?”

“He told me nothing of what he does,” the boy’s reply was swift, too swift.

“And did you need telling?”

“No I…” the boy seemed utterly lost, looking for words, “I asked nothing about it.”

“Because you like redheads,” Myles laughed. “Go back to training.” The boy couldn’t have left quicker, Myles thought. What an impossible situation with this boy, as if he needed another situation. And now that he finally spoke to the boy, it was even more disturbing to him. The boy clearly had no answers. As if the boy expected nobody to ask questions. Perhaps the boy wasn’t so smart after all.

“Have you changed your mind, then,” Brendel asked as soon as they all sat. They grouped in what could be called Laswell Peake’s solar. Laswell knew exactly what Myles meant by “supper”. Food has been laid out in front of them with not one but several flagons of wine, and neither Laswell’s wife nor his two daughters in sight. Myles helped himself to a particularly delicious looking thigh of a chicken, and some potatoes while Laswell filled their cups.

“Depends,” Myles said, before he began with his food.

“Harry is not here,” Torman remarked.

“For now,” Myles’ answer came, “I decided to cut my losses. I want to eat and not while having to look at Harry’s blisters. No Pyke, no Harry, for the time being. There is much to discuss.”

“There’s nothing new to discuss,” Brendel remarked while loading his plate. Myles reached into his pocket, threw the scrolls on the table.

“Pick one,” he nodded. Brendel picked one, Laswell another.

“Interesting,” Laswell declared, handing his scroll to Torman, who read and handed it to Brendel.

“So what,” Brendel tossed the scroll on the table, “I said this before, clearly the boy is a Targaryen, because the girl is a Targaryen and they look alike.”

“Well,” Myles sat back, “Now we know for certain. The Stark girl has given birth, died in the birthing bed, and Stark was there when she passed. Hells, they have slain Ser Arthur Dayne and the White Bull. My theory stands, Stark delivered the boy to Ashara Dayne.”

“Furthermore,” Myles continued, “Stark passed Ashford with Reed, a purple eyed woman no doubt being Ashara Dayne, and “her babe”. He passed the Crossroad with his own wife and babe. And, now I also know that Griff never could have set foot at Starfall, not unless there was two of him. Interestingly, he lingered at Blackhaven before he returned to Kings Landing and was named. I take it, Rhaegar Targaryen hid around there somewhere with the Stark girl. What makes this interesting is, that would mean that he took to Dorne the woman who he left his Dornish wife for. I’d say, the princess even knew about it, else he would not have risked that. Word was she near died bearing her boy to the prince, the one that got I smashed into the wall in the end. My take on this is, Rhaegar wanted to breed, the wife could no more, so he took a second one. He would not have been the first Targaryen with two wives. Aegon took both his sisters as wives.”

“You’ve been busy,” Laswell remarked. “Any proof he actually wed the girl?”

“Not yet,” Myles sighed, “If he did so, not many were present to witness it. We are yet to find someone who can confirm, not even the septon thus far.”

“Griff,” Brendel remarked. “May as well have been there, considering his… relation to Rhaegar Targaryen. I keep saying this, we ought to ask Griff.”

“Too soon,” Myles remarked.

“I agree,” Laswell nodded, “No point asking if all he needs to do is deny any knowledge of it.”

“Exactly my point,” Myles nodded, “There is something else.” He picked up the scroll, handed it to Brendel. “Something Gorys will not like.”

He glanced at Gorys Edoryen. “So the Lyseni boy is a runaway I take it,” Brendel spoke, handing the scroll to Gorys. The boy looked as if he’s seen a ghost, reading that scroll.

“What of it,” Torman asked, “Next we march north we hand back the boy, find the owner.”

“I spoke to the boy,” Myles began, “there is something about that boy. I cannot put my finger on it just yet, but there is something more to him. In any case, the boy confirmed the name, Illyrio Mopatis. Magister Illyrio the boy calls the man, and he protested against being owned by the magister. Said they lived on the street, the boy and his sister, the Magister took them in or however it was. The sister is still there, the boy sneaked out to see her when he disobeyed Griff in Pentos. That made Griff pack up and leave the city in haste.”

“Why do we care about a squire boy?” Laswell asked.

“A squire boy who climbs walls to sneak out,” Myles remarked, “carries a dagger, and bedded our Gorys here. Though the boy claims he asked nothing and Gorys said nothing about being assistant paymaster.”

“That is true,” Gorys mumbled, cheeks red up to his ears.

“What I find interesting,” Myles continued, “the boy is clearly a bred Lyseni. And yet, there is nothing about him from Lys.”

“Perhaps the wrong people were asked,” Torman remarked.

“Doubtful,” Myles shrugged, “Lysono Maar. Lyseni sea. There is no Maar family in Lys, No Maar in Lys at all, that is the report. More likely that it is not the boy’s true name, which just means that the boy is keen to hide his past behind a name that says nothing of him beyond what is seen. Whether this, magister Illyrio gave him the new name or the boy chose himself, matters little. Methinks it true that the boy is a bedwarmer, bred in Lys and if he’s been bred there, he’s been trained there.”

“You make me envy Gorys,” Torman laughed, “Lyseni whores know a thing or two, must have been quite the experience...” Myles glanced at Gorys who clearly wanted to be anywhere but at this table with them, cheeks red like his hair.

“Worth pointing out,” Brendel added, “they breed slaves in Lys. Not free squire boys. Makes sense if the boy has no name known, nobody bothers with the names of bedslaves.”

“Exactly,” Myles nodded, “someone owns that boy. This, Illyrio Mopatis may have the most generous heart on this side of the Narrow Sea but I will not believe for a moment that he freed that boy with the way he looks. Methinks there to be more about it.”

“What more,” Gorys asked. “Forgive me, not my place to speak but…”

“But the boy came to you,” Myles explained, “how interesting. The boy signs up and offers his services to the one who handles the gold. The boy may want access to our gold, more likely.”

“He liked Griff,” Gorys protested, “Griff has no gold…”

“True enough,” Torman laughed, “we are to pay his bills.”

“Perhaps he really likes redheads,” Myles shrugged, “In any case, you both stay at Laswell’s for now. There is worry that the boy sneaks out in the night, Ilaena caught his bed empty last night and the boy nowhere. The boy who climbed down the wall in Pentos to avoid Tristan’s watchful eye while he sneaked away to see his sister, he claims.”

“I see no reason why…” Gorys began.

“I see plenty,” Myles shrugged, “As many as the gold coins in the war chests, Gorys. You and Brendel stay here for now.”

“I doubt the boy would come to me for gold,” Brendel remarked.

“No, but he could come to you for information,” Myles explained, “you have a soft spot for that boy. And how interesting, the boy asked to squire for Griff just when you decided to name him your squire. You would have him outside the town in the camp, Griff will have him in the town. Little wall-climbing shit that he is, it is a wholly different matter to climb the city wall, when compared to climbing my walls.”

“Griff saved him in the Sorrows,” Gorys protested, “I have seen. Griff saved his life, he looks up to Griff.”

“Does he now,” Myles smirked toward Gorys. “Well, perhaps that is how Griff comes into the boy’s story then, though let us not forget that the boy would have gladly done more for Griff in Braavos. Gladly, that is exactly the word he used. It is not why he picked you, Gorys. So you stay here, best not to have you alone in your room. Considering the most likely training of that boy in Lys.”

“Surely he would not fuck Gorys to death,” Torman laughed.

“They learn more than how to fuck you mindless,” Laswell said calmly. “I agree with Myles about this. I remember my first time in Lys, father said not to even speak my own name. Them bedwarmers, they pry for your secrets and your gold while they do their work.”

“And worse,” Myles added, “they learn how to handle their problems.”

“Meaning?” Gorys asked.

“Lyseni are known for three things,” Myles explained, “they know how to fuck you, how to rob you and how to end you. They know their poisons better than anyone. Poison is their choice of weapon.”

“Why not just dismiss him,” Torman asked. “Why waste our time with a Lyseni squire boy?”

“I cannot tell yet,” Myles admitted, “I just think it better to keep an eye on the boy. And that is easier as long as the boy remains where he is.”

“If there is anything to the boy,” Laswell added, “A dismissal will only spook the boy to act. I agree, best keep Gorys here until we know more, however the old…”

“The Lyseni can cut his throat for all I care…” Myles shrugged, “I moved the war chests. Gorys will be named once the boy is sorted and then we can move on. I’ve enough of Maelys’ remnants, we cannot make proper plans with those around.”

“That means removing the spymaster as well”, Brendel reminded him. True enough, the old spymaster was one of Maelys’ picks, as well.

“At the least that one doesn’t sing me Maelys’ praises all the time,” he explained his decision to leave the man be. For now. “I have no idea who I’d put there and let us be honest, the man is proving his usefulness. Has a decent network.”

“On our payroll,” Brendel remarked.

“Well, information is gold,” Laswell argued, “only natural that it has cost.”

“So, considering Gorys’ clearly not liking the idea of becoming our guest,” Torman began, “how long until we sort the boy? If you moved the chests then just dismiss the boy and be done with it.”

“And what if I am wrong?” Myles raised an eyebrow.

“Then the boy still belongs to someone,” Laswell sighed, “and besides, I like it not in the least that the boy is part of Griff’s household. How long before Griff decided that he prefers that one over the wife? Then gone is the cover for the girl. Or the boy and the girl, both.”

“He really just asked,” Gorys tried to reason, “he looks up to Griff, very much so.”

“Yes, yes, Griff fished him out the waters in the Sorrows,” Myles smirked, “Laswell has a point. However, we need a hold on Griff.”

“You mean to…” Torman looked up, “if the Lyseni is who you lot think he is, Griff has no chance, with all his love for Valyrian boys.”

“Exactly so,” Myles nodded, his smirk as if frozen on his face, “Which is why I agreed to the boy being his squire and not Brendel’s. Let the boy become Griff’s problem, let us see what comes of that, while we learn more about the boy.”

“If I may,” Gorys rambled, “I… If the war chests were moved, I need not stay… I know nothing about where they were either… I rather stay at my place.”

“And I rather keep up work,” Brendel added, “I agree with our young paymaster. No need to imprison us just because of a stinking squire boy.”

“To speak the truth of it,” Torman nodded, “if the boy is after the gold, best draw him out then lock him in. If the boy goes to Gorys, Gorys will tell us. Easy.”

Myles’ gaze settled on Gorys who still seemed to want nothing more than to disappear.

“No need to overdo it Myles,” Brendel declared, “Let Gorys and I go about our business as usual. The boy will not be spooked then, either.”

“I shall think about it,” Myles concluded the matter, setting himself to finish off that chicken thigh. Once done, he looked up, to Gorys.

“How is the house coming along,” he asked, “I rather moved that lot out of my house sooner than later.”

“We have delivery of furniture in two days,” Gorys nodded, “I managed to find much of what is needed. Can put the rest on order, now I know how and where. The landlord claims the staircase guard shall be fitted on the morrow and same for flowing water, for the bath below, and that is the last of it as I recall. I would say, three days. Perhaps four?”

“That is good,” Myles nodded, “well done.” He turned to Torman, “I am of the mind to send you to Volantis,” he began, “find out when there will be a ship to Westeros, preferably east coast, Maidenpool or White Harbor. I would send Howland Reed home before we make a move on Griff and his woman.”

“Is it safe to send him home,” Laswell asked, “with what he knows…”

“We cannot just cut him down, now can we,” Myles argued. “It is safer to send him home thinking their plan a success, than involving him further.”

“You’ve a point,” Brendel nodded, “Let the lizard think he’s carried out his task.”

“If you send him home,” Laswell argued, “We may never figure Stark’s involvement. I told you, that is…”

“Too close to Baratheon,” Myles interrupted. “I gave this some thought. I still believe Griff knew nothing about the babe born. Knowing him, he suspects the lizard even more than we do.”

“I recall,” Brendel countered, “You said he enquired to Starfall, received no reply. You said he enquired after a babe. So what if the babe he enquired after had been this babe? Then he must’ve expected something, even if not Ashara Dayne herself in Braavos with the babe.”

“Hmmm,” Myles sat back. “True enough. I completely forgot about that. Yes, Griff sent that missive to Starfall. Perhaps he grew restless after news of the Trident, knowing a plan was in motion to save the boy. Perhaps not knowing the fate of the boy’s mother, perhaps Ashara Dayne was supposed to be a mere messenger. The boy’s mother dead, she may have assumed the role of mother, knowing Griff well enough to know that he will proceed this way. Though… their wedlock is no sham.”

Brendel raised an eyebrow, “Because he got on her once…”

“And did again last night, judging by what I heard,” Myles reasoned. “Once, I say was to prove the point. Twice, that is suspicious to be more than that.”

“Not really,” Torman laughed, “I lived in your house. Forgive me to say but your woman is a true screamer. No doubt they would want to prove their point once more if they felt the need, no doubt finding it odd not to, were they listening to Ilaena at night.”

Myles laughed aloud heartily.

“Think on it,” Torman argued, “if they are hiding a Targaryen boy, they said the words and all to keep up with their scheme, surely they would go that far. To prove their point, as you call it.”

“Perhaps,” Myles glanced at Gorys, “you travelled with them. Anything to add?”

Gorys seemed startled to Myles. Gorys in truth has been not at all himself ever since this gathering began. “It is no sham, methinks,” the boy managed the words. “It is… hard to explain. They… they do things. Touch hands and the like.”

“Hmmm,” Myles nodded. Interesting, that was. “I have never been one for men so much. I cannot tell if one who is would fall for a woman or not, regardless of the beauty that she is. Gorys?”

“Me?”

“You clearly have a preference for them boys,” Myles laughed. “Any girl you fancy?”

“None but…” Gorys swallowed hard. “Something Lysono told me.” Myles raised an eyebrow. “When we spoke, on the ship, and we said we will not… He said one day he shall find a girl for himself. So methinks it possible. Since he sought me out but also wants to find a girl for himself. So do I… I mean, find a girl.”

“Perhaps that is what the Lyseni does during the nights, then,” Myles laughed. “Looking for a girl willing to be a pretty squire boy’s paramour.”

“At night?” Gorys asked.

“Indeed,” Myles smirked, “Told you, the boy sneaks out at night. I am of the mind to catch him, but then again, whatever his game is, I would rather know more about it before I spook the boy.”

“Have him followed,” Brendel shrugged.

“I am considering just that,” Myles nodded, “for now, I want to see first whether he truly sneaks out or not, or whether last night was a one time. Besides, if they move within a few days, then it will become more interesting to see whether Griff will mind the boy’s behaviour, just like we said. Or whether Griff will keep the boy at home at nights. You know what I mean.”

“He will share room with Malo,” Gorys sighed.

“And,” Torman laughed, “I could list at the least a dozen places to comfortably steal away an hour or two, without anyone’s room involved.”

“That is because you keep doing it in MY house,” Laswell scoffed. “Sooner or later one of the maids will begin to grow a belly, then no more sneaking away for you either.”

The rest of the evening was in truth uneventful. Both the Peakes got drunk out of their mind. Gorys remained sober and looking as if the wine on offer tasted more like lemon juice to him. Brendel in the end chose to stay, since he missed the closing of the gates. Gorys was adamant to return to his own place. So was Myles, in truth - adamant to return to his own place at the end of the evening. If only his own place would’ve resembled his own place. The short walk home did nothing but make him feel miserable about that, wishing he’d asked Laswell for a room instead. Three perhaps four days, Gorys claimed. Well, if the boy pulls it off, the boy will deserve to be named paymaster, Myles concluded.

He went and checked, but the Lyseni was in bed, sleeping. Ilaena wasn’t, on the other hand, she seemed eager to await him back home for the Gods’ knew whatever reason, if not to whinge to him about the house being so overfilled. He’s assured her of what Gorys claimed, three perhaps four days. Hells, he spent a pleasant hour just to assure her. Or to silence her, depending on how one looked at it. After her loudness for he kept thinking while he was doing it that she’s truly a screamer, she was loud.

He woke the next day, considering the matters at hand to be set on course. He found his change of clothing laid out, as was Ilaena’s usual. He dressed, and then he remembered. He ran down to the housekeeper’s room, dug up all the laundry to find his worn breeches. But there were no scrolls. He could remember clearly enough, he had them scrolls in his pockets. But now, there were no scrolls.