Braddington
Based... based on what?
The Winter's War
King's Landing
Sharp winds cut over distant hills with thunder raging in the distant, a storm knocking before its arrival into the heartlands of the Westerosi land. Black clouds overhead wept sparingly, never greater than a meager annoyance to the inhabitants of the king’s city. Certainly so, they had many woes far greater than moisture in the air to deal with. Even from outside the city gates, Ayberk of the Morn was not ignorant of King’s Landing’s conditions. The envoy from the Iron Bank had seen the city twice before, each time under different kings, in different crises. War and now the desolation that it forced upon its people. The Essosi, tan skinned and with short, dark hair, well groomed and kept, at least to the bankers best abilities. The voyage from Braavos to Westeros was ordinarily easy, but the changing seasons forced both storms and false winds upon his vessel. Frustration built as the Braavosi banker was forced to sail down the coast, the royal fleet and several representatives of the larger houses - of which he recognized precious few - consumed the harbor. For all the irritation he crossed, Ayberk still felt himself appropriate to meet this new king. Black, combed hair salted lightly by the sea, a doublet of red, gold and white organized in colors of the great Braavosi Sea King, and rings of gold choking both of his index fingers. Hair curled from his chin, thinning out after several inches and giving Ayberk the appearance of a Ghiscari, though he had no relation to the slavers for as far back as his family line went, the distinction was often not seen whenever the envoy of the Bank made his business in the Free Cities or in Bone Town.
Below him, a horse and five retainers carefully traced his every step. Men who had no great loyalties to the Iron Bank or its mission besides a promised payment upon Ayberk’s safe return. A generous offer, Ayberk personally pushed for the sellswords to be given far less in return for basic services, though his superiors heard rumors of the war’s brutality and in fact wanted to send Ayberk more. The envoy scoffed openly at the suggestion. War, peace, famine or plague, the envoys of the Iron Bank were without worry, no such force dared marr his person in a hundred barbaric lands and Westeros would prove little different.
As Ayberk of Morn approached the gates of this king’s city, his eyes shot to the interior. Men and women walked, cobbled stones worn heavily over the last few months, with no signs of a horse or ass in sight. Eyes narrowing, Ayberk quickly dismounted.
“What seems to be the problem?” A man of similar complexion to himself leaned forward, ready to pull his sword out from his sheath.
“Find the stables and put Aeksion to rest. Have a guard on her until my departure from Westeros.” Ayberk didn’t bother to explain the situation to these hired swords, it was above him to lecture these simple folk on a common observation. The city was over crowded, anyone not of a high enough standing couldn’t bring their mule or ox inside. “You two,” A man of a devilish tone, tall and broad like the mountains he grew up under, and a smaller, hairy man of the ibben colonies. They would be easy to spot in the crowd, should he get lost. “Follow me in.” The envoy gave the command and continued down the road, the line of peasants, merchants and all others thinning out the closer they reached. Stepping forward, only a few men in gowns of glitter stood, spears in hand as they stared angrily at each passing person.
“Hold it, you there.” The thick and repulsive accent of the Crownlands struck Ayberk like a mother’s club to a child’s ear. “Essos, over’ere.”
Begrudgingly, Ayberk obeyed, his hired swords stepping in line behind them. One look at the Summer Islander and the Goldcloaks grew tense, likely never seeing the ebon people before. The Ibbense mercenary was far less striking, Ayberk would admit, though if they cared to measure the strength of these two men, Ayberk was certain the squatter fellow would edge out as superior.
“How can I help you?” Politely, he bowed his head in a sign of respect, though it killed the banker to show any to mere grunts. He was an emissary to kings of emperors, traveling to the limits of the map and beyond even that.
One of the Goldcloaks spit out a seed, turning from the Ebon-Man to Ayberk of Morn. “What’s the lot of you doin’ here?”
“We are here to see the king, I am a messenger from the Iron Bank of Braavos with intentions of negotiating the debts of your kingdom.” The Mornful man explained, a gradual edge sinking into his voice. “And I do not have time to deal with obstructions.” He added.
The Goldcloak looked ready to smack Ayberk with the blunt of his shaft, a decision most unwise, though his comrade seemed to understand who the proud Braavosi was. “On yer way,” A voice not dissimilar of chalk smacking rock, the other guard waved the three forward. “Causin’ you no trouble, m’lord.”
“And the Iron Bank thanks you for it.” Ushering his company forward, the Banker and his hired blades put distance between themselves and the gate. Distant cries of outrage rang behind them, likely the scorn filled guards taking out their grudges on others of lower status. These people truly were savage, unrefined and ugly.
It didn’t take the company of three long to find more trouble, signs of the cities degradation only breeding mischief and unrest. Beyond the refugees from the war, those who lost their homes and farms, clogging the streets and giving no alternative to the trio but to find other routes through Aerys’ city, the damage was both surprising and suspected. Ayberk had seen the effects of war, almost always at the hands of the Dothraki. It was a cruel, pointless affair that left nearly nothing standing, only that which did not burn. In Westeros, Ayberk noticed nearly the opposite. The city showed no signs of struggle, perhaps some minor fighting had taken place, but it was barely enough for Ayberk to take notice of. Oppositely, the people that roamed were little more than hollow shells. Desperate eyed children and a weeping mother, living in the gutter. Ayberk forced himself to look away, to walk faster and further around the city and its walls.
This continued, with Ayberk of Morn unable to observe the scarred faces of men and children, women often bore other horrors in war, left unseen by the naked eye, to Ayberk’s experience. Only when a shriek, no, a desperate plea for help cut the air like a Dornish stallion through sand did Ayberk and his guards turn over, stopping as others did.
“Someone, help! Thieves! Liars! They’ve taken my home! My coppers and silvers!” A grey haired woman with dimming eyes and torn, patchworked dress fell to her knees, armed bound together in prayer as she begged the masses to help her. “Me and my sons have no where to go! They expect us to die in the gutter!”
Across, in a residential building of two stories with a meager balcony that on could just barely stand on, the banner of these new occupants hung, a silver field draped with a crimson maned beast, a prowling terror. And below that, three of the pride stood half dressed in their red armor, faces contorting from humor to anger as many stopped, as Ayberk did, to see how this confrontation would resolve itself.
“Get off the ground.” A bald man with a horizontal scar across his face spat wickedly. “We’ve warned ya for the past three nights, quit yer moanin’ and be off with ya’. This here is property of m’Lady till our business in tha’ city is through.”
“Be done with all ya’ when me’ home is mine.” She spat without a moment's hesitation. “Thieves, you all. Thieves servin’ traitors.”
The bald man’s brow furrowed as he stepped forward. “You insulting me’ Lady? An insult on House Reyne is an insult ta’ me.” His hands rested at the hilt of his blade, tempting the woman to speak anymore ills of the West.
Ayberk averted his eyes and stepped hurriedly across the the street, “I should be speaking with these lions over this king.” He murmured, the riches of the West would be what paid the debts accumulated by all members of House Targaryen, not the fertile fields of the Reach or the Mountain Men that Ayberk understood to be Maegor’s chief backers. The cries behind him reached a new crescendo as the crowd began to run and shout, Ayberk of Morn chanced a final glance at the Reyne House. He saw but crimson, a claw dripping with the viscous fluid. And his feet crashed down on the pavement harder.
Seconds turned to minutes and minutes into nearly an hour as the envoy and his guards wandered, streets mobbed with bodies or soldiers forcing the three to find new passages constantly. Alleyway after alleyway, some of which even the Envoy felt trepidation at exploring, were the main veins of this city now. Before any of the three noticed, a fourth had been added to their pack.
“Goin’ somewhere, my sirs?” A brown haired boy questioned, appearing behind the Ibben man and nearly losing his little head over it as the foreigner turned with a sword drawn.
“Bastard boy,” The burly cretin wanted to continue, though Ayberk spoke up quicker.
“To see the King, we do not have time for games.” Ayberk of Morn’s comment turned to the Ibbense man, who quickly acknowledged the command and turned a cold shoulder to the whoreson.
“The king?” Not catching any hints, the boy whirled around on the balls of his bare feet. “Ain’t gonna find him down here, my sirs.”
Sardonically, the envoy replied. “What a shame.” Crossing past another small alley, Ayberk’s neutral expression turned sour. Another mob, this time surrounded a figure that the merchant could barely make out at the end of the street. The opposite side twisted and turned back in the direction that the banker came from. “What sort of mind created this city?” He barked.
“Lost, my sirs?”
“Did I not tell you to leave?” Ayberk retorted.
“You have not.” Replying cheekily, the boy marched forward. “Everyone’s out in the mornin’s, earning a livin’ or finding easy meals. It’ll take you hours to get to the kings castle if you go on this way.” The boy smiled.
Perhaps the envoy should’ve let the Ibbenese man cut off this bastards head. “And you have some secret tunnel to the Red Keep?”
“Nay, no such luck todays. I just got an inn you can rest at in the meantime, my sirs! Better to rest, bellies full of King’s landing’s finest wine than be boilin’ mad squeezin’ past pickpockets all day.”
“I do not have time for this.” Ayberk shook off the invitation, stepping into the street center and squinting his eyes, as if he could view some invisible passage way around the growing masses.
A grunt from the Ebon Man drew Ayberk’s attention, “It isn’t the worst idea.” He spoke in High Valyrian. “It has been some hours since we stopped.”
Frowning, Ayberk was ready to deliver a scathing reply, though the nodding from his Ibbenese ally slowed his tongue. “And where, boy, would this inn be?”
“Me name’s Sam!” Correcting the stranger, the beggar boy pointed beyond Ayberk, to where the mob and the speaker stood. “Up that there hill!” At the foot of the circle of bodies, a sign hung. ‘The Good Queen’ was visible, a red rose was painted on the wooden space next to its name, obscuring what appeared to be the sigil of House Martell underneath.
“Very well, we shall rest.” Ayberk wasn’t too fond of the suggestion, but it appeared that the war had afflicted the city in more ways than one. With the countryside in many places now battle ground, it made sense that the smallfolk would find the major towns appealing. Dripping wet and hungry, the men and one boy marched up the hill, pausing only when the child spoke out again.
“‘Scuse me, sirs.” He held his hand out, expectantly.
Anger flushed in the face of the envoy. “Do not take us for your common fools, bastard boy. I am of the Iron Bank, here to decide what your king owes and what the king before he built up in debt.” With a forked tongue, he continued to spit his venom, making the child shrink back. “I will subtract the cost of one loaf of bread from your deed. Get out of my sight and steal from another!” He pointed in the opposite direction, watching as the boy ran off, as he twisted and turned. Not seeing Sam as the beggar paused, then whistled distinctively by a red bricked building.
When the Good Queen was but feet from them, the booming voice that so entranced the crowd was made clear. “Wounded children of war, hold those tears back! The Seven Gods of Westeros may have damned you to suffering, but it is not eternal! Not if you discard these false icons! Beyond these shores, true salvation rests, waiting to those who follow the Wayfarer! With this salvation, promises of warm bread, enough ale to drown in and justice will be brought to our brothers and sisters!” A gaunt figure atop what appeared to be several crates echoed words not entirely different from what Ayberk was accustomed to hearing. It was only a surprise to hear them in this city, in these lands, as opposed to Essos.
The banker, learning what happened when you spend too much time out in the streets earlier, hurried into the inn.
It was a dingy place, small in the interior despite looking spacious outside. Though tiny, it had many rooms, the large space cut up many times over. Round tables made up a majority of the room, those by the windows prized nearly as much as the few chairs and benches occupying the barmaid's hearth. The beggar boy, Sam, must’ve been sending nearly everyone to the Good Queen, judging from the number occupants. Two goldcloaks, who Ayberk surmised were off duty, sat by the windows with beers in their hands and heads downcast. Several other patrons with the appearance of slightly wealthier, yet still peasant casted were split throughout the inn. The largest group looming on a large, rectangular long table at the far wall, adjacent to the stairway upstairs, were seven Tyrell guards and approximately four women of irrefutable profession. The fragrance of oils and flower petals on the staircase to the second floor made it obvious where any others were hiding.
Finding a table, Ayberks of Morn looked over at his two companions. “I will eat alone.” He told them. “One of you stand outside, take shifts.” Hardly a break for his muscle, but Ayberks wasn’t about to pay them for eating at an inn, possibly indulging in the prostitutes that had been eyeing the three up since they entered. The Ebon skinned man turned and looked at his Ibbenese ally, who was already finding himself a seat. Stifling a groan, the man bowed his head and pounded out the door.
Dark faced, a woman of no greater age than fifteen approached Ayberks, Assuming him for a lord, potentially Dornish, the girl bowed her head in respect, mimicking the Summer Islander, before speaking to the envoy. A brisk talk later, Ayberks had ordered himself a wine from the Arbor and mutton. Not an ideal meal, though the idea of rest after countless hours of movement and food in his belly was more appealing than he’d let on earlier. Alongside the abhorrent traffic the war caused, Ayberks was silently thankful for the beggar boys timely arrival, otherwise he’d of driven himself to exhaustion reaching the Red Keep. It was hardly a good strategy to suggest King Maegor pay his deceased brother’s bill while panting for air. Brown eyes traced the inn, spotting a Dornishman meekly stealing glances at the soldiers from the Reach as he prepared their meals. Likewise, the young woman poured their drinks and rushed over to his table.
“Haven’t seen you around here, handsome.” An alluring voice swayed his vision, Ayberk addressed the source as the figure sashayed over. Red haired and petite, she had no great figure and when she smiled, two of her front teeth were missing. Still, the freckles on her face and pale flesh gave her an exotic appeal, to the Braavosi Banker. What was truly mesmerizing was the article of clothing draped around her frame. No leather or wool, garments else wise suited for the bedroom either. Instead, she wore the banner of House Baratheon, the stag keeping her nakedness from the world. A proud sigil that it would most likely be a capital punishment to besmirch used to warm the ass of a common whore.
“I’m passing through.” The banker explained, keeping track of the way her hips moved with each step forward. “Little time for me to become familiar.”
“Ha, you’re funny.” Crossed between mocking and some genuine interest, she flattened her chest on the table and peered into his dark eyes. “Ye’ sound funny, are you from Dorne? You’re dark like the Dornishman..”
“Further from Dorne.” Ayberk looked past his unwanted inn-mate, to the dark toned woman as she came by with the pint of ale and a plate of warm mutton.
Without warning, the whore tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it into his bowl. “Ya like my new dress? Seen ya eyeing it. Got it from Lord Baratheon personally before he left.” A cheeky smile cut her face in two, the gaps in her teeth making the ginger far less appealing to the Mornful man.
Pulling the bowl back, the banker humored her. “Did they not control the city just weeks ago?”
“Sa’ what? They up and ran off, they did. Leaving us undefended with these sods,” A hand waved dismissively at the nearby Goldcloaks, both of whom fell into their beers at their mention. “Stags? Lions? Wolves or trout? It don’t matter much. If I gotta be honest, I prefer the smell of roses over deer.” A humored giggle, she paused. “Who did you fight for again, handsome?”
Paused, the Banker swallowed hard. From the corner of his eye, he could perceive the Reachmen staring him down. The abrupt silence only giving it away even more. “I am a merchant from Essos.” He decided to reveal partial truths. “I do not fight foreign wars.”
A smile as true as the evening Sun fell from her features. “Be right back, love.” Sashaying away, the woman returned to the company of her Roses. A sigh of relief, Ayberk struggled to not stare at the soldiers. Instead, he browsed the room for his Ibbenese mercenary, only to find him gone. . Gone or upstairs, using his time in the inn to relieve some built up pressures. Of all the times to be alone…
Mutterings from the table of flowers left him nervous, but ultimately they seemed interested in other matters. Ayberk returned to his mutton, eating quickly yet not so quickly as to pour the whole bowl down his throat and make the occupiers suspicious. It would seem that these men would pick a fight, one way or another. As the Dornish barmaid returned, an armored soldier reached out and accosted her. One turned to two, which again split to three. A shriek and demand to cease found laughter as its empty reply. The man behind the hearth shot forward, shouting angrily at the soldiers.
“Bastards, unhand her and get out! Get out before I call the guards!”
“Dornish nub,” A blond man fired back, pushing the innkeep backwards. “Don’tcha know who we are? Who the Hell are ya to tell us to fuck off?” Another of them circled around, roughly grabbing at the innkeepers arms. “You’re gonna kindly pour us some’ore drinks as we chat with ya daughter.”
“We are loyal subjects of King Maegor, please!”
“Aye.” The man nodded in appreciation. “And yer daughter’ll show that loyalty. As will you, when ya pour that fucking wine.” Slapping the Dornishman, both men of the Reach released him, presumably to let him do as commanded. The Dornishman stood stunned, looking out to the Goldcloaks, then to Ayberks and the other misfit customers. When no one lifted a hand, the innkeeper quietly retreated as his daughter squirmed on another man’s lap.
Ayberk of Morn shifted anxiously, spying the two Goldcloaks who were further in their beers than before. “Aren’t you going to do something?” He muttered.
One of the men didn’t bother even looking at the foreigner, the other gave him an exacerbated look. “Law in the city is whatever they want it to be.”
“You are the city watch. They are just-”
“The victors, aye? The watch ain’t trusted yet, Essosi. I’m not aiming to end up in a noose.” The first guard shook his head.
The second, an older man with a beard of snow half drenched in drink and filled with more crumbs than pantry. He laughed, low and cruelly. “Not with Hangman Hightower in the city. Before, Maegor was atleast kind. To the Wall with half, pardons for some.. Little need for the noose.” Another shake of his head, the older guard let a grim smile cross his lips. “Hightower’s been in the city for twelve days, each day he hangs more and more. Clearin’ out the dungeons, is the word, though he offers few pardons. It’s to the Wall or the gallows.”
“The city was better before.” Mumbled the first guard. “Aerys, we never had this.. Even under Aemon, the Storm Folk were better behaved.”
“Woe to the vanquished.” Ayberk of Morn toasted in mutual understanding.
“Aye.. Woe to the vanquished.” The first guard raised his pint.
The oldbeard merely nodded in approval of their toast, already draining the remnants of his drink. Warm ale spilled down his cheek as the cup went vertical,washing out the numerous crumbs that infested his tuft of white beard hairs. A somber silence fell over the three, only the jeers from the occupiers in the opposite corner of the inn filled the air.
Chancing his luck with the city guards, Ayberk stoked their interests a second time. “Is the entire empire in this state?” The foreigner spoke through trilled tongues, eyes darker than night never strayed from the table of Reachmen, anxious as they continued to pass around the Dornish woman of a not too dissimilar complexion to himself. “I find it hard to believe a short war could yield such destruction.”
This time, the older man was the first on the draw. “Dorne.” Replying as swift as the ravens fly, “War has left their lands and replaced it with a green plague.”
Furling his brow, the banker waved him to continue.
“Them,” His gloved finger pointed outward to the men of flowers. “The cities down there are covered in them. The death toll…” The oldbeard gave a hollow laugh, one of emptiness, belonging to a man who had seen the horrors of this war. “Riverland’s is bad too, bandits now eat up the smallfolk and raid’em caravans that’er trying to rebuild their communities. None can tell which is really hurt worse.”
“Will they impact the king’s coffers?”
“Ha!” The oldbeard guffawed. “How the’ell am I supposed to know? Do ya’ see chains hangin’ from me throat?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Excuse me for that…” The envoy turned back to his mutton, breaking the stiff bread to pieces before moving for his meal. It had grown cold by the time he first tasted the cauldron brewed slop, much of the flavor now pungent and bare to the envoy. Despite this, he put his coin to work and chewed, swallowed each bite as a calmness returned to the inn. The Ibbenese man returned, a satisfied grin on his face, melted only by the scornful glare from his employer. Any lecture he would render on this dog was postponed as trouble once more loomed.
“Papa,” A cry from the shrill barmaid’s voice as she leapt from the table, only to be betrayed by the dark strands of her hair. Falling backwards, the Dornish immigrant hit the ground with a hard thud, the noise audible for but a moment before a mad laughter erupted from the soldiers and their courtesans.
An enraged howl escaped the kitchen, the older innkeeper came out with a knife hardly big enough to whittle wood with, “You get outta my inn this second.” He demanded, looking to his daughter as she scurried beyond the clawing grasp of the city intruders.
A cocky grin, the Reach soldier stretched from the table, looking around the inn for any other signs of danger before flashing the cold steel of his blade. “Get a gander, my doves, for we got a regular sand snake.” His movements were swift, practiced, as the steel danced through the air. Whether this came from skills learned at a keep or the greatest teacher, so oft said, raw experience from battle, it did not matter nor did Ayberk know as the flat of the blade collided with the Dornishman’s face. Blood was drawn as the cheek scraped against the edges of the weapon, crimson liquid pouring out as similarly as a tapped keg at a gypsy wedding.
The victim fell backwards, the knife now limp in his hand as the others of the Reach rose in unison.
“We’re going.” The Banker claimed, forcing the table away from him as he scrambled for the door. He stopped, moment paused as he recalled the satchel. Panic in his eyes, the Braavosi emissary grabbed hold of it and fled for the door, important documents, ledgers and letters safely tucked inside. The innkeeper cried for help as the Ibbenese man rose, eyes glancing for the goldcloaks who had similar ideas. No one wanted to be caught in the business of the invading conquerors. It became increasingly clear that those who truly controlled the city belonged to lands as distant as Ayberk’s own.
Cold sweat dripped down Ayberk’s forehead as for the second time that day he witnessed violence, and not in the manner he was accustomed to in Braavos. This was no dispute over honor or a romantic interest, as the dancers of his adopted city were famed, and perhaps stereotyped, for. What he witnessed was nothing short of brutal, chaotic and meaningless. Men with power abusing it for that sake. Ayberk of Morn sharpily inhaled, catching the sight of his dark skinned bodyguard and feeling safety return to him. The streets were still crowded, though with the preacher passed by, the remnants of his lectures being those wooden crates he stood atop of proudly, the trio felt confident in their ability to squeeze pass the now moving walls of traffic.
King’s Landing, if it was anything to judge the entire continent on, was frightening. There was no way that Maegor could pay his debts off if individual factions were freely abusing his smallfolk. Ayberk had half a mind to leave the city tonight, address alternative measures of payment. After all, some relative of the other rival rulers must be alive and free, potentially looking for a crown? These musings were cut short, the Braavosi clutched the satchel close to his chest as more shouts demanded attention.
“Make way, damned riding through! Make way!”
A procession of wagons, pulled by two mules each, featured heavy iron bars in their rear. Each wagon was filled with five to seven men, dirty creatures with dower expressions. Some shouted for freedom and others begged for mercy. Worst of all was their stench. “Begone with ya, beggars and whores!” The speaker, a tall man in distinctive silver armor with a burning tower atop his chest roared. “Make way or ya’ll be added to the birds breakfast!”
Enamored for a moment, the six or so wagons rolling by and parting the sea of men and women with the utmost ease. His bodyguards fell backwards as a woman and man were shoved into them, and another couple atop those. Ayberk likewise found himself closer to building, the coarse brick, now slick from the drizzle, cutting his skin as more men piled onto the sides of the roads. Throughout the claustrophobic experience, unnoticed did a figure go, lurking underneath many of the others forced into close proximity with one another. Small hands clutched at the lengths of Ayberk’s doublet, first unnoticed until a second tug stole his attention. Eyes fell downward moments too late as dirty mitts jumped through the air, a sharp, quick pull on the banker’s satchel loosened it from his grasp. Falling to the ground, Ayberk reacted mutely as the boy bent over and picked it up. Confusion flashed on his face before it melted into anger and recognition, the same beggar as before robbed him. Not just of gold or time, but papers worth more than the entirety of the city.
His voice, hoarse and tired, screamed into the crowd, directed at the urchin who now struggled to slip beneath the feet of others trapped much like the envoy. “Rat, you dirty mongrel.” He cursed in High Valyrian, drawing strange glances from those bordering him. His eyes never left the sight of the boy as he pushed forward, the company of so many of these mud and shit drenched peasants causing his stomach to churn. Their bodies slamming into his, hands slapping onto his body - both intentionally and by complete mistake. If the contents of his satchel were not worth more than his life, Ayberk would retreat to the inn, retreat to the city limits, where the smells of these native peoples were more mundane and not so polluted by urine and sweat. Each person he pushed past, another took their place. Ayberk felt sharp fear dig into his heart deeper than a Dothraki arakh. The boy, he was. . He was slipping away! Faster and faster, he squirmed beneath the parted legs of ladies and around men’s shoes, over murky puddles that formed in the wider cracks of the cobblestone. A desperate gasp of air, Ayberk abandoned his two bodyguards, unable to even find the distinctive men as the prison wagons rolled past, one after the other in an endless macabre display, a parade celebrating only death and oblivion. This single mindedness, a raw determination only those who felt a strong tug on their mortal coil could comprehend allowed Ayberk of Morn to throw caution to the wind. No longer did he keep eyes on his surroundings, nor did he see the lurking shadow mass stalk from his rear.
“Boy!” He cried, shoving aside a woman, only for a peasant’s elbow to be buried in his face, another bastard shoved backwards by the seemingly limitless masses of Eel Alley. Blood poured from his nose, staining the doublet’s white center. Only the soles of the beggar boys shoes could be made out as Sam crawled past a last figure, turning rapidly into an adjacent alley. The pain radiating from his face provided only a minor distraction for the Braavosi Banker, even coupled with the thousand hands that clutched at his person and tore into his Myrish made attire. Finally, Ayberk thought, he made it to the end of the street, where a damp and narrow alley cut down halfway through the buildings before turning. A sickening, pungent odor of feces and dead animal lingered. It was little wonder why the street goers avoided this strip of the city, even under the oppressive wave of human beings. Far past the point of reason, Ayberk didn’t question it when he saw the beggar standing at the first end of the alley, his back against the bending wall.
“To all your seven gods and the thousands of the world over, I swear to you beggar boy, I will have your blood siphoned out by leeches. Then, before your eyes shut for good, the last company you shall keep will be the vipers of the south.” He spat, seeing red as he pounded into the narrow space. The boy, predictable, ran from the envoy, though did not show any sign of fear… Ayberk did not question it, this urchin would soon be intimately aware of what a scorned Braavosi was capable of.
The Mornful man shifted around the corner, immediately greeted with the sight of a wall of stone separating the hidden walkway and the streets beyond. Trapped! He had this little thief trapped, only the promise of pain and vengeance to be done upon him now. With victory assured, Ayberk took a second between steps to notice his poor state. Mud and, what he hoped, was muck mingled with his own blood. A shirt that kings would find themselves unable to afford ruined beyond repair. Dothraki horse leather gifted to Ayberk from a Bloodrider personally scuffed and marred. How was Ayberk to address a king and demand great payments in this state? Even when he reclaimed the ledger, Ayberk would have to consider postponing his appointment at the Red Keep…
“Sirs, you gonna let me go?” The beggar smiled.
Smiled?
“Is this a game to you, guttersnipe?” The Banker growled in response, another step taken between them. There was no escape, no future for this foreign barbarian.
“No, sir, it’s me job.”
In the emptiness of the back street, a queer silence fell upon them.
Careful steps, a predator prowling, took all notice away from the boy. Ayberk turned, seeing a figure draped in darkness, only the protruding chin, ivory on the black soot suit he wore. Before his eyes, the young bastard ran past Ayberk and behind the imposing figure, then beyond his vision as Sam fled past the bend in the alley.
Color drained from the copper man’s face. “Wh-o’re you?” Regal, refined and enunciated speech fell into broken stammerings as the man in black progressed, each foot fall sounding louder than an elephant’s bellow. “Wha. . What’are’ye after?” He choked out the question, rapidly back stepping until he had no where else to go, the satchel he pursued the beggar for now ignored feet away from him. “I’ve got gold…”
Yet, the constant movement from this man did not falter. There wasn’t a hint of interest in the questions Ayberk posed or the bribe he offered. Pushing the black cloak to the side, a blade haflway between dagger and sword hung from his belt.
Had Ayberk noticed a stream of hot liquids running down his leg, he might be embarrassed, repulsed that a man such as himself would be degraded so far. But his dark eyes remained transfixed on steel colored clearer than Mother Rhoyne herself.
The envoys’ legs lost all strength as the man was but two feet away, malice not felt in his posture but lethality his intention with the weapon held firmly in his right hand. “Please…” Ayberk would sell anything for his life in this moment. His Pentoshi estate, his prized galleon, even his wife, if it meant he lived another day more. That some god, the Seven, the Red God, even the Wayfarer spared him.
Ravens flocked over the dark, dead end street as a scream punctured the air - drowned by the last of the prison wagons finally passing by. Doubled over, his eyes glassy and blood streaming from his chest, Ayberk of the Mountains of Morn saw the face of his attacker. If he had the ability to be shocked, the Braavosi would, though an encroaching darkness took him. The last he saw was a pale rose falling from the hooded man’s hand, hitting the ground next to Ayberk. It was a pretty rose, he thought, as his blood washed over it.
The assassin stepped out of the alley, weapon concealed once more. Flesh paler than the Summer Snows flashed for but a moment before the dark hood fell back against the man’s face. There was but one last task to complete. At the exit of the alleyway, the beggar boy stood patiently, eyeing the man as he approached.
“Well?” He squealed out.
Nodding, the figure reached into his cloak, pulling out a loaf of bread, baked fresh earlier that day. Sam snatched it eagerly, holding it as a mother does her babe. “You and your friends’ll get more after you tell the guards about the body.” The man didn’t linger, the hungry orphan would inform of the Braavosi’s corpse in return for a lick of salt, yet alone what the assassin offered. As quickly as he entered, the man faded into the crowd, a dark shadow soon obscured by the moving bodies.
King's Landing
Sharp winds cut over distant hills with thunder raging in the distant, a storm knocking before its arrival into the heartlands of the Westerosi land. Black clouds overhead wept sparingly, never greater than a meager annoyance to the inhabitants of the king’s city. Certainly so, they had many woes far greater than moisture in the air to deal with. Even from outside the city gates, Ayberk of the Morn was not ignorant of King’s Landing’s conditions. The envoy from the Iron Bank had seen the city twice before, each time under different kings, in different crises. War and now the desolation that it forced upon its people. The Essosi, tan skinned and with short, dark hair, well groomed and kept, at least to the bankers best abilities. The voyage from Braavos to Westeros was ordinarily easy, but the changing seasons forced both storms and false winds upon his vessel. Frustration built as the Braavosi banker was forced to sail down the coast, the royal fleet and several representatives of the larger houses - of which he recognized precious few - consumed the harbor. For all the irritation he crossed, Ayberk still felt himself appropriate to meet this new king. Black, combed hair salted lightly by the sea, a doublet of red, gold and white organized in colors of the great Braavosi Sea King, and rings of gold choking both of his index fingers. Hair curled from his chin, thinning out after several inches and giving Ayberk the appearance of a Ghiscari, though he had no relation to the slavers for as far back as his family line went, the distinction was often not seen whenever the envoy of the Bank made his business in the Free Cities or in Bone Town.
Below him, a horse and five retainers carefully traced his every step. Men who had no great loyalties to the Iron Bank or its mission besides a promised payment upon Ayberk’s safe return. A generous offer, Ayberk personally pushed for the sellswords to be given far less in return for basic services, though his superiors heard rumors of the war’s brutality and in fact wanted to send Ayberk more. The envoy scoffed openly at the suggestion. War, peace, famine or plague, the envoys of the Iron Bank were without worry, no such force dared marr his person in a hundred barbaric lands and Westeros would prove little different.
As Ayberk of Morn approached the gates of this king’s city, his eyes shot to the interior. Men and women walked, cobbled stones worn heavily over the last few months, with no signs of a horse or ass in sight. Eyes narrowing, Ayberk quickly dismounted.
“What seems to be the problem?” A man of similar complexion to himself leaned forward, ready to pull his sword out from his sheath.
“Find the stables and put Aeksion to rest. Have a guard on her until my departure from Westeros.” Ayberk didn’t bother to explain the situation to these hired swords, it was above him to lecture these simple folk on a common observation. The city was over crowded, anyone not of a high enough standing couldn’t bring their mule or ox inside. “You two,” A man of a devilish tone, tall and broad like the mountains he grew up under, and a smaller, hairy man of the ibben colonies. They would be easy to spot in the crowd, should he get lost. “Follow me in.” The envoy gave the command and continued down the road, the line of peasants, merchants and all others thinning out the closer they reached. Stepping forward, only a few men in gowns of glitter stood, spears in hand as they stared angrily at each passing person.
“Hold it, you there.” The thick and repulsive accent of the Crownlands struck Ayberk like a mother’s club to a child’s ear. “Essos, over’ere.”
Begrudgingly, Ayberk obeyed, his hired swords stepping in line behind them. One look at the Summer Islander and the Goldcloaks grew tense, likely never seeing the ebon people before. The Ibbense mercenary was far less striking, Ayberk would admit, though if they cared to measure the strength of these two men, Ayberk was certain the squatter fellow would edge out as superior.
“How can I help you?” Politely, he bowed his head in a sign of respect, though it killed the banker to show any to mere grunts. He was an emissary to kings of emperors, traveling to the limits of the map and beyond even that.
One of the Goldcloaks spit out a seed, turning from the Ebon-Man to Ayberk of Morn. “What’s the lot of you doin’ here?”
“We are here to see the king, I am a messenger from the Iron Bank of Braavos with intentions of negotiating the debts of your kingdom.” The Mornful man explained, a gradual edge sinking into his voice. “And I do not have time to deal with obstructions.” He added.
The Goldcloak looked ready to smack Ayberk with the blunt of his shaft, a decision most unwise, though his comrade seemed to understand who the proud Braavosi was. “On yer way,” A voice not dissimilar of chalk smacking rock, the other guard waved the three forward. “Causin’ you no trouble, m’lord.”
“And the Iron Bank thanks you for it.” Ushering his company forward, the Banker and his hired blades put distance between themselves and the gate. Distant cries of outrage rang behind them, likely the scorn filled guards taking out their grudges on others of lower status. These people truly were savage, unrefined and ugly.
It didn’t take the company of three long to find more trouble, signs of the cities degradation only breeding mischief and unrest. Beyond the refugees from the war, those who lost their homes and farms, clogging the streets and giving no alternative to the trio but to find other routes through Aerys’ city, the damage was both surprising and suspected. Ayberk had seen the effects of war, almost always at the hands of the Dothraki. It was a cruel, pointless affair that left nearly nothing standing, only that which did not burn. In Westeros, Ayberk noticed nearly the opposite. The city showed no signs of struggle, perhaps some minor fighting had taken place, but it was barely enough for Ayberk to take notice of. Oppositely, the people that roamed were little more than hollow shells. Desperate eyed children and a weeping mother, living in the gutter. Ayberk forced himself to look away, to walk faster and further around the city and its walls.
This continued, with Ayberk of Morn unable to observe the scarred faces of men and children, women often bore other horrors in war, left unseen by the naked eye, to Ayberk’s experience. Only when a shriek, no, a desperate plea for help cut the air like a Dornish stallion through sand did Ayberk and his guards turn over, stopping as others did.
“Someone, help! Thieves! Liars! They’ve taken my home! My coppers and silvers!” A grey haired woman with dimming eyes and torn, patchworked dress fell to her knees, armed bound together in prayer as she begged the masses to help her. “Me and my sons have no where to go! They expect us to die in the gutter!”
Across, in a residential building of two stories with a meager balcony that on could just barely stand on, the banner of these new occupants hung, a silver field draped with a crimson maned beast, a prowling terror. And below that, three of the pride stood half dressed in their red armor, faces contorting from humor to anger as many stopped, as Ayberk did, to see how this confrontation would resolve itself.
“Get off the ground.” A bald man with a horizontal scar across his face spat wickedly. “We’ve warned ya for the past three nights, quit yer moanin’ and be off with ya’. This here is property of m’Lady till our business in tha’ city is through.”
“Be done with all ya’ when me’ home is mine.” She spat without a moment's hesitation. “Thieves, you all. Thieves servin’ traitors.”
The bald man’s brow furrowed as he stepped forward. “You insulting me’ Lady? An insult on House Reyne is an insult ta’ me.” His hands rested at the hilt of his blade, tempting the woman to speak anymore ills of the West.
Ayberk averted his eyes and stepped hurriedly across the the street, “I should be speaking with these lions over this king.” He murmured, the riches of the West would be what paid the debts accumulated by all members of House Targaryen, not the fertile fields of the Reach or the Mountain Men that Ayberk understood to be Maegor’s chief backers. The cries behind him reached a new crescendo as the crowd began to run and shout, Ayberk of Morn chanced a final glance at the Reyne House. He saw but crimson, a claw dripping with the viscous fluid. And his feet crashed down on the pavement harder.
Seconds turned to minutes and minutes into nearly an hour as the envoy and his guards wandered, streets mobbed with bodies or soldiers forcing the three to find new passages constantly. Alleyway after alleyway, some of which even the Envoy felt trepidation at exploring, were the main veins of this city now. Before any of the three noticed, a fourth had been added to their pack.
“Goin’ somewhere, my sirs?” A brown haired boy questioned, appearing behind the Ibben man and nearly losing his little head over it as the foreigner turned with a sword drawn.
“Bastard boy,” The burly cretin wanted to continue, though Ayberk spoke up quicker.
“To see the King, we do not have time for games.” Ayberk of Morn’s comment turned to the Ibbense man, who quickly acknowledged the command and turned a cold shoulder to the whoreson.
“The king?” Not catching any hints, the boy whirled around on the balls of his bare feet. “Ain’t gonna find him down here, my sirs.”
Sardonically, the envoy replied. “What a shame.” Crossing past another small alley, Ayberk’s neutral expression turned sour. Another mob, this time surrounded a figure that the merchant could barely make out at the end of the street. The opposite side twisted and turned back in the direction that the banker came from. “What sort of mind created this city?” He barked.
“Lost, my sirs?”
“Did I not tell you to leave?” Ayberk retorted.
“You have not.” Replying cheekily, the boy marched forward. “Everyone’s out in the mornin’s, earning a livin’ or finding easy meals. It’ll take you hours to get to the kings castle if you go on this way.” The boy smiled.
Perhaps the envoy should’ve let the Ibbenese man cut off this bastards head. “And you have some secret tunnel to the Red Keep?”
“Nay, no such luck todays. I just got an inn you can rest at in the meantime, my sirs! Better to rest, bellies full of King’s landing’s finest wine than be boilin’ mad squeezin’ past pickpockets all day.”
“I do not have time for this.” Ayberk shook off the invitation, stepping into the street center and squinting his eyes, as if he could view some invisible passage way around the growing masses.
A grunt from the Ebon Man drew Ayberk’s attention, “It isn’t the worst idea.” He spoke in High Valyrian. “It has been some hours since we stopped.”
Frowning, Ayberk was ready to deliver a scathing reply, though the nodding from his Ibbenese ally slowed his tongue. “And where, boy, would this inn be?”
“Me name’s Sam!” Correcting the stranger, the beggar boy pointed beyond Ayberk, to where the mob and the speaker stood. “Up that there hill!” At the foot of the circle of bodies, a sign hung. ‘The Good Queen’ was visible, a red rose was painted on the wooden space next to its name, obscuring what appeared to be the sigil of House Martell underneath.
“Very well, we shall rest.” Ayberk wasn’t too fond of the suggestion, but it appeared that the war had afflicted the city in more ways than one. With the countryside in many places now battle ground, it made sense that the smallfolk would find the major towns appealing. Dripping wet and hungry, the men and one boy marched up the hill, pausing only when the child spoke out again.
“‘Scuse me, sirs.” He held his hand out, expectantly.
Anger flushed in the face of the envoy. “Do not take us for your common fools, bastard boy. I am of the Iron Bank, here to decide what your king owes and what the king before he built up in debt.” With a forked tongue, he continued to spit his venom, making the child shrink back. “I will subtract the cost of one loaf of bread from your deed. Get out of my sight and steal from another!” He pointed in the opposite direction, watching as the boy ran off, as he twisted and turned. Not seeing Sam as the beggar paused, then whistled distinctively by a red bricked building.
When the Good Queen was but feet from them, the booming voice that so entranced the crowd was made clear. “Wounded children of war, hold those tears back! The Seven Gods of Westeros may have damned you to suffering, but it is not eternal! Not if you discard these false icons! Beyond these shores, true salvation rests, waiting to those who follow the Wayfarer! With this salvation, promises of warm bread, enough ale to drown in and justice will be brought to our brothers and sisters!” A gaunt figure atop what appeared to be several crates echoed words not entirely different from what Ayberk was accustomed to hearing. It was only a surprise to hear them in this city, in these lands, as opposed to Essos.
The banker, learning what happened when you spend too much time out in the streets earlier, hurried into the inn.
It was a dingy place, small in the interior despite looking spacious outside. Though tiny, it had many rooms, the large space cut up many times over. Round tables made up a majority of the room, those by the windows prized nearly as much as the few chairs and benches occupying the barmaid's hearth. The beggar boy, Sam, must’ve been sending nearly everyone to the Good Queen, judging from the number occupants. Two goldcloaks, who Ayberk surmised were off duty, sat by the windows with beers in their hands and heads downcast. Several other patrons with the appearance of slightly wealthier, yet still peasant casted were split throughout the inn. The largest group looming on a large, rectangular long table at the far wall, adjacent to the stairway upstairs, were seven Tyrell guards and approximately four women of irrefutable profession. The fragrance of oils and flower petals on the staircase to the second floor made it obvious where any others were hiding.
Finding a table, Ayberks of Morn looked over at his two companions. “I will eat alone.” He told them. “One of you stand outside, take shifts.” Hardly a break for his muscle, but Ayberks wasn’t about to pay them for eating at an inn, possibly indulging in the prostitutes that had been eyeing the three up since they entered. The Ebon skinned man turned and looked at his Ibbenese ally, who was already finding himself a seat. Stifling a groan, the man bowed his head and pounded out the door.
Dark faced, a woman of no greater age than fifteen approached Ayberks, Assuming him for a lord, potentially Dornish, the girl bowed her head in respect, mimicking the Summer Islander, before speaking to the envoy. A brisk talk later, Ayberks had ordered himself a wine from the Arbor and mutton. Not an ideal meal, though the idea of rest after countless hours of movement and food in his belly was more appealing than he’d let on earlier. Alongside the abhorrent traffic the war caused, Ayberks was silently thankful for the beggar boys timely arrival, otherwise he’d of driven himself to exhaustion reaching the Red Keep. It was hardly a good strategy to suggest King Maegor pay his deceased brother’s bill while panting for air. Brown eyes traced the inn, spotting a Dornishman meekly stealing glances at the soldiers from the Reach as he prepared their meals. Likewise, the young woman poured their drinks and rushed over to his table.
“Haven’t seen you around here, handsome.” An alluring voice swayed his vision, Ayberk addressed the source as the figure sashayed over. Red haired and petite, she had no great figure and when she smiled, two of her front teeth were missing. Still, the freckles on her face and pale flesh gave her an exotic appeal, to the Braavosi Banker. What was truly mesmerizing was the article of clothing draped around her frame. No leather or wool, garments else wise suited for the bedroom either. Instead, she wore the banner of House Baratheon, the stag keeping her nakedness from the world. A proud sigil that it would most likely be a capital punishment to besmirch used to warm the ass of a common whore.
“I’m passing through.” The banker explained, keeping track of the way her hips moved with each step forward. “Little time for me to become familiar.”
“Ha, you’re funny.” Crossed between mocking and some genuine interest, she flattened her chest on the table and peered into his dark eyes. “Ye’ sound funny, are you from Dorne? You’re dark like the Dornishman..”
“Further from Dorne.” Ayberk looked past his unwanted inn-mate, to the dark toned woman as she came by with the pint of ale and a plate of warm mutton.
Without warning, the whore tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it into his bowl. “Ya like my new dress? Seen ya eyeing it. Got it from Lord Baratheon personally before he left.” A cheeky smile cut her face in two, the gaps in her teeth making the ginger far less appealing to the Mornful man.
Pulling the bowl back, the banker humored her. “Did they not control the city just weeks ago?”
“Sa’ what? They up and ran off, they did. Leaving us undefended with these sods,” A hand waved dismissively at the nearby Goldcloaks, both of whom fell into their beers at their mention. “Stags? Lions? Wolves or trout? It don’t matter much. If I gotta be honest, I prefer the smell of roses over deer.” A humored giggle, she paused. “Who did you fight for again, handsome?”
Paused, the Banker swallowed hard. From the corner of his eye, he could perceive the Reachmen staring him down. The abrupt silence only giving it away even more. “I am a merchant from Essos.” He decided to reveal partial truths. “I do not fight foreign wars.”
A smile as true as the evening Sun fell from her features. “Be right back, love.” Sashaying away, the woman returned to the company of her Roses. A sigh of relief, Ayberk struggled to not stare at the soldiers. Instead, he browsed the room for his Ibbenese mercenary, only to find him gone. . Gone or upstairs, using his time in the inn to relieve some built up pressures. Of all the times to be alone…
Mutterings from the table of flowers left him nervous, but ultimately they seemed interested in other matters. Ayberk returned to his mutton, eating quickly yet not so quickly as to pour the whole bowl down his throat and make the occupiers suspicious. It would seem that these men would pick a fight, one way or another. As the Dornish barmaid returned, an armored soldier reached out and accosted her. One turned to two, which again split to three. A shriek and demand to cease found laughter as its empty reply. The man behind the hearth shot forward, shouting angrily at the soldiers.
“Bastards, unhand her and get out! Get out before I call the guards!”
“Dornish nub,” A blond man fired back, pushing the innkeep backwards. “Don’tcha know who we are? Who the Hell are ya to tell us to fuck off?” Another of them circled around, roughly grabbing at the innkeepers arms. “You’re gonna kindly pour us some’ore drinks as we chat with ya daughter.”
“We are loyal subjects of King Maegor, please!”
“Aye.” The man nodded in appreciation. “And yer daughter’ll show that loyalty. As will you, when ya pour that fucking wine.” Slapping the Dornishman, both men of the Reach released him, presumably to let him do as commanded. The Dornishman stood stunned, looking out to the Goldcloaks, then to Ayberks and the other misfit customers. When no one lifted a hand, the innkeeper quietly retreated as his daughter squirmed on another man’s lap.
Ayberk of Morn shifted anxiously, spying the two Goldcloaks who were further in their beers than before. “Aren’t you going to do something?” He muttered.
One of the men didn’t bother even looking at the foreigner, the other gave him an exacerbated look. “Law in the city is whatever they want it to be.”
“You are the city watch. They are just-”
“The victors, aye? The watch ain’t trusted yet, Essosi. I’m not aiming to end up in a noose.” The first guard shook his head.
The second, an older man with a beard of snow half drenched in drink and filled with more crumbs than pantry. He laughed, low and cruelly. “Not with Hangman Hightower in the city. Before, Maegor was atleast kind. To the Wall with half, pardons for some.. Little need for the noose.” Another shake of his head, the older guard let a grim smile cross his lips. “Hightower’s been in the city for twelve days, each day he hangs more and more. Clearin’ out the dungeons, is the word, though he offers few pardons. It’s to the Wall or the gallows.”
“The city was better before.” Mumbled the first guard. “Aerys, we never had this.. Even under Aemon, the Storm Folk were better behaved.”
“Woe to the vanquished.” Ayberk of Morn toasted in mutual understanding.
“Aye.. Woe to the vanquished.” The first guard raised his pint.
The oldbeard merely nodded in approval of their toast, already draining the remnants of his drink. Warm ale spilled down his cheek as the cup went vertical,washing out the numerous crumbs that infested his tuft of white beard hairs. A somber silence fell over the three, only the jeers from the occupiers in the opposite corner of the inn filled the air.
Chancing his luck with the city guards, Ayberk stoked their interests a second time. “Is the entire empire in this state?” The foreigner spoke through trilled tongues, eyes darker than night never strayed from the table of Reachmen, anxious as they continued to pass around the Dornish woman of a not too dissimilar complexion to himself. “I find it hard to believe a short war could yield such destruction.”
This time, the older man was the first on the draw. “Dorne.” Replying as swift as the ravens fly, “War has left their lands and replaced it with a green plague.”
Furling his brow, the banker waved him to continue.
“Them,” His gloved finger pointed outward to the men of flowers. “The cities down there are covered in them. The death toll…” The oldbeard gave a hollow laugh, one of emptiness, belonging to a man who had seen the horrors of this war. “Riverland’s is bad too, bandits now eat up the smallfolk and raid’em caravans that’er trying to rebuild their communities. None can tell which is really hurt worse.”
“Will they impact the king’s coffers?”
“Ha!” The oldbeard guffawed. “How the’ell am I supposed to know? Do ya’ see chains hangin’ from me throat?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Excuse me for that…” The envoy turned back to his mutton, breaking the stiff bread to pieces before moving for his meal. It had grown cold by the time he first tasted the cauldron brewed slop, much of the flavor now pungent and bare to the envoy. Despite this, he put his coin to work and chewed, swallowed each bite as a calmness returned to the inn. The Ibbenese man returned, a satisfied grin on his face, melted only by the scornful glare from his employer. Any lecture he would render on this dog was postponed as trouble once more loomed.
“Papa,” A cry from the shrill barmaid’s voice as she leapt from the table, only to be betrayed by the dark strands of her hair. Falling backwards, the Dornish immigrant hit the ground with a hard thud, the noise audible for but a moment before a mad laughter erupted from the soldiers and their courtesans.
An enraged howl escaped the kitchen, the older innkeeper came out with a knife hardly big enough to whittle wood with, “You get outta my inn this second.” He demanded, looking to his daughter as she scurried beyond the clawing grasp of the city intruders.
A cocky grin, the Reach soldier stretched from the table, looking around the inn for any other signs of danger before flashing the cold steel of his blade. “Get a gander, my doves, for we got a regular sand snake.” His movements were swift, practiced, as the steel danced through the air. Whether this came from skills learned at a keep or the greatest teacher, so oft said, raw experience from battle, it did not matter nor did Ayberk know as the flat of the blade collided with the Dornishman’s face. Blood was drawn as the cheek scraped against the edges of the weapon, crimson liquid pouring out as similarly as a tapped keg at a gypsy wedding.
The victim fell backwards, the knife now limp in his hand as the others of the Reach rose in unison.
“We’re going.” The Banker claimed, forcing the table away from him as he scrambled for the door. He stopped, moment paused as he recalled the satchel. Panic in his eyes, the Braavosi emissary grabbed hold of it and fled for the door, important documents, ledgers and letters safely tucked inside. The innkeeper cried for help as the Ibbenese man rose, eyes glancing for the goldcloaks who had similar ideas. No one wanted to be caught in the business of the invading conquerors. It became increasingly clear that those who truly controlled the city belonged to lands as distant as Ayberk’s own.
Cold sweat dripped down Ayberk’s forehead as for the second time that day he witnessed violence, and not in the manner he was accustomed to in Braavos. This was no dispute over honor or a romantic interest, as the dancers of his adopted city were famed, and perhaps stereotyped, for. What he witnessed was nothing short of brutal, chaotic and meaningless. Men with power abusing it for that sake. Ayberk of Morn sharpily inhaled, catching the sight of his dark skinned bodyguard and feeling safety return to him. The streets were still crowded, though with the preacher passed by, the remnants of his lectures being those wooden crates he stood atop of proudly, the trio felt confident in their ability to squeeze pass the now moving walls of traffic.
King’s Landing, if it was anything to judge the entire continent on, was frightening. There was no way that Maegor could pay his debts off if individual factions were freely abusing his smallfolk. Ayberk had half a mind to leave the city tonight, address alternative measures of payment. After all, some relative of the other rival rulers must be alive and free, potentially looking for a crown? These musings were cut short, the Braavosi clutched the satchel close to his chest as more shouts demanded attention.
“Make way, damned riding through! Make way!”
A procession of wagons, pulled by two mules each, featured heavy iron bars in their rear. Each wagon was filled with five to seven men, dirty creatures with dower expressions. Some shouted for freedom and others begged for mercy. Worst of all was their stench. “Begone with ya, beggars and whores!” The speaker, a tall man in distinctive silver armor with a burning tower atop his chest roared. “Make way or ya’ll be added to the birds breakfast!”
Enamored for a moment, the six or so wagons rolling by and parting the sea of men and women with the utmost ease. His bodyguards fell backwards as a woman and man were shoved into them, and another couple atop those. Ayberk likewise found himself closer to building, the coarse brick, now slick from the drizzle, cutting his skin as more men piled onto the sides of the roads. Throughout the claustrophobic experience, unnoticed did a figure go, lurking underneath many of the others forced into close proximity with one another. Small hands clutched at the lengths of Ayberk’s doublet, first unnoticed until a second tug stole his attention. Eyes fell downward moments too late as dirty mitts jumped through the air, a sharp, quick pull on the banker’s satchel loosened it from his grasp. Falling to the ground, Ayberk reacted mutely as the boy bent over and picked it up. Confusion flashed on his face before it melted into anger and recognition, the same beggar as before robbed him. Not just of gold or time, but papers worth more than the entirety of the city.
His voice, hoarse and tired, screamed into the crowd, directed at the urchin who now struggled to slip beneath the feet of others trapped much like the envoy. “Rat, you dirty mongrel.” He cursed in High Valyrian, drawing strange glances from those bordering him. His eyes never left the sight of the boy as he pushed forward, the company of so many of these mud and shit drenched peasants causing his stomach to churn. Their bodies slamming into his, hands slapping onto his body - both intentionally and by complete mistake. If the contents of his satchel were not worth more than his life, Ayberk would retreat to the inn, retreat to the city limits, where the smells of these native peoples were more mundane and not so polluted by urine and sweat. Each person he pushed past, another took their place. Ayberk felt sharp fear dig into his heart deeper than a Dothraki arakh. The boy, he was. . He was slipping away! Faster and faster, he squirmed beneath the parted legs of ladies and around men’s shoes, over murky puddles that formed in the wider cracks of the cobblestone. A desperate gasp of air, Ayberk abandoned his two bodyguards, unable to even find the distinctive men as the prison wagons rolled past, one after the other in an endless macabre display, a parade celebrating only death and oblivion. This single mindedness, a raw determination only those who felt a strong tug on their mortal coil could comprehend allowed Ayberk of Morn to throw caution to the wind. No longer did he keep eyes on his surroundings, nor did he see the lurking shadow mass stalk from his rear.
“Boy!” He cried, shoving aside a woman, only for a peasant’s elbow to be buried in his face, another bastard shoved backwards by the seemingly limitless masses of Eel Alley. Blood poured from his nose, staining the doublet’s white center. Only the soles of the beggar boys shoes could be made out as Sam crawled past a last figure, turning rapidly into an adjacent alley. The pain radiating from his face provided only a minor distraction for the Braavosi Banker, even coupled with the thousand hands that clutched at his person and tore into his Myrish made attire. Finally, Ayberk thought, he made it to the end of the street, where a damp and narrow alley cut down halfway through the buildings before turning. A sickening, pungent odor of feces and dead animal lingered. It was little wonder why the street goers avoided this strip of the city, even under the oppressive wave of human beings. Far past the point of reason, Ayberk didn’t question it when he saw the beggar standing at the first end of the alley, his back against the bending wall.
“To all your seven gods and the thousands of the world over, I swear to you beggar boy, I will have your blood siphoned out by leeches. Then, before your eyes shut for good, the last company you shall keep will be the vipers of the south.” He spat, seeing red as he pounded into the narrow space. The boy, predictable, ran from the envoy, though did not show any sign of fear… Ayberk did not question it, this urchin would soon be intimately aware of what a scorned Braavosi was capable of.
The Mornful man shifted around the corner, immediately greeted with the sight of a wall of stone separating the hidden walkway and the streets beyond. Trapped! He had this little thief trapped, only the promise of pain and vengeance to be done upon him now. With victory assured, Ayberk took a second between steps to notice his poor state. Mud and, what he hoped, was muck mingled with his own blood. A shirt that kings would find themselves unable to afford ruined beyond repair. Dothraki horse leather gifted to Ayberk from a Bloodrider personally scuffed and marred. How was Ayberk to address a king and demand great payments in this state? Even when he reclaimed the ledger, Ayberk would have to consider postponing his appointment at the Red Keep…
“Sirs, you gonna let me go?” The beggar smiled.
Smiled?
“Is this a game to you, guttersnipe?” The Banker growled in response, another step taken between them. There was no escape, no future for this foreign barbarian.
“No, sir, it’s me job.”
In the emptiness of the back street, a queer silence fell upon them.
Careful steps, a predator prowling, took all notice away from the boy. Ayberk turned, seeing a figure draped in darkness, only the protruding chin, ivory on the black soot suit he wore. Before his eyes, the young bastard ran past Ayberk and behind the imposing figure, then beyond his vision as Sam fled past the bend in the alley.
Color drained from the copper man’s face. “Wh-o’re you?” Regal, refined and enunciated speech fell into broken stammerings as the man in black progressed, each foot fall sounding louder than an elephant’s bellow. “Wha. . What’are’ye after?” He choked out the question, rapidly back stepping until he had no where else to go, the satchel he pursued the beggar for now ignored feet away from him. “I’ve got gold…”
Yet, the constant movement from this man did not falter. There wasn’t a hint of interest in the questions Ayberk posed or the bribe he offered. Pushing the black cloak to the side, a blade haflway between dagger and sword hung from his belt.
Had Ayberk noticed a stream of hot liquids running down his leg, he might be embarrassed, repulsed that a man such as himself would be degraded so far. But his dark eyes remained transfixed on steel colored clearer than Mother Rhoyne herself.
The envoys’ legs lost all strength as the man was but two feet away, malice not felt in his posture but lethality his intention with the weapon held firmly in his right hand. “Please…” Ayberk would sell anything for his life in this moment. His Pentoshi estate, his prized galleon, even his wife, if it meant he lived another day more. That some god, the Seven, the Red God, even the Wayfarer spared him.
Ravens flocked over the dark, dead end street as a scream punctured the air - drowned by the last of the prison wagons finally passing by. Doubled over, his eyes glassy and blood streaming from his chest, Ayberk of the Mountains of Morn saw the face of his attacker. If he had the ability to be shocked, the Braavosi would, though an encroaching darkness took him. The last he saw was a pale rose falling from the hooded man’s hand, hitting the ground next to Ayberk. It was a pretty rose, he thought, as his blood washed over it.
The assassin stepped out of the alley, weapon concealed once more. Flesh paler than the Summer Snows flashed for but a moment before the dark hood fell back against the man’s face. There was but one last task to complete. At the exit of the alleyway, the beggar boy stood patiently, eyeing the man as he approached.
“Well?” He squealed out.
Nodding, the figure reached into his cloak, pulling out a loaf of bread, baked fresh earlier that day. Sam snatched it eagerly, holding it as a mother does her babe. “You and your friends’ll get more after you tell the guards about the body.” The man didn’t linger, the hungry orphan would inform of the Braavosi’s corpse in return for a lick of salt, yet alone what the assassin offered. As quickly as he entered, the man faded into the crowd, a dark shadow soon obscured by the moving bodies.
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