A heavy gloved fist brought itself down onto the rough wooden surface of the bar. "Another one," called out the owner of the fist, his pure white beard dripping with the remnants of his last pint of ale. The Braavosi innkeeper stared at him, incredulous. He had never seen a man put so much drink into his body and not keel over. He approached the drunkard, mug in hand, but when the patron reached out to take the offering, he kept a tight hold on it. "You get too drunk, my friend," he said, "you make any trouble, and you go out on your, what do you Westerosi call it again? Ah, yes, your ass." His tone was light and friendly, and a smile was on his face, but his eyes were deadly serious. The bearded man held his stare and nodded back curtly. The innkeeper relinquished his hold on the drink.

In less than ten seconds, the mug was drained and placed on the counter. The patron stifled a burp, fished a few coins from his pocket, and placed them beside the empty cup. "You may keep the change," he said, voice slurring a bit. He stood and swaggered out of the small, crowded inn, bumping into a few other patrons who didn't seem to notice him, so deep were they in their cups. The innkeeper watched him leave, then shook his head and got back to work. Neither he nor any of the other patrons noticed how, just before the door closed fully, his drunken swagger vanished, replaced by a purposeful stride.

Rolf sighed as the cool night air kissed his skin. The damned inn was so crowded he had been sure he would suffocate. Now, out in the open once more, he patted the dagger at his side, and checked to make sure his coin purse and hip flask still hung beside it. He had lost it his first night in Braavos, only to be fortunate enough to run into the purse's new owner in a brothel called the Happy Port. After exiting the establishment, the thief soon found himself short both a purse and a hand. The incident had served to make Rolf more wary of this city, though, so he only took the man's left hand.

The aging knight made his way towards a small abandoned home on the edge of the Drowned town, occasionally taking sips from his flask. As he neared his destination, he slowed his pace and tried to remain quiet. He didn't want to wake his lady. But it turned out he needn't have bothered.

She was standing on the bridge that connected the little island their abode squatted on to the rest of the city. Her back was to him a she leaned against the stone balustrade and stared out at the sunken buildings. The moonlight caught in her tangled blonde hair, transforming it into a pale silver. She wore a simple grey tunic and distractingly tight trousers.

Rolf stood there for a moment, marveling at the sight of her. What in seven hells are you doing, you old fool? He admonished himself. A third your age, and your sworn lady besides. Get moving now before you let these thoughts go any further. And so, pushed forward by his self-reprisal, he approached, making sure his boots were audible. She whirled, body stiff with alarm, but relaxed when she saw him. From the expression on her face, she knew he must look a mess. His short hair and normally well-kept beard would both be dripping with sweat and ale, his tunic stained with the stuff. He didn't even want to think about how he smelled.

"Ugh. Why must you do this to yourself, Rolf?" she said, wrinkling her nose. "Anyone might mistake you for a beggar. Which you will soon be, if you spent as much as I think you did tonight." He bowed his head to hide the amused smile spreading on his face.

"Milady," he said, controlling his features before straightening. "I am beyond redemption, I fear," he said with absurd seriousness. "You ought to get yourself away from a ruffian like myself. What would the noble lords and ladies think?"

She snorted. "As if I care." She strode over to him, stopping only a little over a foot away. She was nearly a foot shorter than his six and a half feet, so she had to reach up to brush the hair away from his forehead. As she did so, he grabbed her wrist gently but firmly.

"You have to care," he said, and it was evident from his tone that he was actually serious now. "You will have to deal with those people when you reclaim your rightful home."

"I know," she said, trying to take her wrist back. He would not let go. "Rolf, I know," she sighed. "But I don't have to care just now, do I? Not until we set sail tomorrow. Now please, let go." After a moment's hesitation, he did as she asked, and she finished cleaning up his hair. "Good. You look like a human being again," she said grinning. He returned her smile.

"My thanks, lady," he said, bowing comically low. "Without you, I don't know where I would be."

She studied him, suddenly serious again. "I know where I would be without you," she said softly. "Drowned with the rest of my family. I…I never thanked you, Rolf. For what you did all those years ago. Saving me, taking me to Essos, all your training…I would not be in the position I am now, ready to reclaim my seat, were it not for you."

Rolf shrugged, scratching his neck in an attempt to look casual. "I'd do it all again, my lady. And not just because I'd have drowned as well." They both laughed, although it was more a release of nerves than from genuine amusement. They were both nervous for what the morrow would bring.

"Now, come along inside," she said, turning on her heel and striding towards their little shanty. He watched her move, marveling as he often did at her predatory grace. Other ladies might be bred for the cutthroat politics of King's Landing, but his liege was a woman of war. As he had trained her to be. That was how she would take back what was rightfully hers. Years of plotting and preparation would soon come to fruition. They would ally with the rebel king Roob Stark, smash Tywin Lannister, and return home. "Are you coming?" she called out, turning back to face him.

Rolf started, like a man waking from a dream. "Right away, milady," he said, moving toward her. She turned back around, and Rolf followed his lady, Tiyana Reyne, daughter of Ellyn Reyne and Tion Lannister, inside.