The Encroaching Darkness (ASOIAF/GOT AU OC)
AN: Sorry for the missed update. I was struck by an illness last week and the world didn't wait for me to catch-up.
Also, This is what Rylan's sigil would appear like.
Chapter 1,
The Narrow Sea
Off the coast of the Crownlands
The sea spray stung. The sun was overbearing. The wind was ferocious; it seemed the Drowned God himself wished for them all to join him.
It had been so long ago, that he had crossed this stretch of water. A decade of learning, training, fighting and mastering. He'd left a boy and returned as…. a man? Well, that wasn't his judgement to make.
The captain came to stand with him at the prow. A large belly and stocky legs were obscured by the sing largest beard he had ever seen. Broad shouldered, pale-skin, as hairy as a bear and shorter than he was. All in all – an archetypical specimen of the Ibbenese. He wore all-green tunic and breeches, overlapped by a purple shawl with gold lining.
Together they look out to sea, the great blue snake that encircled the world. After a short while, the captain turned to inform him, in that gruff voice of his, that they would shortly arrive to Westeros. Rylan gravely nodded. Their short transit in Braavos had briefly alleviated his austere mood. It had been a delightful journey back in time – meeting his former mentor, Ferrego Antaryon, the Sea Lord of Braavos.
They had arrived to Tyrosh in due time, in thanks to their strict marching scheduled. After resupplying his war galleys, they had boarded and subsequently left port for Braavos. The sea had been less than pleasant though, with the early arrival unseen storms but his fleet could more than withstand it. It was made of thirteen dromonds or war galleys. They each could carry one hundred and seventy-five sailors, the permanent residents of his ships, with the new addition to up to two hundred men-at-arms. All in all, his force amounted to four thousand and a half strong. A thousand and half sailors and oarsmen, and the three thousand he had marched with.
The journey was slightly cramped however – he had never taken his full strength to sea at once before. Nevertheless, this could be easily remedied. During his years of placement in Braavos, he had witnessed the Arsenal, the heart of shipbuilding in Braavos, create a new war galley in a single day.
The Titan had loomed above them - it's sword rose, unending, parting the clouds; A black fang piercing the heavens. An old friend welcoming him home. Truly, it was the greatest marvel of man that he had ever witnessed. Greater than the triple wall of Qarth, the ancient Valyrian roads or the Long Bridge of Volantis.
Passing the filthy hazardous Ragman's harbour, they had dropped anchor in the more illustrious Purple Harbour, to the west of the Sea Lord's palace. Thankfully, Argilac was feeling too lethargic to bother causing trouble as he was placed inside his gilded cage. As Rylan disembarked with his captains and maester, they received the strangest, most wide-eyed looks – as if a dragon had come ashore. It made sense though; only the Braavosi were allowed to dock here.
In fact, several guardsmen had blocked their passage, until their captain had recognized who he was and speedily apologized on their behalf. Rylan simply waved it off. It was only natural. After all, it been a long time since he had returned.
The sight and smell of the city that he had been sent to as a ward was nostalgic and enjoyable for him, as it was for Jaq. The big lug had, after receiving his consent, wandered off. No doubt to encounter old acquaintances and rekindle older friendships. Rylan would often allow his subordinates to do so, during their short stays in their home cities – though it was much for him as it was for them. With mingling came contacts, with contacts came information, with information came power.
Bar the guards he posted to watch the ships, he then gave the rest of his men the same privilege. They would be free to visit the taverns and brothels during their stay. It would take three days for the new additions to be made to his fleet. He then acquired a canal boat to ferry him and the three others to his destination.
Soon enough the fog parted, just as the Sea Lord's palace came into view. It's magnificent golden domes were held up by smooth white walls, with lines of immense Myrish glass windows descending vertically, reflecting the midday sun, giving off the impression that something divine must reside in such a glorious abode. The familiar golden thunderbolt was still revolving, continuously, since the day he had first glimpsed it at the top of the central principal dome. He remembered arriving here for the very first time and being reminded of Casterly Rock, with it's magnitude, splendour and show of wealth.
Their barge came to a halt at the foot of the chiselled stair. After docking, he self-assuredly led the way, climbing the steps and striding beneath the golden arches that lay ahead of the entrance of the palace. A rank of heavily armed guardsmen stood opposite them, wearing tunics of the striped purple and blue-almost-black colours of their liege, in addition to parti-coloured breeches. They all wielded identical slim steel poleaxes, with a pointed apex and a front-facing axe.
As one they parted, forming parallel walls of flesh, allowing them unobstructed entry into the home of the ruler of Braavos.
At the it's end, they were greeted by the one man he dreaded to meet again. Gangly and tall, dressed in same colours as the rest, with more bone than meat on his frame, the man appeared to be staring daggers at him. A pointed curved nose lay beneath his one hairy brown while his curly black hair came to rest atop it. His mouth was drawn into a sneer that slowly grew in size the closer they approached. A polished rapier rested in the purple leather scabbard tied around his waist. Green-flecked-with-gold and brown glares clashed until finally one gave in, brown blinking with spite.
The man coughed, clearing his throat unnecessarily loudly. "Welcome back, Ser Ryland. I see you have returned to the lord's palace with more than you left it with. If you Westerosi can call picking up a stray, a maegi and a mummer an improvement." His voice was raspy, lips never once changing from the sneer he had plastered upon his face.
Edgarth and Perzys, never ones to take offense, simply remained perfectly still. On the other hand, to his left, Vespa had an angelic look on her face that was a little betrayed by the fact that she was, almost imperceptibly, drawing the silver kukri that was sheathed behind her waist. Rylan subtly raised his left hand to calm her, never breaking eye contact with the man.
"Well, seeing I would bet your weight in gold that any of them could slay these rows of striped peacocks, I would say that they are an immense enhancement to my fighting forces. But then again, that bet wouldn't be worth much. Are you starving yourself, Qarro? For the courtesans, mayhaps? Your nose is sharper than your sword is. I hope you're at least capable of protecting the Honourable Lord. If not, then you'd best start seeking another, less hazardous, occupation," His face had steadily changed in hue during his little speech, becoming redder by the minute.
Rylan started past him, before stopping parallel to his ear. "Because the next time you insult my companions, I will allow Vespa carve out your still beating misshapen heart for me to crush in one hand." While he spoke, Vespa gave Qarro an ungodly large fanged grin, whereas Perzys silently frowned at him, fingers twitching. Rylan pushed past him, arms swinging firmly at his sides, continuing his journey into main hall. He still missed Syrio Forel; he was a hundred times the man that Qarro Volentin could ever be.
Ascending the grand marble staircase as he had done a thousand times before, they eventually reached the uppermost floor; at the end of which stood the enormous imposing entrance of the great hall. As the moved along the lengthy corridor, Rylan turned to his cohorts. "I hope I needn't mention that I expect you all to be on your best conduct. More specifically, Edgarth, I entrust you to ensure that Vespa doesn't break something or… someone."
"Of course, my lord. I shall do my utmost to make sure that the young lady behaves herself. Under my careful watch, she won't be hurting anyone nor stealing anythi-Lady Vespa! Put that down immediately! What did the young lord just say?!" Without warning, the colossal doors opened unhurriedly, revealing the most splendid hall in the land.
An elegant polished mosaic served as the floor of the chamber, depicting renowned landmarks, gallant heroes and astonishing animals from far-off lands. Rays of light shone through refined Myrish glass windows arranged in a single longitudinal row on both sides, between sections of marble wall from which hung numerous purple banners bearing the lord's standard, all beneath a cream ceiling adorned with floral golden patterns and three cultured crystal chandeliers each mounted by a hundred unused candles.
At the end of the chamber he spied Sea Lord Antaryon, siting upon his throne of gilded Valyrian steel, attended by four burly fully-armoured guards, in addition his steward and servants. Rylan marched forwards, with the posture and pace for lord as was customary. He had dressed for the occasion, in black leather doublet and breeches with a central vertical column of golden buttons, black boots, as well as purple velvet cape lined with golden fur.
Stopping in front of the lord's throne, he gave a deep ceremonial bow. "My lord, I have returned to your great city."
He has heard that an illness had overtaken his old mentor but he had never expected this. The formerly formidable Sea Lord had aged three decades in his absence. His once well-defined face and eyes that were bursting with life was reduced to a sagging pock-marked bag of skin and dull glassy orbs that stared in to the distance.
With obvious concentrated effort, his mentor moved his head laterally in order to better observe his former student. After several moments of silence, in a low hoarse voice that still carried the echoes of his previously commanding tone, he replied. "So, I can see. It has been six years since we had last gazed upon each other. However, I have made certain to follow your progress. Does that surprise you? I am old and sick, my boy. Not ignorant. How has the mercenary life treated you?"
"In truth, far better than I had anticipated. I have experience, reliable companions, seasoned soldiers and more gold than I could carry. In fact, the Iron Bank handles most of my finances. The hardest part, as with most things in life, was getting started. But with victory comes renown and with renown, comes respect. Between our early successes as a company and my family name's association with all things golden, we soon had more men at our disposal than we knew what to do with. I chose my standard to bear the golden lion of my family, upon a field of lush purple, in honour of my debt to you."
"And yet your company, the Lion's Pride, is not the largest nor is it the smallest. Why are your number not more, if things were as you say?"
"Simply put, I saw no reason in having the largest independent army in Essos. Your average knight in Westeros is worth a dozen men-at-arms. I simply applied that principle here. True, my forces are not as large as the Golden Company, and yet I adamantly believe that any one of my men is worth ten of their own. I have ensured that they are drilled in all manner of combat to fullest extent possible. Trained to ride as well as the Dothraki, loose arrows as accurately as the Summer Islanders and fight as proficiently with sword, spear and lance as the knights of the west."
"That is your terminus, is it not? You shall return to your homeland, after a decade away in a foreign land. I wonder, after spending more than half your young life across the Narrow sea, which is your true home and which the foreign one? How the world has changed! Westeros has almost as many kings as kingdoms. What do you hope to achieve?"
Rylan had to take time to think about that one. In his haste to return, he hadn't considered what his exact role would be. "I… don't particularly have a specific goal in mind. I do have wants and desires but they're not exactly goals. I suppose I will do what I must to make sure that my house will come out of this as the strongest. Be there five kings or ten. Even if Westeros has to bleed more blood than it has ever done."
Ferrego remained silent to that, but his eyes never left Rylan's face. It was quite unnerving; For a fleeting moment, he could swear the lord's eyes had regained their legendary intensity, examining him. For a short while, the only noises heard was sound of Vespa's restless fidgeting or Edgarth's introspective mumblings. Eventually, Ferrego stroked his short beard before replying. "I see…in any case, I am suitably certain that you will find a solution for whatever problems that the future has in store for you. Simply do as much as you can, with what you have. Action can may not bring happiness but there is no happiness without action."
Rylan firmly nodded. "As you say. I shal-"
"Now can we get some food in here! You! Steward, are you blind? Why are my guest's goblets empty?!"
Rylan was nonplussed, before laughing. For a man said to be failing from ailment, he had still the lungs of babe. Vespa was laughing along with him – though for very different reasons. Drinking was her favourite pastime; after murder. Servant after servant had then entered bring more plates of food than was possible to be consumed. The rest of their stay had been spent talking, feasting and fighting, as well as numerous games of cyvasse – of which he only won a handful.
He was brought out his reminiscing by sounds of dull footsteps. The captain had evidently left during and returned without his knowledge – he was subtler than a man his build would normally be Rylan had to grant him that. "My lord, we are approaching Dragonstone. What course would you like use to take?"
Rylan considered for a moment. Dragonstone was Stannis Baratheon's seat and fortress. According to all he had spoken to, Stannis was apparently amassing a host of men-at-arms and pirates. It would be wise to launch a pre-emptive attack without knowledge of his exact numbers or a map of the black rock itself. On the other hand, while he was an obstacle to be eliminated, especially given his proximity from the capital, he was far from the priority.
Out of the four enemy kings, Robb Stark and Renly Baratheon were the priority. Both had hosts on the march; Stark already had numberous victories and the younger Baratheon had the largest army by far. Given what little information he had at his disposal, he made up his mind. He rotated to face the captain and declare his orders.
"I want to this ship, along with two others to turn starboard and around Crackclaw Point. We'll dock at Maidenpool and ride to Harrenhal from there. The sailors shall remain with the ships until I command otherwise. The rest the fleet shall travel port-ward and on to King's Landing. Remain as far out of the way of Dragonstone as possible. If you should be attacked by a pirate ship or some other independent vessel, then destroy it and take what they have. As far as I am concerned, it would their own foolish audacity that damned them. Set anchor when you arrive at harbour and hold until I join you. Should anyone trouble you, present them the letter I have written and sealed. Is that understood?"
The captain nodded and without further words set about his task. He had already proven to be as competent as he had been when they had first met. But then most Ibbenese said to be skilful when it came to anything involving sea travel. A rare example of an accurate stereotype, he observed.
His fleet of twelve ships grew had grown larger by the addition of three new ships. Thanks to the massive increase in space, he had reshuffled the arrangement men aboard the rest of the fleet. Now each ship comfortably carried one hundred oarsmen and two hundred men-at-arms. Soon enough, the ship was he standing upon began turning to the right. It was his new flagship and it was a grand thing – a beautiful, sleek double-decked war galley. Her upper deck half covered with scorpions and had catapults mounted fore and aft. She is daunting and rapid, her sails purple with the gold lion of House Lannister sewed on them. He had named it The Dominion as it, along with the rest of his fleet, was where he ruled uncontested. None stood higher. Though that would soon change, he mused. In Westeros, he – and by extension, his company – would be under the power of both his lord uncle and his kingly cousin.
The last time he had met Joffrey, he had been a skinny boy of six, desperate for approval. In fact, the boy had taken to him quickly. After all, he hardly had any male relatives close to him in age at the capital. He was hardly kingly material then; more of misunderstood child with large responsibilities awaiting him. Although, at the time, Rylan had heard some disturbing rumours… something about a pregnant cat. Now though, it would seem he was starting wars and chopping heads left and right. Rylan did not know what awaited him ashore but as they sailed along the rocky cliffs of the Crownland shore, his mind felt electrified and his heart afire; he was more excited than he had been in a long, long time.