Willet Longsword had to fight against long-ingrained instinct to stop himself from drawing his sword when the figure stepped out from the alleyway to bar his way. Two things stayed his hand; first, that the figure's hands were held out and were clearly empty. Second, that he recognized him. "Lieutenant," he said roughly, taking his hand from the hilt of his sword. "What brings you out at this hour?"
"You, and that letter you left on Master Baelish's desk," Adaran Phassos replied, lowering the hood of his cloak and regarding the hillman where he stood in the pool of light cast by a torch bracketed to the side of the building next to them. "Trouble in your homeland, is there?"
Willet nodded. "The Andals ride into the hills in ever greater numbers, my father has written to me," he admitted. "They even ride into the true mountains; a thing they have not done since my grandfather's time. The clans need every sword that they can gather."
"I see," Adaran said slowly. "Willet, you have been a good comrade and a good soldier, even if our cause was not yours. Will you be willing to swear an oath before you and Hokkan sail?"
Willet cocked his head. "What kind of oath?" he asked hesitantly.
"That you will make no war against Stannis Baratheon, unless he first makes war on you," Adaran said, "and that in like fashion you do not draw your sword against Jon Arryn, unless he first attacks you and yours. I understand the feud that is between your clan and the Arryn's, but Jon Arryn is King Robert's foster-father, and Stannis is his brother. I must ask, for the sake of my duty to my goodbrother."
"You cannotunderstand . . ." Willet snarled, his sword hand spasming as rage swept through him, held back from eruption only by main will. "Can you make the Arryn's abandon the holy mountain, and tear down the castle they placed upon its peak?" he asked when he had finally mastered himself enough to speak, his voice thick with anger. "Can you restore our rivers and coasts to us, and ensure that we may live there without fear of the Andal knights and their priests? Can you restore even one of my murdered ancestors from the pyres where the Andals burnt them like refuse?"
Adaran shook his head. "I am not a god, to be able to do any of these things," he replied coolly. "Nor are you, to turn back the tide of so many years and make all as it was before the Andals came to the Vale."
"The Vale," Willet spat. "We never called it that. What name can you give your world? We never drew lines that only exist on pieces of paper and told other men they could not live within them." He shook his head. "When you can do any of these things, then ask me to swear that oath. Until then, do not ask me to forget six thousand years and more of murder, rape, and theft." He looked his erstwhile commander in the eye. "What kind of man," he asked softly, "can do that, and still call himself a man?"
"A poor one, I imagine," Adaran answered. "Or at least one who cares nothing for how his people would regard such a deed. You are set on this course, then?"
Willet put his left hand on the chape of his sword's scabbard. "I am," he said. "And so is Hokkan. Our ship is waiting for me and I must go. Are you going to stop me?"
Adaran cocked his head, regarding Willet with a look calculating enough to put a shiver down his spine. The Braavosi was years younger than he, and positively slender by comparison, but Willet had seen him fight; Adaran was as quick as a striking shadowcat, and as canny a fighter as any lowlander that Willet had ever met. He was genuinely unsure which of them would triumph if it came to swords. "Will you swear that you will make war against none but those who first attack you and yours, and that you will bear no blood feud against King Stannis and his heirs?" he asked finally.
Willet shrugged. "It was not the Baratheon's who drove us into the hills and the mountains," he said. "If it was, I would not have served Robert King."
Adaran shrugged. "Then far be it from me to bar a free man from going where he will," he said. "I would only note that Jon Arryn is an old man; King Robert has had word that he did not ascend to the Eyrie this year but held his court at the Gates of the Moon, the air on the mountain being too thin for his lungs. But for all that, he is still as brave and cunning a captain as the Vale has ever produced. His nephew Denys, on the other hand . . ." he shrugged. "He is, shall we say, less impressive? Of a certainty, his prowess does not seem to equal his ardor."
Willet nodded. "I take your meaning," he said, before drawing his sword half out of the scabbard with his left hand under the guard to tap the knuckles of his right hand against the hilt and lay his fingers against the blade. "On the hilt and on the blade," he intoned, "in the sight of the gods and on my father's head, I shall make war against none but those who first make war on me and mine, and I shall bear no feud against Stannis Baratheon or his heirs, unless they first give cause for feud. May the gods turn their eyes from me and refuse my prayers hereafter if I fail in this."
Adaran bowed. "On behalf of His Grace, King Robert of Myr, I hear and acknowledge this oath," he said formally. "And in turn I swear this; that for his many services to the Crown Willet son of Anthor, called Willet Longsword, shall always be welcome in the Kingdom of Myr, even if every other man's hand be against him." He stepped aside and gestured down the street with his sword hand. "Safe travels, comrade."
Willet returned the bow slightly as he replaced his sword in its scabbard. "And you likewise," he said as he walked past, noting as he did how Adaran had opened his cloak and was showing his other hand, empty of crossbow or ballestrino. Of course, if he had refused to swear any kind of oath, then doubtless Sarra's Will or Silent Jorro was watching from somewhere with a clear line of sight.
He shrugged to himself as he walked on. He had sworn regardless, and would keep his word. The Arryn's and the other Andal lords were even now in the field against the clans, by all reports; any war he made on them would be in self-defense. And he truly did have no more of a feud against Stannis than he did against any other Andal. It was the Arryn's and their followers that had made the valleys run red with the blood of his ancestors, not the Baratheon's.
As for Jon Arryn himself, how humiliating would it be if the clans cut his bannermen out from under him one by one, while he could do nothing? It would take much skill, more courage, and some help from the gods, but skill and courage were something the clans had in abundance. As for the gods . . . Willet stroked the hilt of his longsword. The gods best helped those who helped themselves. If such men as he, Hokkan, and the dozen other clansmen that had answered the summons could not help themselves, especially after they had spent virtually every spare coin they had on armor and weapons and convinced a pair of freedman armorers to join them for friendship's sake, then they would deserve to live under the Andal yoke. Men had changed the world with less, and for less cause.
Behind him, Adaran Phassos shook his head in regret. Willet wasn't a paladin in the same mold as Jaime Lannister, but he had served the Kingdom well at risk of his life, despite the fact that as a mercenary the ultimate outcome of the wars mattered little to him. He deserved a better send-off than a few words in a dockside street in the middle of the night. That said, anything else would require King Robert, or his officers, to notice that they were condoning the voyage of men whose stated intent was to make war against House Arryn specifically and all of Andal Westeros in general. It wouldn't have done.
Adaran shrugged to himself as he turned up the street and began the walk back to his quarters. Either way, it was done now, and what came of it was no longer his problem. Gods knew he had enough problems on one continent without borrowing from another.
XXX
Gerold Dayne had known from his boyhood that he was the man who would redeem House Dayne's honor. Every time he practiced the sword and lance and poleaxe he dredged up all the judgmental looks and sly comments and unattributed rumors that he and his House had been subjected to since cousin Arthur had followed Rhaegar across the sea and placed them in the person of his opponent, the better to fuel the engine of hatred in his heart that drove him to become a man that could reclaim Dawn from Arthur's fouled grip. Cousin Gawen's maiming, the news that Viserys had become a Triarch of Volantis by crushing a slave revolt with Arthur at his side, all had gone to fuel the fire that drove him to train every hour of the day that could be spared, against any opponent that would face him.
When his father and master-at-arms had finally deemed him ready and given him the accolade, he had marched down to the docks the very next day and taken the first ship to Myr city, where he had sworn to remain until he could bring Dawn back to Starfall in triumph. His father had been unenthused at the idea of his heir going east-over-sea for an unknown and indefinite time, but eventually he had acceded, with two pieces of advice. First, that he remember that hate alone was no fit motive for knightly deeds. Second, that he take any opportunity to enter the service of Eddard Stark and learn all that the King's Fist had to teach him.
Gerold had not guessed, then, how difficult that might be. It was known that Lord Stark accepted only proven soldiers into his personal retinue, but what of that? Was he not the finest sword of House Dayne, home of the finest swordsmen in Westeros? Even the champions of the Order of the Sun could not face him and hope to triumph, and compared to Stannis the Grim's chosen men, surely those of Robert the Brief would be easy fare. But four long years had gone by before the chance had even arisen to try for a place, years in which he had been consigned to a volunteer's banda under one of Ser Brynden Tully's more dour and unhelpful captains. It had been like pulling teeth to get the man to eventually write and sign a letter of recommendation to Lord Stark, and only achieved after going two years without so much as a casual reprimand at inspection to sully his record. He had not spent so much time wielding a clothes-brush and a buffing rag since his page days. Even so, he doubted that he could have gotten so far as this without the second letter that had lain in his pack, which his father had written the day before he sailed and which, he had said carefully, might help to sway Lord Stark's mind.
On paper, the process to get into Lord Stark's household was simple enough once your captain's letter of recommendation got you an invitation to try for a place. Present yourself at Wolf House with your equipment ready for inspection, run three courses with rebated lances against Lord Stark's household men, and finally hold the ring with sword, spear, or poleaxe against as many men as Lord Stark sent against you. If you comported yourself to Lord Stark's satisfaction then you received a probationary place in the household, and if you lasted there for six months then you were in for good.
The inspection had been easy enough, thanks to the care that Gerold had taken with his equipment in the days beforehand and his years of practice in the volunteer's banda. The vastly mustachioed sergeant had all but taken out a jeweler's loupe to examine his horse's tack and his armor, but eventually he had grunted and allowed that he would do. The jousting had also gone well, or well enough. He had kept his seat and unhorsed two of his opponents at least, even though the last impact had hit him hard enough to turn his vision gray for a split second and only good fortune and main will had allowed him to dismount without collapsing. Now he was standing in the ring, his longsword in his hands, slowly turning in place as he watched the men circling him with their weapons on their shoulders, waiting for their name to be called to step forth and test his skill.
A murmur of surprise made him turn and raise his eyebrows in astonishment; none other than Lord Stark himself had entered the ring, and that with his sword held loosely in the guard of the full iron gate. Gerold stared for a moment, then grinned behind his visor. Once within the ring, the only rules were that no one was to be killed or maimed, a prohibition helped by the fact that the fighting was all done in full armor. So, as soon as the King's Fist crossed the invisible line between being in and out of distance, Gerold pounced, his longsword flowing from short guard to the window and from thence into a feint- false edge reverso combination. It was one of his favorite moves, practiced until he could throw it fast enough to make his hands blur with the sliding forward step to give it power, and uncountered it could be a fight-ender. Even with the edge foiled by the helmet it could still hit hard enough to make a man's ears ring like septry bells, and dazed men were men who were half-beaten.
So engrossed was he by this vision of imminent victory that he didn't register that his blow had been covered until Lord Stark's armored shoulder rammed into his breastplate and knocked him back on his heels.
He backpedaled two quick steps, winning just enough time to regain his balance and wonder how Lord Stark had done that, and then the Northman was upon him and only honed reflex saved him from being thrown or beaten down. Two blows slipped through his covers to hammer shallow narrow dents into his left vambrace and the right side of his visor, but eventually he was able to bring Lord Stark into a close bind, dupe him into a half-turn, and then break apart with an explosive push and a frantic swipe that forced them back out of distance with each other. He spared a second to drag a breath into his lungs as deep as it would go, and then rushed forward to throw a forehand cut, a hammering fendente that would either blast Stark's sword out of his hands or at least beat it far enough out of the short guard he was holding it in to allow him to thrust for the visor or the gorget.
His blow hit nothing but air as Stark backstepped with appalling speed and only frantic effort pulled him up short enough to rob the stop-thrust that Stark had launched at his own helmet of most of its force. They exchanged a pair of cuts and covers which ended with Stark closing the distance again to land a pommel-strike on the left side of Gerold's visor that sounded like a hammer on an anvil through his helmet, Gerold won a heartbeat's breathing time by uppercutting Stark under his own visor with both hands clenched around the hilt of his sword and pushing him back, and then he decided to try something desperate.
He threw a lateral forehand blow at eye-level; Stark parried it. Gerold let go of his sword hilt with his left hand, snaked it between Stark's arms as he rotated his blade around Stark's to grasp it at half-sword, and then to his horror he saw that Stark had beaten him to the pivot-and-reach and now Stark's sword-point was in the gap between visor and breastplate pricking his throat and his left hand and sword were too far out of position to do anything.
He gaped behind his visor. He knew that there was a counter to that move, of course; every swordsman knew it, and discussed it and practiced it the way that septons discussed and practiced the sacraments. But actually using it was almost unheard of. Aemon the Dragonknight had supposedly used it once, in his famous duel against Cregan Stark, and mad cousin Arthur was said to be able to use it, but no one Gerold had ever met had ever claimed to have used it or seen it used.
Around them men were swearing in delighted astonishment, but Gerold had ears only for the question that Lord Stark asked him. "Do you yield?"
Gerold knew he was beaten. Even with the prohibition against death and maiming, Stark's sword-point was too close to the big artery in his neck for him to try anything. And even if it wasn't, he had heard enough about these trials to know that there was more to them than the simple tests of prowess that they appeared to be. So although it burned his soul like acid to do so, he nodded carefully. "I yield, my lord."
They disentangled themselves and stepped away from each other, opening their visors as they did. Lord Stark's hard grey eyes were surprisingly somber for a man who had just done something that counted as a minor miracle of swordsmanship. "Report to my majordomo to receive your livery," he said shortly. "Then report to my solar tomorrow in the forenoon, and we shall speak further." He saluted with his sword; Gerold returned it. "Well fought, ser," he said, and turned to stride out of the ring, where his men greeted him with cheers and backslaps. Gerold took a moment to collect himself before exiting the ring and sheathing his longsword, taking deliberately slow and deep breaths to beat back the shock and fear that his defeat had inspired in him. Now he knew why his father had counseled that he seek service with Lord Stark rather than with King Robert or Ser Brynden Tully.
But as the fear faded, he couldn't help a smile. He had never wavered in his determination to restore House Dayne's honor and redeem Dawn from the madman whose hands soiled her, but there had been times when he had doubted his course. Four years of martial drudgery, surrounded by men who didn't know you from Hugor and didn't care, with no chance of glory except what you could scrounge from hunting bandits and suspected spies could do that to a man. There had been times, when he had to deal with the stunningly irreverent Myrish smallfolk and the positively presumptuous men of the Legion, when he had considered desperate measures.
But he had stayed the course, and found that behind the iron curtain this was indeed a land where legends walked the earth. And where, with the help of the gods, new legends could be made. No, he hadn't made a mistake, he decided. He was right where he needed to be to fulfill his quest. Compared to that, putting up with some uppity peasants was nothing.
XXX
Captain Nakano Sanolis considered himself an even-tempered man, but he had had a very trying few days that had culminated in what could only be described as a debacle. So when the whistles blew the long blast that signaled the end of the exercise, he allowed himself to indulge his spleen by tearing off his helmet, dashing it to the ground, and giving voice to a few sulfurous curses before accepting the return of his helmet from his body slave and riding over to where Captain-General Naharis had ridden out of the scrum while his Stormcrows and Nakano's company disentangled themselves from each other.
"All in all, not as bad as I feared," Naharis said as he handed his baton to one of his bodyguards and pulled off his ornately engraved helmet to smooth his mustachios, which contrary to rumor were only lightly dyed and that towards the ends. "But not as good as I hoped either. Can you tell me what your first mistake was?"
Nakano nodded sullenly as he pulled off his own helmet. "I should have paid greater attention to my scouts."
Naharis shook his head. "Your first mistake was twofold," he explained as he took his baton back from the bodyguard. "Firstly you did not detail enough of your men as scouts, and secondly you did not push them out far enough. By the time that your scouts detected our presence, we were too close for you to retain the option of avoiding battle; you had to engage us, if only to knock us back on our heels until you could get away. In addition," Naharis' eyes twinkled merrily, "having more scouts out would have allowed you to find us sooner, yes?"
Nakano ground his teeth. When he thought of how long he had spent buggering around the landscape like a lost drunkard looking for the Stormcrows . . . "Indeed, my lord. But if I had sent too many of my men on scouting duties, then the main body of my company would have been too weak to resist a sudden onset."
Naharis nodded. "That is a danger, yes," he allowed. "But one that you could have taken, as you could have surmised that we were not close enough to overwhelm you suddenly before your scouting parties could rejoin you, and perhaps tip the balance of the battle. Riding into the valley between these two hills without first sending scouts to their summits was also foolish; you knew that we were cavalry, so you could have expected us to close the distance between us fast enough to lay an ambush. Now as to what you did right . . ." Naharis leaned forward in the saddle. "The first thing you did right is that you kept control of your company, even after we sprang our little trap. The second thing is that you threw the whole weight of your company at one of our pincers instead of trying to fight in two directions at once. The third, and most important thing, is that you fought. Often when men are surprised like that they freeze, or try to run. Whether by instinct or by judgment, you realized that freezing was the wrong thing to do and that running would only allow us to run you down with minimal losses. By fighting you not only gave your command a fighting chance, you also seized the opportunity to do enough damage to us to potentially remove us from the campaign, thus potentially upending the enemy's plans."
Nakano bowed shortly, his sour mood lightening as the words sank home. "I thank you, my lord," he said. "And I shall order my men to redouble their training at arms. If they were more skillful, they would have had a greater chance of prevailing before the other pincer arrived and swamped us."
"Give it two or three days before you order such training, captain," Naharis said with glance at where their companies had largely sorted themselves out, the Stormcrows laughing and exchanging broad jests while Nakano's company muttered sourly to each other. "Your men will need to recuperate from these past days. And if I may suggest, set them exercises that are easy to master at first. Men who have failed at one thing tend to recover themselves best if they can get an easy success under their belt."
Nakano nodded. "By your leave then, my lord," he said, reining his horse around as Naharis waved him away. He was already dreading the letter he would have to write to his wife and his father explaining how Naharis had handled him like an errant schoolboy, but at least he would have the opportunity to redeem his failure before having to face them again. And this was just a training exercise. Better to fail here than in battle, where the weapons would be swords and spears rather than batons. At least Captain-General Naharis had been reasonable in his criticism, and his words of praise would go some way to restoring the spirits of the men, who were casting surly glances at both the preening Stormcrows and their studiously composed officers. The gods knew he was going to need every bit of help he could get in that regard.
XXX
Jaime considered himself a decent sort in company, but he had to admit that Ser Wylis Manderly confounded his best efforts at being a good host. Oh, nothing had gone terribly wrong, but the Manderly heir was just so soft-spoken and well-mannered that Jaime couldn't tell whether he was talking too much or too little. Whichever it was, he reflected, he wasn't going to find out from Ser Wylis; the Manderly heir might have even more weight and less hair than his late brother, but his natural reserve combined with the sort of lordly bearing that came with being raised to rule either the second or third richest fief in the North, depending on the vagaries of the silver and wool markets, meant that Jaime didn't have a prayer of being able to read him.
The only thing he could be certain of, Jaime was quite sure as he and Ser Wylis made their final bows and Ser Wylis strode away, was that his stated purpose of coming to White Den to visit his brother's tomb was only the least part of his design. The true part of it, he could guess, was bound up in the person of the young lady that he had been left to escort through White Den's pear orchard, while her maidservant hovered at a respectable distance.
Melanie Manderly was, Ser Wylis had explained, the eldest daughter of the Whitespur Manderly's, a cadet branch of the House, and a dear friend of Ser Wendel from his younger days who had also come to pay her respects. Which was likely true, but didn't change the fact that it was a rather transparent fiction designed to get her close enough to him to provoke a courtship and eventually a marriage. He stifled a sigh as Melanie pulled down a branch of one of the trees and regarded the fruit with what he could tell was a practiced eye. He had thought that his disgrace would put paid to such offers, but he hadn't reckoned on the fact that what some regarded as disgrace others would regard as high honor. Of a certainty every Jonothoran lord in the realm had tried their level best to match him with any female relation they could scrounge up, as had almost every merchant family of Myr city except for those that had turned Baelorite. And that was leaving aside the foreigners. The Lorathi 'princess' who had showed up with a company of sellswords and the stated goal of finding a strong husband had at least proved a temporary problem, as she had found such a husband in only a short time; having a dowry of a hundred well-trained men-at-arms had probably helped tremendously. Captain Tiona of the Isle of Women, on the other hand, had proven far more persistent. Evidently she had decided that the Black Lion would be the perfect partner in her stated goal of avenging the conquest and expulsion of her Rhoynish ancestors and restoring the royal line of Sar Mell, of which she claimed to be the last living descendant. Even his most studious attempts at ignoring both her personal entreaties and her frankly suggestive letters seemed to be having only limited effect.
A soft "Ser Jaime?" brought him out of his reverie to realize that Melanie was looking at him with a raised eyebrow, having evidently asked him a question. He bowed shortly. "I'm terribly sorry, my lady; my mind was elsewhere."
"Evidently," Melanie said with a slight smile. "I asked if we could dispense with the coy pleasantries and speak plainly."
He nodded. "By all means."
"You find yourself in need of a wife that can get you an heir, and also of someone who can manage this fief for you, given your aversion to acting as a proper lord instead of as a knight errant," Melanie said bluntly, her blue-green eyes steely. "I am charged by my lord my uncle to strengthen House Manderly's ties to the Kingdom of Myr, and also to secure what cousin Wendel built here as an outpost of the merman's blood. It seems, does it not, that we are in a position to fulfill each other's needs?"
Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Forgive me, my lady, but it seems that the bargain would be unbalanced. Unless you can manage this estate as well as a man can."
Melanie's smile broadened across her round face. "I am the eldest of five children, ser, and my brother is the youngest of us; until he was born it was considered likely that I would inherit my father's fief. So my father taught me as he would have taught a son, until my brother reached the age of ten. And even after that, he gave me charge of certain accounts my family holds in White Harbor, all of which did well under my stewardship."
Jaime blinked. Well, this was new. And, he found to his surprise, more interesting than anything Captain Tiona had said to him about the glories of the kingdom they would raise along the Rhoyne. "So, what, you would run White Den for me while I gallivanted about as it pleased me?" he asked. "Forgive me, my lady, but I know better than to accept a bargain that appears too good to be true."
Melanie nodded. "You would, of course, have to show your face here and attend to its business on a regular basis," she replied. "Negligence is the worst of sins in a lord, and it spreads from top to bottom faster than any plague. And naturally, you would have to get an heir on me sooner rather than later." Her eyes sharpened. "In aid of which, if you are a sword-swallower then say so now and we need not carry this discussion further. You have my word no one will hear of it from me."
Jaime laughed. "Of all the sins in the book, that's one of the few that I've never been tempted by, my lady," he said. "And even if I was, well, I think we can both agree that it would be the least of my sins."
Melanie chuckled. "Quite so," she agreed. "That said, I think those sins you refer to are not so terrible as you think them. They were foolish, yes, but if more men were foolish in that regard then we might have a better world than one dominated by men who think cunning to be the same thing as wisdom."
Jaime's mouth quirked. "If any survived to see such a world," he replied. "I will need some time to think on your proposal before I give you an answer."
"Take your time, my lord, but think quickly, if you please," Melanie said, the smile leaving her face. "We are a long-lived breed, the Manderly's, both by the gods' favor and by judgment, and yet poor Wendel died young with no line to carry on his name and ensure his legacy would retain the place it deserves. So if you refuse me, then find another, Ser Jaime, and that quickly. The Stranger waits for us all."
As Melanie and her maidservant left, Jaime found his mind in a turmoil such as he hadn't experienced since the Summer Isles. It was true, he needed to marry; the demands of his station dictated it. On the other hand, he had never loved any woman but Cersei, and even with the news of her madness he knew that the odds of finding a woman that would equal her were vanishingly small. Of course, to put the matter bluntly, whoever he did end up marrying didn't need to be Cersei's equal, they just needed to be adequate to the task of being his wife. And Melanie was certainly that, if what he had just seen and heard was anything to go by. And while she couldn't compare to Cersei for looks, she certainly wasn't ugly by any stretch of the imagination.
He fingered the hilt of the club that Rhoqu had given him, which was scabbarded at his belt opposite his sword as always. When in doubt, choose the path that does the most good for the most people, Rhoqu had told him that endless day under the trees. Even if you are not one of those people. It is not for men as powerful as you and I to place our desires above the needs of others.
He shrugged to himself. Put that way, there really wasn't a choice, was there?
XXX
The Lumpy Donkey was supposed to have been called the Proud Steed, and would have been had the sign not been painted by the owner's goodbrother. A travelling septon who was an illuminator in his home septry had painted a new and much improved sign as partial payment for his room and board, but by then the name had stuck. Despite the inauspicious start, it was easily the best inn of the district, a fact reinforced by the tightly-fitted wooden floor, the profusion of chairs in lieu of benches, the coat of varnish on the bar, the lingering aroma of well-cooked if plain food and decent beer and wine, and the boards nailed in each corner to allow the patrons to play Three Holes without having to take their drinks and food out into the yard.
"Right hole!" yelled a man standing at a chalked line on the floor as a small sack filled with soil left his hand. He and his two fellow players, each with jacks in hand, eyed the sack like hawks watching a rabbit as it sailed through the air to smack against the board above the declared hole and slide down to flop through it, provoking a laugh and a small victory dance from the thrower.
"No throw," one of his fellows said stolidly, interrupting his celebrations.
"Piss off, Joro," he snapped. "My foot was behind the line!"
"You have to call before you throw, Vizo, you know that as well as I do," Joro replied.
"I did call!" Vizo retorted, a hint of whine entering his voice.
"After the sack left your hand," said old Gron, who was sitting at the nearest table. "I saw it as well as Hecron did, eh, Hecron?"
Big Hecron nodded, shrugging apologetically as Vizo glared at him. "Ah, the hells with it," Vizo said gustily, waving a hand in disgust. "Not like there's more than a penny on it."
"Don't mind Vizo," Joro told Hecron as Vizo went to retrieve his sack. "He hasn't been the same since that screamer rang his helm like a bell at Narrow Run."
"It was an exile at Tara!" Vizo said sharply. "And I put my spear up through his chin in the next minute, didn't I?"
"It was a screamer at Narrow Run, Vizo, and you fell like a tree," old Gron replied patiently, as if he hadn't said as much a dozen times before this month alone. "I was there, remember? Gods know my back's still sore from pulling your ass out from under the bastard after he fell on you, thanks to my spear in his guts."
"It was at Tara," Vizo snarled, "and you just want me to lose because you think yeomen are made of money."
"Cool off, Vizo," Rukh interjected from the table where he was nursing his tankard. "You ain't the only yeoman here, you're just the only one who can't hold his drink or his money."
Vizo would have spat if he hadn't caught the innkeeper's beady eye on him and contented himself with a snort. "Don't make it right that you all keep picking on me," he said defensively as he walked back to the line. "Yah, I don't break my back in some lord's fields, but I still owe him garrison-service and training time for the Militia, and I get the Lord Lieutenant's men coming around at tax-time. Left hole." He threw, and cursed as he missed. "Don't any of you try to tell me," he went on, glaring around the common room, "that you ain't bothered by the fact that we fought and died to throw our chains off and still ended up working another man's crop in the end."
"Stuff it, Vizo," Joro snarled. "Lord Irons is better than any master as was ever born. He was a hedge knight before he was a lord, lived job to job like any working peasant did; he knows what it's like to wake up hungry and go to bed hungrier. And even the lords that weren't hedge knights know better than to gouge us, with the inspectors keeping an eye on them."
Vizo shook his head. "It ain't Lord Irons I have a problem with," he said sullenly. "It's these young pissants newcome from Westeros, these raw eggs who think we care that they volunteered or that their who-fucking-cares-how-many-times-great-grandfather killed some other old bugger centuries ago. Mark me, they'll be just as bad as the masters were if they ever get lordships."
"Ach, they'll learn," Rukh said confidently. "Either on their own or with the help of a boot to the head. The Captains didn't get this far without knowing how to break a fool to formation."
"S'not the raw eggs I'm worried about," Gron said gloomily. "It's the new lads in the Legions; ain't one of them hard enough to do for a virgin, much less a screamer or a sellsword. I was at Pentos, I was, right next to Akhollo when we raised our spears against the masters . . ." there was a round of stifled groans as Gron continued on the well-known story of his service and exploits for some time, ". . . and the young bucks these days act like the cocks of the walk just because they made it through training? Bah!"
"They'll learn too, sarge," Hecron said stolidly. "I heard as Lord Iron's planning to hold a tournament with some of the neighbors now that harvest is almost in; the Legion games will give them a chance to see how it's done."
Gron snorted. "I'll believe it when I see it," he replied skeptically. "Anyways, I'm done for the night. Let's have the toasts, lads; early start tomorrow for the threshing."
The patrons of the Lumpy Donkey stood from their tables as the serving girls topped up jacks and tankards and mugs. What followed had the air of a rite as healths were drunk to the Legion, to the news that Queen Serina had recently given birth to a son, to good King Robert, and finally, with the usual laughter, to the hope that each and every slaver would have their turn getting buggered by a lumpy donkey.