Lord Tywin Lannister - Hand of the King, Warden of the West, and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands
"You want me to use my words to needle the King in the beginning of the meeting." He asked the man sitting across from his table.
It had been almost a week, and Hoster had come by to meet with him. It was an enlightening meeting, to say the least. There were many things to unpack from that conversation, and Rodrik Greyjoy turned out to be a lot more confusing than an eight-year-old had any right to be.
Tywin had realized the potential these timekeepers had when he had held one in his palm. The High Septon might not be as smart as he, but he wasn't a simple man either. He had also realized its uses and already seemed to be cooking up grand schemes.
Tywin didn't pay the pious man much heed. No, his mind was focused on the angle Quellon Greyjoy seemed to be taking. Rodrik Geryjoy's visit to Riverrun had changed many things, and half the Kingdoms didn't have a hint how.
On the other hand, he couldn't seem to figure out Hoster's game either. Was he overestimating the Trout lord? Did he not understand what he was doing? Or was he underestimating his political acumen? He didn't know Hoster Tully well enough to make a judgment here, and it was frustrating him.
And above everything else, Velaryon was starting to get on his nerves. When he had suggested an alliance of sorts, Tywin knew very well that Velaryon had understood it as he intended to say. Yet, he kept overstepping.
"Aye, Lord Tywin. I don't intend any insult, but the King always gets worked up when you mention Rhaegar's marriage. Rightly so, I would say! There's none better than your dear daughter for the prince! But you can't deny that the words have that effect on the King. I was thinking, why not use that to get the King worked up, and then we can suggest some things to him."
"If you've picked up that much, then you must also know that in his worked-up state, the King usually does the opposite of what I suggest." Tywin blandly reminded him.
"And that's the crux of the plan, Lord Hand! I will point out that the Greyjoys have been increasing their fleet of ships, and since they use longships for both trading and as warships, we can bring up the Conciliator's lawbook - which only permits fifty war galleys to a single house. I suggest you inform the King that such a thing wouldn't work, and he does the opposite - just as we hope he would do." Velaryon said as if he had seen the future already.
Tywin knew that the odds of such a plan working were slim, yet he didn't have much interest in the topic. In fact, this might just be better. He would get the charter to the Darklyns and send with it a messenger of his own, expecting a decrease in docking fees for every Lannister ship that docks there for the next decade. If Denys was smart enough, he would grant it without question.
On the other hand, he would make it seem like he tried his best and played his part exactly how Velaryon wanted him to. And since it most likely wouldn't work, he would have still played his part and be free of any perceived debt to Velaryon.
He could also bring this up in a conversation with Quellon, and if it was in the presence of Aerys, it would be even better. After all, Quellon was likely the best negotiator in the world if the tales of his deals with the Iron Bank were true. The thing was, Tywin might not be his equal when it came to negotiation, but he knew the golden rule of any deal.
The one who has the higher hand wins the table.
Tywin looked at the younger man with shining eyes sitting across from him.
"Lord Velaryon, let me be very clear when I say this. Our agreement was for you to sign your assent on the charter and me to play my part in your plan to check Greyjoys' growth. If I'm very honest with you, I am quite busy with the new information I have received from Lord Tully."
Tywin stood from his chair, walking across the room to pour himself wine - indicating that the meeting was over.
"So I will leave it up to you to decide what I should say. As long as it isn't too excessive, I will do as you ask me to. Now, regardless of the success or failure of your plan, I will believe my part in it done after tomorrow's small council meeting."
He paused once again, opening a drawer and pulling out the summaries of the talks with Hoster and the High Septon.
A few moments later, he looked up to see Velaryon still looking at him fervently. Faking being relaxed, Tywin relaxed his stiff shoulders and leaned in towards him.
"Come see me at dawn tomorrow, and we shall walk to the Council chambers together. I will follow your lead. After that, the next time we speak will be after I come back from Lannisport - and none of us will be in the debt of the other. Is this agreeable to you?" Tywin said.
"Aye, Lord Hand." Lucerys said a satisfied smile on his face. Poor fool, he thought he was a player. The corners of Tywin's mouth turned upwards, slightly, as he thought of how Velaryon would react after tomorrow.
However mature Tywin considered himself, he couldn't help but deliver the final word.
"Lucerys," he called, making the man turn. This was the first time he had addressed the Master of Ships by his given name. "You're capable enough. Think about it carefully, and tell me tomorrow. Regardless of whether the King takes the bait or not, let me be the first one to tell you the words."
Velaryon had the same look on his face like he did when he was knighted by Aerys, Tywin recalled.
"Welcome to the Great Game." Tywin told him, eyes shining with hidden mirth, but all expression gone from his face.
What was better than seeing people bring ruin onto themselves? Profiting from it, of course. While Quellon Greyjoy was the best negotiator, Tywin Lannister was and would always be the best businessman.
Somewhere in Riverrun, a young boy sneezed before shaking his head and returning to the copy of the ledgers that Lord Damon Mallister had sent from Seagard with Rodrik Greyjoy's new method of indexing the entries.
Rodrik Greyjoy - 'the Crow's Eye, on the Iron Maiden'
He had to admit, the Wandering Wolf was one of the most interesting people he'd ever met. The mortal part of him knew that Rodrik Stark was most likely ADHD, but the way he dealt with it and never complained was remarkable. He always had something he busied his hands with; most recently, it was the butterfly knife he had made in one of the forges in Lordsport while waiting out the week after Euron's death.
What no one else knew, save for Quellon, was that the knife that he had gifted his grandfather wasn't the only one. It was a piece of a pair - forged out of one Valyrian Steel dagger, that Quellon had found in one of the trunks holed away in their attic. Quellon loved it because it was a Valyrian Blade, and his forging had made sure that he would not have to waste silvers every time it cut through a sheath.
The fact that it could just look like a gold jewelry piece made it even better.
The other of the pair - well, that rested underneath his vest, strapped to the small of his back. While Quellon might be old enough to not want such a useful weapon as a backup plan, Rodrik wasn't one to give away an ace in the hole. No, it would forever remain strapped to his back underneath his vest.
The other reason for making a Butterfly Knife was just - how could he not! You try and play Counter-Strike for years and resist a chance to recreate the coolest things from the game! It was simply not possible! Now, coming to how he reforged the Valyrian Steel, well, it turned out that the only thing required to turn the hot alloy into a hot malleable alloy was a specific flux. Which turned out to be the easy to acquire borax.
He had to first purify the clumpy white clay-like thing he had received when he asked for it from the household servants in Pyke. Once it was dried and in the form of the white powder it should be, he had used it in the crucible along with the Valyrian dagger and poured the molten alloy out. After that, folding the Valyrian Steel and sharpening it, and dear gods was that a nightmare.
The end result was a springy blade - the tip sharp enough to stab clean through chainmail over leather. The eight-inch long dagger had given birth to two butterfly blades, each slightly thicker than the dagger but five inches in length. The five-inch blades were sharper than a razor on one edge, just like the top inch of the other edge. The remaining four inches of that edge were left blunt so that the tricks could still be performed. You know, butterfly knives are more than just fancy hidden blades. They are equally as useful intimidating people as they are at carving through them.
But now, he had a backup blade - one that he could keep hidden in case he ever needed it. And Quellon Greyjoy had a fancy Valyrian Steel blade that he could chop through ropes with. Don't ask.
And so, looking at Rodrik Stark carving through a piece of wood from a broken barrel, he could only admire the way he intuitively used Valyrian Steel. He himself, even with Chrysaor's instincts, had to start very carefully, lest he cut through his own fingers.
"Like it, Crow's Eye?" Brandon Stark suddenly asked, spotting him staring.
"I do. Beardless has a flair with weapons I've never seen before." Rodrik responded casually, not missing a beat.
'Beardless' in question sharply looked at him before sighing. "I guess that's better than Old Wolf or Wanderik."
"Isn't it! They call me Crow's Eye now! And all I've done to earn that is just stay in the nest up above." Rodrik exhaled, exasperatedly pointing above him.
"Us Rodriks certainly don't have the same versatility as the Brans." Beardless responded with a shrug, making Brandon and Rodrik laugh.
"So, are you going to show me that blade?" Bran asked, pointing down to Rodrik's thigh.
"Perv!" Rodrik exclaimed in outrage, making the nearby sailors roar with laughter and Bran blush indignantly. Damn, it felt good to antagonize a womanizer with sexual innuendos.
"Calm, calm." Rodrik continued, not antagonizing him further. Then in a swift move, he unsheathed the serrated bowie knife, flipped it in the air, so the handle was in Brandon's direction, and held it across to him.
The blade was very dark gray and made to be an all-purpose knife - it cur ropes just as well as it cut cheese, and it was heavy enough to shatter bones if used with enough force - though that was beyond Rodrik as he was now.
Brandon took the knife in his hand, inspected it for a few moments before running a fingernail across the edge. As if impressed, he whistled approvingly, handing over the blade to Beardless to inspect.
For his own inspection, Beardless took it to test on the wrought-iron band of the broken barrel. The same barrel that provided the wood he'd been sculpting not so long ago.
Instead of slashing into it, like Rodrik expected him to, he decided that a better test would be to stab it right into the middle of the two-inch-wide strip of metal.
Rodrik wasn't worried, though, as the blade came out of the impact unscratched and pretty much unscathed. If it had been better quality iron on the barrel, it might have dented his tip, but as it was, the blade took the impact well enough.
"Rests a bit heavy on the tip - the weight is too far forward." Beardless murmured. "But it seems like it was intended to be made like that. Aye, that'll do. The blade is tough."
He then slashed into the wood with a diagonal swing. The soft oak gave way, but not more than an inch. Yet, the knife didn't get stuck in it, which was the most important part. "Slashes well, too."
Beardless then looked right at him, with those cold grey eyes boring into his own green ones. "Who made this? This is not the work of any average castle smith. No, this is a work of art."
Rodrik smiled at that. "Why, thank you for the high praise, my lord! I shall hang a plaque over my smithy when I get around to owning one. The serrated part was tough work - I used the Valyrian Steel blade's spine to sharpen it. Took me a day to get it right."
"I don't believe you… but I am not confident enough with this to make a wager. The Blackfish might have dunked his head in the trough, I am not doing anything of that sort." Beardless spoke over him as he tried to get him with the same tactic.
Shit, it hadn't worked.
"Whether you believe it or not is up to you, my lords. I plan to rent out a smithy and make a gift for our King and the Prince. So, if you want to commission a blade, tell me before we reach Lannisport. If not, then I might not have the time in between our journeys to find a forge to work with."
Now, this should have Brandon, at least.
"Tell me, do you just make knives, or can you make a longsword as well?" Brandon asked.
Hook, line, and slinker. I got ya! Hahahaha!
Ser Oswell Whent - The Black Bat - Kingsguard to King Aerys II Targaryen
Sleep was one thing they didn't say he had to give up when he had taken the oath of the Kingsguard.
Yet, after just three turns of the glass of shut-eye, he was up and getting his armor strapped onto him while he shined his helm.
The bubbly nobles in Kings Landing, who knew fuck all except to bow and scrape, had decided to give him the cheerful moniker of The Black Bat. If he ever found out who it was, he'd knock against him by mistake with his serrated knife.
Unfortunately, if the poor soul bled to death because he also tumbled down three flights of stairs, well, there were a thousand and one Septons in Kings Landing. He could always ask seven of them to give the dead offender the best burial possible with the best-scented oils and the shiniest crystals.
Then he'd go to their coffin and take a piss on it.
He had a name given to him by his mother, which was the only name he'd respond to.
He had once dreamed of being a part of the Kingsguard - the honorable order of seven knights who swore off everything to protect their King and his family.
Reality was often disappointing.
He was fucked. His body was always weary, and his mind wasn't as sharp as it once was. Curse the Seven because he couldn't even take a shit when he woke up these days.
His bowels weren't the only thing that made him mad all the time. Gerold Hightower still spoke like a parrot and walked like an elephant, Jonothor Darry still left him the shittiest pieces of the chicken for the midday meal, and the Sun still hurt his eyes when he looked at it.
Yet, he would do his duty, for he had sworn an oath.
He dismissed the squire without a word and hooked his sword belt to his waist. Gulping down half a mug of wine, he picked up the warm slice of bread left by the squire on his way out. Chewing through it, he hummed in temporary contentment. At least the bakers in the Red Keep were competent; thank the Seven for small mercies!
He made his way to the King's Chambers. It was his turn to take the shift, escorting the King to the Small Council chambers and keeping a watch on him while Ser Gerold sat his seat as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
He entered Maegor's Holdfast, nodding to Lewyn Martell, who kept watch on the drawbridge whistling the Dornishman's Wife. He shook his head at that and continued walking towards the King's chambers.
Unsurprisingly, Barristan was already there. He was always one to please as if the praise was his fuel. He would never understand how one could stay alert and sharp all day with only four to six turns of sleep. No, he needed a full eight turns before he could even think straight. Unfortunately, though, four turns were all he usually got - four days with four turns a day of rest and one day with six turns.
His armor made no sound as he took his place on the left side of the doors to the King's chamber. No, his squire was competent enough to polish and oil it every day as he slept for it to make any sound. Hightower didn't care for that, but Oswell would cut off his ears if he had to hear the sound of metal scraping over metal throughout the day when he barely ever got sleep.
He would rather complete this torture in silence.
A stray thought occurred to him then. How the fuck did the Kingsguard protect the King's family in the days before the Dance - when there were like fifteen Targaryens alive? Ah, mayhaps their dragons were enough.
He didn't have his usual long wait for the King to awaken, though, not today. Not long after he'd taken his post, the doors opened, and the King walked out - all dressed and ready for the day. He looked at Barristan, eyebrow arched, after bowing to the King.
Was there something he had missed?
He tried to remember but couldn't point out… wait a moment! Ah, today, the Small Council was meeting earlier than usual. The King's Party would leave for Lannisport at midday, so the Council would convene before the meal as the party would leave right after.
A small smile appeared on his face. This was good news. Selmy, Hightower, Dayne, and himself were to accompany the King and Prince Rhaegar to Lannisport while Darry, Martell, and Gaunt remained with the Queen and the newly named Prince Viserys.
"'Tis a sweet morning, Selmy. I pity you both to be escorting me to the Council to listen to an hour's worth of incessant yammering," King Aerys said, wheezing with silent laughter at his own jape.
"I can't be too sure, your Grace. I've heard that Lord Tywin has… perplexing news to share." Barristan responded, and Oswell had to hold in a groan. Good fucking job; now he had another thing to look forward to and another, possibly interesting conversation he could not be a part of.
It didn't take much longer, as with Barristan's remark, Aerys got a look of excitement on his face and doubled their casual pace to almost run into the Council chambers.
"All rise for the King." Gerold Hightower imperiously began.
The King paid them no heed and quickly took his chair, gesturing impatiently with his hand.
On the other hand, the Hand (heh) looked like he really didn't like being here today.
"Lord Steffon sends word from Volantis, your Grace. No suitable Valyrian brides yet."
Aerys just shrugged at that. Oswell thought that Aerys had always known Steffon wouldn't be able to find Rhaegar an acceptable bride. He was just biding his time and trying to find an alternative that would not tie the Lannister name to the crown.
"I have full faith in my dear friend, Tywin. I'm certain you do too, or is it any different now?" Aerys asked slyly.
"Nothing of that sort, your Grace. Just news sent through our Master of Whispers. We've also received a raven from Winterfell. Lord Stark rides for Lannisport. Lord Wyman Manderly and Ser Mark Ryswell accompany him, and he is bringing his family along, save for his second son." Tywin said, the flatness of his tone suggesting nothing, giving away no clues as to what he thought of that.
"Smart man, Rickard. He also has a daughter, no? Lysa?" Aerys asked, pretending to be interested.
"I believe it is Lyanna, your Grace, but she's just a child of nine. She will also be coming, if his words remain true." Tywin spoke.
There were a series of chortles and ayes that went through the chamber. One could say many things about the Starks - accusing them of not keeping their word was not one of them.
"Hmmm. What of his heir, he is of age with Rhaegar, no? Has he earned his spurs yet?" Aerys continued.
"Brandon Stark, aye. He and Lord Rickard's goodfather - the Wandering Wolf, are sailing to Lannisport, in fact, on one of Quellon Greyjoy's ships." Tywin said, finally some emotion in his voice. And Aerys picked up on that as well.
"Are they?" He hummed. "Have there been any developments we don't know about?"
Oswell decided this was as good as any time to interject on the conversation. "I believe I have some information on that, your Grace."
All eyes in the chamber snapped onto him, but Oswell felt good. He didn't use his tongue enough, dressed in this white cloak.
"Go on, Whent," motioned the King.
"I met with Lord Hoster two nights ago, your Grace. He said Quellon wanted his grandson in Lordsport to take him on his first voyage across the coasts of the Seven Kingdoms. Rodrik Greyjoy decided to ask young Elbert Arryn to join him since they seemed to be friends by the time he left Riverrun. The Blackfish is squiring the Heir to the Vale, so he decided to come along as well. They will be joining their voyage after the tourney at Lannisport." Oswell finished with a bow before walking back to the entrance and taking his place beside Selmy.
It seemed that his piece had surprised most of those present there. Everyone except Tywin Lannister had raised eyebrows.
"Ser Oswell speaks true, your Grace. I've also received word that Quellon asked his old friend the Wandering Wolf to join, and he accepted, along with his grandson - the Heir to the North." Ah, so that was what Tywin was implying. Oswell could see the gears turning in the King's head.
"That means, the heirs to all the Lord Paramount's of the Kingdoms north of the Crownlands are going on a… voyage across Westeros?" Aerys asked no one. "Perplexing. Perplexing indeed. I trust there's not much else for me to hear today, my lords?"
"Just one thing, your Grace." It was Lucerys Velaryon that spoke, this time around.
Aerys sat back down in his chair, slowly turning to stare into his fellow Valyrian's eyes.
"Speak."
"I have a proposition to make of the council. A new law that I have discussed with Lord Staunton. Your Grace, you see, while the old and trusted houses like my own and the Redwynes, the Hightowers, and the Manderlys all have fleets of their own, they all have more than nine trading cogs for every war galley. We do this in good faith - to show that we are actually just expanding and enriching the Kingdoms and not preparing for war." He said slowly as if giving everyone time to process his line of thought.
"Anyone with the barest amount of sense would know that, Velaryon. There is also a law in place that no House can own more than fifty warships. What are you implying?"
"Your Grace, the only house that brings up a problem is the Greyjoys. Instead of cogs and galleys, like the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, they make longships - ships that are most capable for war. Their traders also carry steel, and there is no true way to distinguish an Ironborn trading vessel from a raiding ship. As for the number of ships they own? We don't have an exact number, but last I heard, the Greyjoys alone own close to two hundred longships, and the Iron Islands in it's entirety - more than half a thousand." Velaryon finished his part - leaving it up to the King to make his own conclusions. Yet Oswell knew that his information on the numbers was misleading at best. There might be two hundred longships in Lordsport, but the Greyjoys didn't own more than eighty. Did he just overlook the fact that the people of the Iron Islands can be captains and purchase their own longships?
"So," Aerys started, humming to himself, "You want me to extend that law to count longships as warships? Tywin, what are your thoughts on this, my friend?"
"Your grace, with the wording of the law as it currently is, I don't believe such a course of action would be the best course. If we proclaimed longships as warships, then a smart man like Quellon could just knight a few of his men and give them minor holdings - and thus have his ships operated by them. Doing this would also negate any goodwill we currently have with the Greyjoys and having them go back to their reaving and raiding would hurt the economy more. I've heard tell that Balon Greyjoy hates his father's policies and is known to prefer the ways of the Ironborn of old. But of course, I would defer the judgement to you, your Grace."
"Ah, yes. Quellon did come to our aid last time we called, didn't he. With the most number of ships, too. More than the Royal Navy, if I remember correctly. Three heirs to Lords Paramount on a fleet, though. That is where my thoughts stop. How long is this voyage supposed to be, Tywin, have you more details?"
"From what Hoster told me, Lannisport is the first stop, followed by Oldtown, the Arbor, and Starfall. After that, it's Sunspear, Storm's End, and King's Landing. After that, it's Gulltown, where Elbert Arryn will depart, and White Harbor, where the Starks will stay behind. Though Hoster did tell me there were other places they might stop for restocking their supplies and whatnot." Tywin said.
"So, aside from Highgarden and the Eyrie, by the end of the year, the Greyjoys would have been to every Great Keep in the Kingdoms. Very well. Good day, my lords. I must depart now." Aerys said, rising from his seat.
"I will inform you, Lucerys, in case I make a decision. For now, it remains as it has been. Quellon hasn't shown any hint of treason, but I understand that his son is not the same. I assure you we will have another discussion on this after Lannisport. I wish to speak with Quellon before making any major changes of this sort." Excellent move, your Grace.
Really, Oswell had been having doubts about the King's mental state as of late. Whenever Tywin came to him about getting Rhaegar a bride, Aerys would flip. For the next week, he would not pay heed to a word Tywin said. Thankfully, that discussion hadn't come up in the recent days, else Oswell was certain this meeting would have ended in disaster.
As he said earlier, thank the Seven for small mercies. Now, he just had to hope his squires had packed his things correctly. As he followed Aerys out of the chambers into the Great Hall, he sent a silent prayer to the Gods hoping for more sleep on the journey to Lannisport.
Rodrik Greyjoy - 'the Crow's Eye, on the Iron Maiden'
"You're swinging too fast with your knife, Harlaw! Break your blade, that will!" Beardless tutted from outside the small ring they'd made with broken pieces of wood.
Rodrik was mock fighting with Harras Harlaw. Harras might have been three years older and half a foot taller than him, but Rodrik was much faster, and he knew the strengths and weaknesses of the practice blades in his hand.
It was a sad moment for him when he had been told to not strike and just defend. After he had broken the knife in Harlaw's hand by striking it thrice at the same spot, Beardless had realized what he was doing and demanded that he stop.
Harras attacked again, but this time, the bout was even shorter. His hand was drenched in sweat, and the wooden blade clattered out of his hand the moment Rodrik blocked it with his own.
"That's enough for now, then. Crow's Eye, the Captain would see you in his chamber." Beardless announced.
Rodrik nodded, quickly wiping his face off on a spare linen cloth before making his way down to the secondary deck.
Once out of sight of everyone else, he paused and closed his eyes for a second, after which he continued walking the way to the Captain's rooms. Only now, he was completely dry, and so were his clothes. The powers were slowly coming back - especially after that fateful night when he had sniped Euron off of the bridge.
He supposed it was true that the Sons of Poseidon had their powers scaling directly with their emotions. He could remember a haze overtaking him as Chrysaor assumed the role as the dominant personality. He was on a mission - and nature had responded to his call. Storm clouds had gathered, and all the gold in his sack - the painstakingly crafted pieces that made the timepieces that he planned on gifting the Lords of the North, had crumbled under Chrysaor's will - turning into liquid and flowing to form a throwing knife made of gold, held together by his power.
The mortal part hadn't even known that Chrysaor was capable of manipulating gold just like that, but that wasn't the end of that night's spectacle. No, when Euron had stepped on the rope bridge, and the mist had done its job, he swore he remembered the crawling of a thousand ravens. If the gut feeling he had was true, then it might have been a thousand and one ravens, after all.
He already knew that making waves of any scale would tilt the future in a direction impossible to predict, and so he had allowed it. There was also the unwelcome feeling of elation in his heart - when he realized that he actually had the power to change things. While he barely knew his younger uncles and his brother, he had all but grown up with Urrigon, and however much Chrysaor had disliked his presence, he had accepted the soft, feminine-like boy as his family.
Euron had laughed to himself in the storm that night till he all but ruined his throat. And to end it all, the gold had coalesced into a spear tip. With just a thought from Chrysaor, the tip had been propelled at supersonic speed and tore through Euron's heart. The ripples of the wind had then ruined his chest to such an extent that Euron had all but exploded into pieces on that bridge.
Quellon hadn't shed a tear. No, he had been expecting something of this sort for a long time now. He had known about some of the horrors Euron had committed, but he hadn't taken action on it because of reasons unknown to him. Quellon had taken one look into Rodrik's eyes and nodded as if saying he had the head of the family's blessing. He didn't know what to make of it, and so he had busied himself with the forge in Lordsport for the time the men searched for pieces of Euron's body.
Three days of searching later, they'd only found half a leg and a crushed skull. Quellon had ordered that they be lowered in the sea - for Euron had always prayed to the Drowned God.
The next day, he had been called to Quellon's solar, where they sat for close to six hours. Rodrik had presented the butterfly knife to him then and shown him the other one that he kept strapped to his back. On a whim, he had cracked a joke - saying that Quellon should call his knife Invisible. You know, since when in its sheathed state, the blade wasn't visible at all.
On the other hand, he had decided on his name - however bad a reference to the Percy Jackson books it may be. Its place was going to be in the small of his back for the near future - which if he had Percy's version of the Curse of Achilles, would make him Invincible. It was somewhat stupid, but tradition had to be followed.
Twin blades of the same look, color, and design had to have twin names, and what better suited than Invisible and Invincible?
The only reason Chrysaor had not yet demanded a sword was because he didn't believe they could make a sword to his standards with the materials they currently had access to. After all, Chrysaor had wielded Imperial Gold for more than a few centuries - and normal steel just doesn't compare.
He cleared his thoughts and prepared himself for another long conversation when he knocked on the door to Grandfather's chambers.
"Come in, boy!"
He walked into the chamber, not looking around, for he'd been here almost every day after the midday meal and practice with Harras. He already knew of the cabinet to the left of where Quellon sat - that had some of the most expensive alcoholic drinks in the known world.
The cabinet to the right held a near unending supply of parchment - something he used to keep track of every person he met with on his voyages, carefully cataloged according to their location, along with a copy of every contract they'd signed. He would know, after all, for he had been copying them onto fresh parchment to be waxed in Lannisport since they'd left for Barrowtown.
Quellon had hoped for it to be a learning experience for him. While it certainly was that, it also bored him to death. If not for the conversations they had, sharing pieces of wisdom and discussing what-if scenarios, he felt that Chrysaor would have demanded of him once again. Except, this time, he would have asked him to jump into the ocean and swim away, never to come back.
Just reading through those papers, he'd found out so much information he never knew he'd need. For example, he now knew that the only reason the Rogares were still a thing was that their Lord had decided to use their Valyrian Steel blade as collateral to their Iron Bank loan. And if things went as they were currently going, they'd be defaulting on that loan in six years - right around when Robert's Rebellion was supposed to happen.
Could it be that Illyrio had acquired that very blade and had it reforged to look like Blackfyre? It could always be a possibility. If anyone had the power to stop the Iron Bank from contacting Tywin Lannister - who was certain to double any amount offered by almost anyone, it was Varys.
Eh, but that leads too much into speculation. Rodrik guessed he just had to wait and see what happened. Maybe try something subtle to make the Rogares crumble faster? Or maybe something to make it slower? Well, he'd decide when he could actually do something to change it.
He'd been staring at the open sheets and copying down the information on it into another fresh sheet of parchment for a while now, without any words being spoken among the grandfather and grandson duo.
"Could I borrow a few stacks of parchment for later tonight, Grandfather?" Rodrik suddenly asked. He had an idea - something that he had wanted to do for a while now.
"And what do you need precious parchment for?" Quellon asked, just a hint of curiosity in his gravelly voice.
"I had a few ideas," Rodrik started with a smidge of faked uncertainty.
"Stop, and speak clearly. I know you boy, don't try that shit with me." Quellon warned.
"Alright, alright! I had a few ideas on a new ship design. Things that could be done to improve trade." He started off.
"I'm listening."
Rodrik waved a hand in the direction of the parchment, to which Quellon sighed and nodded. He grabbed three sheets and started scribbling a design of a wrought iron frame.
Quellon watched him drawing with great interest, eager to see the latest idea he had. Around 5 minutes or so of drawing later, Rodrik put down the piece of charcoal he'd been drawing with and turned over the sheet to Quellon.
"This is… a frame of the ship?" Quellon stated more than asked.
"Aye, this will be made entirely out of forged iron." And this was where the eyebrows rose.
"Oh?" Quellon asked. "How long is this supposed to be?"
"A hundred yards." Rodrik stated flatly.
Quellon raised a single bushy eyebrow to that. "I'm going to pretend my grandson hasn't gone mad for a few minutes now. Explain to me how this will help."
"I'll need a few more minutes to draw out the other parts."
"Take your time. I'll be back soon." Quellon said, before bringing out his pipe from the cabinet to his left, and stuffing it with sourleaf. Rodrik guessed that the design had really just taken him by surprise if he needed tobacco to chill out again.
But he didn't give it much thought and instead focused on the hull design. He was in his zone, drawing out the designs as much from memory as he did from instinct. Praise Poseidon, for the ship, if ever constructed, would be the fastest ship on the waters of Planetos.
When he was finally done with the design, one page outlined the wooden construction over the wrought iron frame, and the other showed the placement of the sails.
Compared to a longship that they were sitting inside, which only had one main mast and mainsail, the design on the parchment had three masts and a grand total of thirty-two different pieces of canvas sails.
If he remembered correctly, all this would require around 15 kilometers of rigging. If he remembered correctly, rope was cheapest in Old Oak, where they grew enough hemp to supply both Oldtown and the Arbor with their riggings. They charged a copper star for thirty yards of rope. So, while the rope would cost around a third of a gold dragon, its volume would require two longships to transport it. Making it worth around three hundred gold dragons at minimum.
That was not counting the amount of good quality wood that would need to be transported. If he was completely honest, this was the primary reason for him befriending the Northmen. By his estimates, around twenty-five hundred northern pale oaks would be used to make a ship of this scale.
"So, are you done yet?" Grandfather asked from behind.
"Aye, it's finished."
"Let's see it, then."
Instead of sitting on his side of the table, Quellon sat down on the smaller chair next to Rodrik's. Side-by-side, they sat, and Rodrik started his explanation.
"The plan is to make the ship large and stable as well as fast and nimble. I've been thinking about the design, and this is the best I could come up with. There's so many things I've got in mind that have never been tried before, that I feel could revolutionize seafaring forever!"
"Let's take it one step at a time, lad. Now, explain. First - why three masts over one?"
"For a length of a hundred yards, we would need a mast the size of forty yards. That sort of weight if not centered correctly could disbalance the ship with just a gust of wind. Three masts would make it much more stable, and give us more sail area to catch the wind." Rodrik explained.
"Hmmm. I don't see any holes for oars." He remarked.
"That is because they will not be needed. This chip is designed to sail the open seas like the Swan Ships and easily carry more than a thousand tons of cargo. One of these ships could stow behind them two of itself!" Rodrik returned passionately.
"And how much will all this," Quellon gestured at the three pages, "cost?"
"The cost isn't the biggest problem, grandfather. No, the problem lies in the materials required to build just one of these. Between two to three thousand pale oaks, a half dozen sentinels for the masts. Throw in thirteen miles of good hemp rope and near an acre of sturdy canvas. No, it's not the cost of the things, but the cost of bringing them all together to one place to assemble that will cost us the most. That is if we even undertake a project like this." Rodrik finished, slightly disappointed.
"One more question, how fast does it go? Since it doesn't have oars and just the wind."
"Loaded with half it's capacity, it could go from Lordsport to Seagard in a day." Rodrik told him, truthfully.
Quellon seemed lost in thought after that, so Rodrik gathered up the papers and put them to a side on Quellon's desk before getting back to his task of copying down the dossiers he had on Persons of Interest across the world.
Close to an hour and a half, he sat in silence until he finished his work for the day. Then he took another minute or so to file everything away in the cabinet to the right.
Unwilling to disturb Quellon, Rodrik swallowed his words and just turned around to leave the chamber.
"Rodrik." Quellon's voice came soft and gentle.
"Aye?" He asked, his own voice copying his grandfather's tone.
"Know that I've heard what you had to say, and I trust in your ability to keep your word. I will look over this more at my leisure. You'll have your answer by the end of this voyage." Quellon said.
A wave of relief washed over him. While he could easily go behind Quellon's back, it just wasn't worth the effort. Not when the task could be so much easier by just asking permission.
"And will your answer be in terms of permission or support, if I may be as bold as to ask?" Rodrik asked, trying to make his voice sound even.
Quellon gave him a hearty laugh, rising from his seat and crossing the table to put his hands under his arms. He lifted Rodrik up with such ease that it would kill the self-confidence of any grown man if it happened with them. Yet, Rodrik could only smile.
"That was the correct question. Finally, one of my legacies understand." He laughed.
"I want you to know, lad. That you always have me to come to, never mind the type of problem you face. And if there is anything I could do, you will always have my support, not just my permission." Quellon said, every word ringing true in Rodrik's heart.
This was the time, Rodrik thought. It was the perfect time to have a heart-to-heart with the most revolutionary Lord in Westeros since probably Bran, the Builder.
"Do you have some more time, Lord Greyjoy." Rodrik spoke, keeping his volume low, as he was still two feet in the air, his neck tucked into the crook of his grandfather's.
Quellon most certainly did notice the change in the title of address. "What is it, Rodrik."
"I had a few more ideas that I wanted to discuss with you before implementing." Rodrik said, waiting for them to get into a more formal setting before starting this conversation.
Quellon needn't be told. No, he understood the unspoken word better than most people. A minute later, grandfather was back in his seat, and Rodrik waited for him to settle before taking his own seat.
"I might have an inkling on what we are to talk about in a moment but bear with me. Does it have anything to do with there being so many heirs to Great Houses in the same ship?"
Rodrik nodded.
"You do know what this means, right?" Quellon asked rhetorically. "It means that whether you intended to or not, I have now become a player in the Great Game, as some call it."
Rodrik nodded again.
"So, tell me, what is the next step in this plan of yours?"
"Once we reach Lannisport, I plan on renting a smithy to make gifts for both the King and the Prince. Depending on how early we arrive, I may or may not have enough time to make something exotic for other Lords as well."
Quellon nodded.
"Who did you have in mind?"
"Here is where I'd like your input. I was thinking of Targaryen-themed swords - another pair like Blackfyre and Dark Sister, if you may. More ceremonial than functional, but you know what I intend. I have a few ideas on how to go about it, but I'd like to hear your thoughts on it."
"I certainly have thoughts on it. Don't do this yet. Strike a friendship with the Prince first, and try to get in the good graces of the King before you attempt to give a gift of that value. You have a penchant for giving out gifts. Do not let that become a part of your reputation, else people will expect something every time you visit." Quellon half told him, and half scolded him.
"This time, you needn't worry about the gifts. If you have enough parts for that timepiece of yours, you should get one ready for the King. I have a few gems here somewhere; you have the leave to use them as you see fit. Make it simple yet striking. If you can make the outside the dark color like that of your blade, even better. Rubies would complete the design in Targaryen colors then."
"I could make that work. I'll need a full day in the smithy, though."
"You'll have more than that. We should arrive with enough time at hand - I would say you'd have two full days between when we arrive and when the King's party reaches." Quellon said.
"I'll ensure that is ready, then. Anything for the Prince? Lord Tywin?"
"You needn't worry about that, lad. I have their presents arranged already. You might fold steel better than most smiths out there, but the Qohoriks are still better than you at inlay work. A rosewood harp with golden engravings of dragons. For a hundred gold dragons, I believe the work is good enough as a gift. A driftwood teether for the young prince as well. The tourney is in his honor, after all."
"Very well, Grandfather. And for Lord Tywin?"
"Oh, I have the perfect gift for him. I would suggest you don't put your mind to it. Just remember this, lad. We are now players of the Great Game. Lord Tywin is not just the Host to the biggest tourney in memory. No, he is a rival player as well, now. So the gift needs to be inclusive of all that." Quellon said with a sly smile on his face.
"Now, I believe this is enough serious talk for the day." Grandfather declared, robbing him of the chance to even make a guess.
"How is Harras faring against you? Any improvements?"
"No, grandfather. Not much. He still thinks with heart and gets riled up easily. I thought I'd start with the shit talk starting tomorrow, but he'd need someone else to fight after that. It doesn't help that he is being handed his arse by the only person on the ship younger than him."
"Hmmm. I'll ask if Brandon Stark wishes to try his hand. Now, show me that trick you did in Barrowtown. I'll be damned if it wasn't hilarious to see their jaws all hanging!"
Rodrik laughed at that before casually slipping his hand under his shirt, where the golden sticks that opened up to the butterfly knife rested. The mist faded as he gripped it and brought it forth, now making it visible to everyone else.
"So, the first thing you need practice with is this," Rodrik started, indicating the release switch that opened the latch that held the two parts of the sheath/handle together.
Brandon Stark - Eldest Son and Heir to House Stark
The bobbing of the ship affected Willam much more than it did him. Which was why he was getting bored with their sparring session. While on solid ground, their bouts lasted much longer, and he had to work with more than his instincts to win. Now, on the deck of the Iron Maiden, Willam was a worse opponent than even Ethan.
Yet, he didn't want to add on to Willam's troubles on the ship by refusing to spar with him.
Thankfully, that problem resolved itself rather quickly, as Willam suddenly dashed to the side of the ship before expelling his midday meal in a rather spectacular fashion. He really pitied his friend, but he didn't know how he could help.
The sun was already low, but it was still another hour before dusk. So, he was not surprised to see Rodrik Stark coming out of the lower deck. He did have a mug in his hand, though.
"Lord Dustin! The cook says ginger tea helps with the seasickness. I've brought you some."
Brandon saw him hand the mug over. It must not have been as hot as tea is supposed to be since he saw Willam all but inhale it.
"Would you mind if I borrowed your training sword?" He heard Rodrik ask Willam. Unsurprisingly, in his condition, William just nodded his assent. Bran doubted if he even heard the question.
He saw Rodrik pick up the sword from the deck and gave it a few test swings. These were practice swords made out of heavy and hardwood. It was odd to see such strength in the young lad - he handled the oaken practice sword with much dexterity.
"You know your way around a sword?" Brandon couldn't help but ask.
"Aye, I trained with Ser Jason Mallister for a year and a half. I know the basic drills and techniques."
"Care to test them against me?"
"I was just about to ask, Lord Stark." Rodrik smiled. Bran couldn't help but grin back. "Call me Bran."
"Then you must call me Rodrik… or not. Crow's Eye is fine." Rodrik said with a shrug and a grin.
There was a reason why Bran liked him. The two got into their stances, and just before they started, Rodrik spoke, "Don't go easy on me, Bran. I'm fast."
"But…" Bran didn't get the chance to finish his sentence as Rodrik rushed him. Their swords clashed, and instead of being sent back, Rodrik used the reverse momentum of his blade by pivoting on his heel and slamming his heel onto the back of his knee, causing it to give way.
In just a blink of an eye, Rodrik's blade was on Bran's neck, and Bran was stood awkwardly, his sword hand trying to keep him upright as his left knee rested on the ground.
"Let's spar then, Brandon Stark." Rodrik laughed in that characteristic high-pitched young boy's voice.
"You little rascal, you asked for it."
The next few bouts went to Rodrik, as Brandon had trouble adjusting to fighting a shorter opponent.
"Got ya!" Brandon suddenly said as he used his fist to punch Rodrik, who was twirling to the side, trying to evade his feint. The boy went flying to the deck, and for a moment, Brandon worried that he hit too hard.
"Ouch," was all Rodrik said, before getting back up on his feet, and walking towards Bran, sword hanging limply to his side. Bran had gotten him under his sword arm - right on the ribs.
"Didn't see that one coming." Rodrik said with a shrug.
"Apologies, Rodrik, I forgot my own strength." Bran said. After all, he was still a guest on his grandfather's ship.
"Ah, you needn't worry about that. Ser Jason told me that I didn't have much to do except wait till I grew bigger. I can evade most of the hits, but the one like I just took, aye, one of them would put me out."
"He is correct in his assessment, Crow's Eye." Bran responded, slightly relieved to know that he hadn't broken anything important.
"You know, you could take part in the squire's tourney." Bran added. And he meant it.
The lad was really good - quicker than most on his feet, and he hadn't even broken a sweat!
"I've thought about it but haven't decided yet. It will be up to Grandfather, after all. Even if I wanted to, and he denied me, I wouldn't be able to partake." Rodrik said, sounding disappointed.
But Bran wouldn't hear it. He didn't want such a talent to go to waste. He could easily take part in the squire's melee, and if he was smart enough in picking his fights, he might even finish in a good enough spot to wine a prize.
"I'll speak to Lord Quellon about that. But from now till the start of the tourney, you'll practice with me for an hour, starting an hour after dawn and another hour after the midday meal and before dusk. I'll see if I can have Grandpa Rodrik oversee our bouts and give us both pointers."
"I can do that." said Rodrik, with a small smile on his face. Well, Bran would make sure it became a big smile. And then, depending on his mood, he'd wager on Rodrik winning the squire's melee.
This journey was already starting to seem quite interesting. And while Bran enjoyed the quiet life of the ship, he really wanted to get to Lannisport soon.
After all, he was to take part in the tourney as well.
Just thinking about the tourney reminded him of Valor, and he quickly said his goodbyes on the deck and made his way down to the storage and stables - near the back of the lower deck. His horse stood there, munching on hay and having a pleasant time.
Brandon joined Valor inside the stable, grabbing a brush and combing through his hair. Oh, he was excited to see the South.
Still, even though it had only been a week since they left Barrowtown, Bran was starting to miss the North. The people and the sights and the smells of the mainland. He smiled when Valor turned to him and nuzzled his chest, and started scratching behind his ear, where he liked it the most. He would remind the South that the Northerners weren't so easily forgotten.
Also, his father had told him that he would be willing to consider a southern wife for him, and Bran was quite eager to put that to the test. He was going to partake in the Horse Racing and the Melee and Archery events. So while he wouldn't have a chance to crown any ladies with the garland of roses, it didn't worry him in the slightest. He would much rather his dear horse's life not be put to risk in the tiltyard since accidents happened frequently.
So, he'd have to rely on his dashing looks and charming words to woe the maidens. One was all he needed. Lord Dustin always said, "A Knight never kisses and tells, but a Rogue Knight gets the pretty ladies to spread it for him."
He needed to know if that was actually true. And what better place to try than the grandest tourney in recent memory. He smirked to himself, only Valor nearby to see him do it. Lannisport was going to be fun.
A/N:
Another quick one for you people. I'm going to be busy the following two weeks, so I cannot promise chapters at this speed. But finally, I've completed all that needed to be done before we make port on Lannisport.
Thoughts, suggestions, insights, and any corrections are welcome. See you all soon (enough).