Rodrik Greyjoy - Heir to the Heir of Pyke
"Let me be the first to welcome you into the Westerlands, Lords Greyjoy and Stark!" A sixteen-year-old Stafford Lannister said, puffing up sort of like Mace Tyrell was supposed to.
"Thank you, Lord Lannister, I hope our arrival was timely?" Quellon returned politely.
"Most certainly, Lord Quellon. The King's Party departed Deep Den this morning. They should be arriving in two more days." He said before turning to the Northerners.
"Lord Brandon, we've also received word that Lord Stark's party reached Deep Den just a few hours after the King's departure. We might expect them to join up on the way here."
"I wouldn't count on it too much, Lord Stafford. My brother and sister are also coming, and my father wouldn't increase the pace unless he was at risk of missing the start of the tourney." Bran said.
Stafford just nodded to that. "We've reserved an inn for the Lords of the Isles and the North, Lord Quellon, Lord Brandon. I hope that's alright with you. There should be twelve rooms with enough beds."
Quellon and Beardless just nodded to that. "Let us proceed, then." Brandon said, stretching wide, "I'd love to get used to solid ground again, ha! No insult to you or your ship, Lord Greyjoy, but while I can stomach the sea better than Willam here, I still much prefer the land."
"Lord Lannister, a moment, if you will?" Quellon asked as they mounted their horses and prepared to leave.
"How can I help, Lord Quellon?" Stafford asked eagerly.
"If you could send someone to direct us to a smithy? I'd like to rent one out for two days." Quellon said, not playing around.
"My Lord! I assure you, we have the most competent smiths in Lannisport! They will be more than willing to provide for all your needs." Stafford exclaimed.
"Peace, Lord Lannister, I do not intend any insult. It's just something I plan to gift the King, you know. I'd much rather we make our gifts by our own hand, should we not? I know my way around a forge, and I'm willing to compensate whichever smith is willing to part with his generously." Quellon placated him.
"Ah," he shuffled for a second before thinking better just to let it go. "I'll send for the Steward of the Guild House then, my lord. In the meantime, why don't you inspect your rooms and freshen up? Lady Alanna Jast will come along in an hour, I estimate." Stafford said, finally.
"Much thanks, Lord Lannister. Tell me, have other Lords arrived yet?" Quellon asked, he and Stafford slowing down to chat along with Beardless and Bran. Rodrik let them go on a few paces ahead, bringing out an apple and biting into it. The loss of most of the gold parts for the timepieces was troublesome, but he still had two full sets in his trunk on the ship. No, what his thoughts were lingering on was Bran's request.
A longsword that was better than pretty much any other castle steel sword. It shouldn't be too hard. Giving the sword a heat treatment was the problem. Rodrik would have to reduce the charcoal to coke first and then heat the blade evenly. If it wasn't evenly heated and to just the right temperature, the quenching could bend or even ruin the blade. It would be tedious work, but it shouldn't be too bad. He'd just have to prepare the coke as he made the timepiece so that he could focus on the sword the next day.
Rodrik had analyzed Bran's grip on the practice sword. He had a pretty good idea of what he could make the grip out of and its dimensions. While it wouldn't be the most extravagant sword, it would be the most functional. All that would be left to do is make the actual blade of the sword.
Now, he knew various ways of how to make blades magical. Chrysaor was, after all, the person who had invented the Imperial Gold that the Romans so proudly claimed as their metal of choice.
That had come after decades of trial and error and ended up with him having a much deeper understanding of how Western Civilization worked. The way everyone in Planetos freaked out over blood was understandable, but for someone with the experience Chrysaor had, a few things held more value over blood.
Blood was important, and he agreed, but the belief was so much more potent. Blood was the binding agent, and belief was the source of the power. There was a reason Zeus always cleansed his Master Bolt in the waters of the Lemnos. There was a reason Stygian Iron blades were made some of the most dangerous weapons. They all used raw material from sources that had legends attached to them. Lemnos was the birthplace of Hephaestus, and before that, the place where Arges, Brontes, and Steropes - the Elder Cyclopes had forged the Master Bolt originally.
Stygian Iron blades get their name for the use of the water of the Styx for their quenching. The fact that only the dead could forge the Iron in Erebos' realm also added to the supernatural power wielded from the weapon.
Valyrian Steel was not much different from the ancient Greek magical metals. Except for the fact that they used magical elements to heat the blade and not to cool it, they were almost identical. This fact made Rodrik (it was Chrysaor, actually) wonder if he could somehow combine the two forging techniques to come up with a weapon that has the best of the magical properties of both worlds.
He could certainly try - but he'd need an active volcano for that. Greeks always created their magic metals in the heat of a volcano - and thankfully, due to his heritage, he could survive being in the vicinity for the time it took for the process to complete. But, if he wanted to combine the magical properties of the metals, he would have to use some existing Valyrian Steel and apply his brand of magic on it after it melted without the addition of any impurities in a volcanic environment. Either that or try to come up with a way to recreate the alloy through trial and error.
Then, he'd also have the arduous task of finding and testing out different places for legendary sources of water or other liquids. The river Rhoyne was an example, and there were many other local legends about other places, the principal of which was the God's Eye. Whatever the case may be, Rodrik had a suspicion that neither the Gods Eye nor the river Rhoyne would compare to another legend. If the basis of the legend were true, they'd have to make an extra stop in the Reach, but it would be worth it.
The only question was if that stop would be on their way south or on their way back.
Now, none of this would matter for making Bran's sword. He had a pair of enchantments in mind that he could add, just like he had done with the pair of butterfly knives he had made.
They were soon at the Long Night's Respite, and Beardless had decided that the party of Lords that arrived in the Iron Maiden would take the first story, and Lord Stark's party could take the floor above it. Quellon had no qualms with that, as they'd hardly be spending time at the Inn when there was so much to be done in Lannisport.
"Rodrik, with me." Grandfather spoke.
Rodrik followed Quellon into the decently sized room. Quellon took a seat at the edge of the mattress and gestured for him to close the door as he walked in. "Sit."
"Now, there are a few things you must know about the people here in Lannisport. Mostly, they are genuine, if only a bit proud and will not respond well to haggling. That is true for the smaller hawkers since Tywin has been regulating the prices for almost everything. Now, it's the bigger shops that you need to know more about. They can't refuse you entry since we're guests of the Great Lion. But if they don't like you, they'll make it known by giving you prices ten times what their product is worth."
Rodrik nodded at that. He expected that much, given how bad the reputation of the Ironborn still was in some places.
"Now, the most notable of all the business owners is the very same Lady we'll be meeting soon. Alanna Jast is the Steward of the Guild House - second to only the Lannisters of Lannisport in power. For Stafford to promise her time was very foolish of him, but she is a very sharp and astute lady. Five and twenty years of age, and she already runs the best shops in Lannisport. The best armorer, the best smithy, the best seamstresses, and even the best alehouse are owned by her alone. Now, I know of your talent with smithing; that much is evident with the knife you've gifted me. But I want you to give me your word." Quellon became dead serious towards the end.
"Do not. I repeat, DO NOT make any wager with Lady Jast. She will use everything in her grasp to win, and I've never known her to lose a singer wager she's made. Now, we have a chance to put this to the test, and we must not give her any openings to even get a hint about what could happen in the Tourney." Quellon paused, lowering his voice as he continued.
"Now, I know you don't have the gold to put on the table yet. So, just for this once, I will cover for you. So tell me which ones you've decided to sign up for." Quellon finished.
"The horse racing and the squire's tourney." He said simply.
"Very well. I have high expectations. You know your blades, and I'll take it that you've got your tourney blade of choice?" Quellon asked.
"Aye, grandfather. I do. But I don't believe my horse will be able to compete with the other horses in the race. The dornish sand steeds and the Lannister warhorses will be difficult competition." Rodrik told him honestly.
"With the Northerners actually coming down south this time, you better worry about the Ryswell horses more than any other. Their thoroughbreds are the oldest and fastest line of horses in Westeros." Quellon warned him.
"Is there…" Rodrik started but was quickly cut off by Quellon.
"I'll have to see. No promises, though. If any of the Starks are joining, I don't believe you will. If they're not, there might be a chance. Though if Mark Ryswell is coming," said Quellon, and Rodrik continued, "he is."
"Well, then I'd wager on him. He'll certainly partake if he's coming, so I wouldn't have high hopes. Unless you wish to call in that favor with Bran's sword and ask to borrow his horse."
Rodrik thought about that for a moment.
"You have three days to think about it. Now, get whatever you need to bring to the smithy, Lady Jast should be here soon. I'll wait for her in the lunch hall."
Ah, well, he'd have to wait for an opportune moment to bring up this conversation with Brandon, then. Chances were slim that he'd lend him the horse, so it would be better if he made the sword a little extra fancy - something that would suit the Wild Wolf. Maybe hollow grooves horizontally placed on the blade that produced a sharp sound when swung? Maybe something that sounded like an exceptionally strong winter gale? Hmm, more ideas to work with.
If he did somehow end up with Bran's horse for the race, then he could say with certainty that he'd win. Not that he couldn't win with his current horse. No, it would just be too unbelievable and make it suspicious for the people who knew enough about horses and their capabilities. There was no need to attract that sort of attention yet.
No, if he could get Bran's horse or any other Northern thoroughbred, only then could he believably win. That is if they were actually that much better. They might not be the fastest, but they had the most endurance. The race would be five laps around a circuit that was about half a mile long. There would be a bunch of qualifying races, depending on the number of people signing up. Ten horses would race at once, and riders would be eliminated so that after the first round, only twenty-five remained.
These twenty-five would race in the second round the next day, five at a time. With one winner from each, the five remaining will race on the third day, with the full audience right before the final sixteen of the joust.
The arrangement was this way for many reasons, primarily to keep the betting pools interesting and to have the horses as fresh as possible before the final. The truly competitive ones would often bribe the officials in charge to have their horses race in the earliest race for them to be best rested for the next day's races. Every hour of rest helped the horses. The competitors also spent a lot of money on the security of their horses to prevent them from sabotage at the behest of the dirtier competitors.
Still, the primary reason was a healthier betting session. The elimination rounds were fairly easy, but it was the filtering from the twenty-five to five where the Lords and other important people placed the major bets. Rodrik remembered the words of Lord Damon, then. If there were anyone who'd be supplying heavily to the betting pool, it would be Tomas Blackwood. That man just couldn't help himself.
Looking at the horse race very objectively, though, he could only think of a few people who could give him good competition. He also had a large advantage over the other competitors - with him weighing half of what the next smallest competitor would weigh. He was confident in his ability to speak with the horse and come up with a strategy. Now, all he needed was to ensure that he got at least an hour to speak with the horse and ensure everything went smoothly. He would also use that time to modify the saddle and replace it with the much more efficient design he had in mind. In fact, he would start working on it as soon as he finished the timepiece and left the sword to cool.
He'd just put on his smithing attire and collected the things he'd need when a knock sounded on the door.
"Coming!" he called, tidying up the room in an instant before opening the door.
"Ah, Grandfather. And you must be the Lady Jast," he said, taking the young woman's hand into his own and leaving a small kiss on her knuckles.
She might have looked small standing next to grandfather, but she was still standing slightly more than a foot taller than him.
Lady Jast just smiled prettily in response, though it was clear to see from her hard eyes that she was certain her time would be better spent elsewhere.
"What can I do for you, my Lords?" She asked. None of the welcome to Lannisport, hope everything's to your liking.
Rodrik didn't open his mouth. No, he had clear instructions not to. Also, he would rather watch and evaluate her first before he chose to say anything. She wasn't a familiar character to him. No, he was certain that no one called Alanna Jast was ever mentioned in the books. There was a Lord Jast, but other than that, there was nothing to give him an edge in the conversation.
"House Greyjoy would like to rent out a forge and smithy. One hopefully already stocked. A hundred moons to cover the cost for today and tomorrow. I'll also pay separately for all the material used." Quellon said.
"I'm afraid that will not be possible. Not during a tourney. No smith would give over their forge for a mere hundred moons. They could make twice as much fixing dents in breastplates for today and tomorrow." Lady Jast said, in the no-nonsense tone that reminded Rodrik of some other character he'd read about somewhere. Was it McGonagall?
"A hundred and twenty moons, then. If not, then I'll just buy his smithy." Quellon countered.
"I'm afraid I cannot agree to that on behalf of the smith, my lord. How about we take a walk down the Street of Iron and Gold? We can check and ask the smiths themselves." Lady Jast returned; however, Rodrik could easily see that she was up to something.
"Grandfather, I'd also like to browse for some books. Lady Jast, I've heard that Lannisport has a bookkeeper that sells exquisitely done copies?" He decided this was a good time to play her game.
"Yes, child. I've heard you like your books. And you are correct - Jim Blotts sells the finest waxed parchment books you'll find anywhere save for Oldtown. Prince Rhaegar sends requests every few moons and has been doing so for the past four years. We can visit him too, if you'd like."
"Let's go, Grandfather!" He called excitedly, making sure not to overdo the act. The problem with people like Lady Jast was that they either underestimated or overestimated children, almost always one of the extremes.
"...Very well, we'll buy a pair of books, too. Just a pair - no more, Rodrik." Quellon warned, picking up on his idea of the act easily.
"Splendid! I've taken the liberty to arrange a cart for us, Lord Greyjoy," Lady Jast said, with a sly smile, as if she accomplished something big by just convincing us to come out and visit Lannisport.
Rodrik didn't hold it too heavily against her yet. No, she could be playing her own act with them - that of a somewhat competent and highly arrogant businessperson. No, he'd reserve his judgment for now.
The cart outside was a moderately decorated one - mainly reds, with accents of gold. It didn't take Rodrik and Quellon long to hop in, before which grandfather had already helped Lady Jast inside.
Grandfather and Lady Jast fell into small talk then - casual conversation about her businesses, followed by roasting some of her rivals. It soon turned towards Quellon's voyages, and Rodrik was surprised by how much they told each other - while giving the other very little. Hardly anyone in their tales was ever named, and tips were hidden in the conversation as mere rumors.
All in all, the ten minutes it took them to get to the Street of Iron and Gold were a very informative ten minutes for him; most certainly informative for both Grandfather and Lady Jast as well.
"Ah, we can try here, Lord Greyjoy. Elmer should be inside. He usually keeps a good stock of the raw material." Lady Jast said, hopping off the carriage rather gracefully, not waiting for Grandfather to help her out this time.
"Ah, Elmer! The same Elmer who made King Aerys' first breastplate at the start of the Ninepenny War! He's still alive?" Lord Quellon exclaimed.
"You have a sharp memory, Lord Quellon. Alas, it isn't the same Elmer. It's his grandson who runs his old smithy now. A good lad but prone to drinking away all his coin. I've told him before, he just needs to find himself a wife, but he never listens to my advice."
"Well, his loss then. But let us not wait outside, my lady," Grandfather said before walking through the curtain and entering the smithy.
Rodrik followed, and Lady Jast came in last.
Instead of following his grandfather to the counter across from a young man fullering a blade, he walked across to the display rack. Well, he made it seem like he was doing that when he just went to the spot that had the best view of the smithy.
It took him three seconds to decide that this place was quite suitable for his needs.
Instead of reacting overtly, he gave his grandfather some time to converse with the smith while looking at the helmets and breastplates on display. They all had one thing in common. This man etched everything in gold, which meant that he produced his wares for the richer clients - likely Lords and sellsword captains.
"Elmer, I'll be honest with you. You know your craft well, and I respect that. But I need to rent out the smithy. I'll pay you a hundred moons for the rest of today and tomorrow." He heard after a minute.
"But… it's the tourney! I can't possibly miss out on working the Lords' armors and blades, milord!" Elmer blustered.
"You get a hundred silver moons immediately - no need to work the rest of the day and tomorrow. If you truly want, no one can stop you from sharing a workspace with another smith - perhaps you know someone on the street? That way, you could still service a few lords and get the coin too." Quellon tried to coax him into accepting.
"I couldn't possibly…." He started, beginning to look distraught, "Lord Darklyn and Ser Simon Hollard have orders that need to be delivered, my Lord. I could be willing to have you in my smithy, as long as you don't hold me back from finishing those on time. I won't even ask you to pay, my Lord - just for the materials you use."
Grandfather hummed, and Rodrik took that as his cue. "These are some rather nice designs, grandfather. Take a look at this shield!"
A codeword for "eh, whatever." Rodrik liked this smithy well enough, and it had enough space for even five people to work together. Most likely him and his apprentices, but as long as they both didn't invade each others' privacy, he wouldn't care enough. Rodrik also had a very handy thing called the Mist to erase the memory of his time in the smithy from Elmer's mind - just like Chiron had done in Yancy Academy.
Quellon Greyjoy nodded to him, which could easily be interpreted as approving Rodrik's taste in shields. "Do you really need one, lad? Is Ironwood not good enough for you?"
Rodrik blushed at that. Acting like a child was quite easy - be the most genuine you can be!
"Ah, I love my shield, but this one looks quite pretty!" Rodrik stammered out.
"We're Ironborn, lad. Pretty things don't look good on us." He said before turning back to Elmer.
"How about you take in my grandson for this evening and tomorrow? He knows his way around a forge; I made sure of that. He wants to make something for his new friend. Here's twenty moons - keep two guards posted at the door. Let no one you don't know enter the actual smithy. He's also to be making a gift for the King - better it doesn't get spoiled, ya know?" He whispered the last part to Elmer, though it was clear that Alanna heard him - from the way she suddenly shifted her gaze onto Rodrik.
"Lady Jast! Our work is done here. I'm feeling rather tired, and I'm sure you've got your own business to attend to. Let us part ways here." Grandfather cut her off like a champ before she could say anything.
The look on her face didn't change, save for the pinch of her nose and the slight widening of her eyes. She was pissed at the dismissal. But, as usual, grandfather didn't care. He did everything he did for the grand plan, and this had worked perfectly. Now Alanna Jast had taken offense, and she would be looking for a way to get back at him, and with her reputation, it could very likely be a wager.
One thing he had yet to decide was how serious he was in competing in the squire's melee. Chainmail would be paramount - no reason in baiting fate, but he didn't want to go for any heavier armor. If he completely took the backseat and let Chrysaor handle things, Rodrik had doubts anyone could even touch him.
Percy Jackson, someone who could strike away a bullet with a sword, reacting after it had already been shot, had been unable to perceive Chrysaor's speed.
Well, there was a slight misconception in that. While it could easily have been misunderstood as that, Chrysaor wasn't that much faster - even as a full-blooded divine monster.
No, he was just extremely proficient in many things - and mist manipulation was one of them. With the mist in play, he could make an utter fool out of the best warriors. The best part would be that those highly skilled warriors would assume that they read the move wrong and praise his ability to lie with his eyes.
But showing off too much could be detrimental as well. While Rodrik waited for Aerys to go mad, he didn't want to become the first target of the King's madness. No, that wouldn't be a good thing. The problem with the squire's melee was that the winner usually got knighted by the Tourney host or the highest-ranking individual present. If he remembered correctly - in the Joust of this very tourney, Rhaegar Targaryen would be knighted by Ser Barristan after the Prince unhorsed the Bold. And the very next day, Gregor 'The Mountain' Clegane would win the squire's tourney and get knighted by the Bard Prince himself.
He could see the dark twist of fate there, and that is the exact reason he didn't want to mess with it. But that would have to wait till he had a conversation with his grandfather. They'd have to discuss and take into account as many variables as they could, and the final decision wouldn't be made until the last moment. So he could put this train of thought away.
No, now was the time to get crafting.
The first step would be to light the charcoal in the furnace and wait for it to turn into coke. He didn't have the liberty of thermal distillation in a pressurized chamber - so he'd have to wait for twenty-four hours for it to turn into coke. Till then, he'd have time to finish the timepiece and make the rest of the preparations for the sword - the handle and the sheath.
And so, after convincing Elmer just to let the furnace burn till noon the next day, he went off to the side to craft the timepiece. With his practice on the three he'd already delivered, it was now instinctual to him.
The next three hours passed quickly, and he sat in the secluded back room as he finished his work. The timepiece was finished, made out of gold with black accents and studded with rubies to make the inside of the latch something resembling the Targaryen sigil.
The handle, on the other hand, was made out of a small piece of weirwood that he'd been surprised to find in Elmer's smithy. A surprised question had him learn how the Lord of Casterly Rock had their men trim down their weirwood tree every year. With it growing inside the mountain, they had to continually trim it to keep it from growing into the walls and tunnels.
It was an interesting piece of information, but Elmer also added at the end that it was usually small branches that were only good enough for handles of bladed weapons. The tree didn't grow nearly enough in a year to end up with anything beyond thin branches capable of sword or dagger handles - certainly not bows or spears.
Still, the handle was done in a symmetrical form, with thin grooves for the engraving - which would be the shiny silver steel. Against the pale white of the weirwood - he would craft the entirety of the blade in the Stark colors. This world was obsessed with symbolism, so why not?
Just then, he heard Elmer speak, "Ah! Lord Darklyn and Ser Hollard, I've just finished with your shields. The breastplates should be ready by noon on the morrow, my lords."
Interesting. Denys Darklyn should have died by now, but his being here proved that Rodrik had permanently changed the original timeline. As much as he knew he shouldn't, Rodrik couldn't help his curiosity and left the room to meet and speak with the man, who, according to theories, had been one of the only lords whose smallfolk truly loved him. Not just the love that came with the attachment to the land and its rulers, no. Something that much resembled the love the smallfolk of King's landing had for Prince Rhaegar.
As he got his first glance at the man, Rodrik was surprised at how young he was. Barely a year or two older than Bran - which would place him at around twenty. He was a good five feet and ten inches, with elvish features. The Darklyns had intermarried with Velaryons and Celtigars, so maybe it was the minor Valyrian traits he showed - with slim and shorter bodies compared to other Lords. This was the man who had married Serala of Myr and ruined everything for his house.
Oh, but the man behind him, Ser Symon Hollard, if he guessed correctly, was around five inches taller than his liege. A morningstar strapped to his back and a long, thin dagger on his waist. This man had supposedly killed a knight of the Kingsguard when Darklyn and his men had captured Aerys Targaryen.
He was a grizzled man - a scar running down from just under his left earlobe to wherever he couldn't say - it continued till his brigandine hid it. He was basically a scaled-down Mountain. Thick with muscles and just oozing the 'if I grab my weapon, someone's dying, and it ain't me' vibe.
As much as Rodrik was intimidated, Chrysaor couldn't take the man seriously and referred to a certain death-punk motorcycle rider who got his ass kicked by a twelve-year-old.
As long as he had stayed standing, it was a miracle he hadn't been spotted, but it didn't last much longer.
"And who might you be? An apprentice?" Lord Darklyn asked quite politely. He seriously gave Rodrik the vibe of a young Math teacher, much better at therapy than teaching.
"Rodrik Greyjoy, Lord Darklyn, I've heard a lot about you." He responded, smiling as he offered a hand to shake.
Denys immediately took the hand and led Rodrik beyond the barrier to the bench on the inside of the wall, underneath the display rack.
"And I've heard a lot about you, young Greyjoy. My lady wife declined to travel to Riverrun at the last moment, or I am certain we would have met there. I heard you gave Lord Hoster an exquisite gift?" Damn, he was well informed.
"Just something I came up with, my lord. I saw that we had nothing more than marks on an hourglass to show the time of the day and thought that it could be made better and much more accurate. One thing led to another and we now have timepieces. I've got a question for you, my lord, if I may."
"Ah, well, both of us have many questions. But first, let me ask, what are you doing inside a smithy, young lord?" He asked, genuinely concerned. Rodrik said fuck it, and smiled widely, leaning into Denys Darklyn conspiratorially as he whispered.
"If I told you I was making a very similar gift for the King, would you keep it to yourself, my lord?"
"No, little lord, I would ask you what I needed to do to get one for myself." He responded in the same sly, mischievous tone.
"Unfortunately, Lord Darklyn, you'd have to take it up with Lord Hoster." Rodrik responded sadly.
"Lord Hoster? Not Lord Quellon?" He asked, slightly confused.
"No, my lord. It is actually a deal I have with Lord Hoster. The first ten timepieces I sell will be through him and him only." Rodrik told him.
"Hmmm. What does one define as a timepiece, really? Does it have to be a specific shape, or size?" He asked, giving away immediately that he was very interested since he was looking into loopholes already.
"Anything that can fit on one's person could still be called a timepiece, I think," Rodrik responded with a little uncertainty, playing Denys' little game.
"And what if I want to get one installed above my seat in the Great Hall of Dun Fort? For the entire household to see the time of the day? Could that be done?" He finished theatrically.
Wow, was it his lucky day or something? Denys Darklyn was asking him to make a Grandfather's clock! Well, he intended a wall clock, but Rodrik could easily jack up the prices if he made it complicated and intricate-looking like a grandfather's clock. It would be a lot more justified for a hundred-kilo monstrosity to cost fifty thousand dragons than a small five-kilo wall clock.
After all, his intention with the meeting with the High Septon was to convince him to commission a Big Ben sort of project. The Faith was one of the only institutions in Westeros with the sort of funds available to commission anything of that sort. If he managed to convince the High Septon, which should certainly be quite easy with his special power, it would be the beginning of a very profitable venture.
He had some ideas on what to ask the Citadel as payment when such a request undoubtedly came forward.
"Lord Denys, are you occupied this evening?" Rodrik asked him instead.
"Not at all, Lord Greyjoy. Would you like to join my lady wife and I for dinner?" He smiled a winning smile at him.
"I would certainly like that, my lord. As long as I can bring three others with me." Rodrik opened his offer.
"Most certainly. Can I ask who all, though? Just so I am prepared to meet them. Wouldn't leave a good impression if I didn't recognize the guests I'll be hosting." Denys returned, the smile still present on his face.
"Just my grandfather, Rodrik Harlaw and Harras Harlaw." Rodrik told him, waiting to see his reaction to that bit of news.
"Oh? Very well, then. Your guests will be most welcome in my manse." He said, before adding, "How about this, Ser Symon and I shall escort you to your inn, and Ser Symon will wait there till you are prepared to leave and escort your party to my manse."
Well, that's a wrap. "Master Elmer, please have an apprentice keep the furnace going through the night, will you? I'll leave another five moons for the one who volunteers."
"I… I'll ensure that, my lord." Elmer replied, still confused.
"Elmer, my good man! I seem to have made a new friend today. Please, keep the shields with you for the night. I'll come by around noon tomorrow to pick both the shields and the plate." He told the smith, before turning to Rodrik, explaining, "The jousting equipment - I must say I am a very avid participant in the sport - though nowhere near the best."
"Then I must wish you the best of luck, my lord. I just need to pick up my things from the back room. I'll be back in a moment."
Gathering his stuff and applying a healthy amount of mist to make the timepiece unrecognizable to anyone, Rodrik walked out of the smithy and joined Lord Darklyn outside.
There were three other horsemen, all dressed like household knights, armed to their teeth to his surprise.
"I've heard that you ride horses not your own with ease, Lord Greyjoy," Denys teased, which for the first time this day, managed to discomfort him. Till now, everything he had spoken to Denys about, he could have known from Riverlander lords. But if he has a spare horse just waiting, that implies that this entire meeting was a set up.
And he might just have played right into it.
He suddenly didn't feel so good. The only thing that assured him now was the fact that he had hidden the timepiece in his bag with mist protections.
And would you look at that, he did have a spare horse - and it wasn't just your run-of-the-mill palfrey. No, it was a well-bred courser.
Fuck.
"I do, my lord. Shall we proceed, then?" He said, deciding not to give anything else away. Time for some evasive action. "Have you ever raced on paved roads, my lord?"
"Please, call me Denys," he said, still charming as ever, "and no, I haven't. But I like the thought of it. It is dark already, though. Are you certain you won't fall off, Lord Greyjoy?"
"On the count of three, Lord Darklyn." He said, ignoring the offer of friendlier terms. If he really wanted to, Denys Darklyn could be dead in the next minute. Just a sweet promise to his horse would undoubtedly ensure that he was thrown off and trampled. It was quite tempting, too.
No, Rodrik wanted to get to the root of the problem and find out how he got his information. He didn't know how much Denys Darklyn knew. He certainly knew enough to set up this entire farce of a meeting and a dinner. His wife - Serala of Myr could be a source - with how much she had been vilified in the books and the people of Duskendale. It could also be this Lady Jast, whom he knew nothing about besides his grandfather's warnings.
"One." He said, hopping onto the horse they had waiting for him. The mental link was established, and for the first time in this world, he commanded the horse to obey. Requests and cajoling were more humane, but they took time. That was something he did not have at the moment.
"My Lord, are you certain it is wise…." Symon Hollard started but was cut off by his liege lord.
"Follow us, Ser Symon." Denys said, his voice now harder and his serene and calming expression gone.
"Two." Rodrik said, ensuring his bag was out of the way and didn't block his leg movement. While the horse was smart, they didn't have the time to establish the bond that would let him instinctually control it.
His heart thudded in his chest. Prepare to race, my steed. Half a moment later, the horse's heartbeat picked up as well, his power infusing with the horses'.
He nudged his courser so that he was just across from the Crownlander lord.
Their eyes met, and Rodrik was sure the challenge in Denys' eyes was reflected equally fiercely in his own.
"Three." They both said simultaneously.
For a heartbeat, the world stilled, and nothing happened. And then, Denys' horse neighed loudly, raising his forelegs high into the air. By the time it set its feet back on the paved street, Rodrik already had a decent lead. His mind narrowed on the task of weaving through the handful of people who still wandered the streets.
He didn't look back. Not once. A minute later, he knew that Denys and the rest of his men were far enough behind him that they wouldn't know where he'd disappeared to.
Another two minutes later, just as the horse was beginning to heave, he slowed down in front of the Long Night's Respite. He could see Brandon Stark in the inn's dining hall, drinking along with Willam and a horde of people he didn't recognize.
Well, if Denys Darklyn had enough information to know which smithy he'd be at, then he must also know which inn he was rooming at. He'd rather wait for them inside with Brandon.
Rodrik handed the courser over to the stable boy, "Keep him here for some time. A Lord's party will come by, with red, yellow, black, and white colors on their banners. Show them to Lord Stark's table."
The stable boy nodded and accepted the silver stag he offered him. Rodrik nodded to him and walked into the inn.
"Lord Stark! Lord Dustin! Lord Glover!" He called.
"Rodrik! C'mere! My lords and ladies, meet the prodigal grandson of The Golden Kraken." Brandon happily introduced him to the group. There were eleven people at the three joined tables - the three Northern heirs, four other men, and an equal number of other women.
The one thing most of the eight had in common was their complexion, "Bran! Care to introduce me to your friends?"
"Most certainly," Brandon said, a very mischievous smile on his face.
"The prettiest one among us - meet Lord Oberyn Martell!" The man in question also stood up, a wholly entertained smile on his face, as he bowed elegantly and held his hand in Bran's direction.
Bran followed along, pretending to be a drunken suitor, and very visibly fake-stumbled into Oberyn's reach, before swaying, grabbing his hand, and placing a very slobbery kiss on it.
The rest of the table roared in laughter - the ladies as well as the lords. Well, when he said Ladies - he meant girls aged between fourteen and twenty. Almost everyone on the table was around that age.
Bran, continuing his shenanigans, then stumbled away from Oberyn, a hand gingerly touching his lips and his eyes in a very blatant dreamy state.
Oberyn, soon getting control of his laughter, wiped his hand on a piece of cloth before turning to Rodrik.
"Lord Greyjoy, as our mutual friend just said, I am Oberyn Martell. Allow me to introduce you to my companions. First, we have my sister, Elia," he said, pointing to a thin, small woman. She was certainly the oldest lady at the table. Rodrik smiled and nodded to her.
"Our cousins Myles and Melissa Manwoody." Oberyn continued, pointing at two others who shared facial features with the Martell siblings. Sitting closest to where Rodrik stood, Myles offered him his hand, which he shook with a smile.
"Then, we have the Ladies Ashara Dayne and Larra Blackmont." He said, continuing with the introductions. Rodrik could easily see why Ashara had been called the prettiest lady by many reminiscing men and women. She was the youngest lady on the table and yet easily the prettiest. Lighter in skin tone than the others and taller than half of the Dornish men at the table. That is not to say Larra Blackmont was plain.
No, she was prettier than most others - and in a way, it was more natural - eyes black as coal instead of purple. Her hair was a dark brown - almost identical to Bran's hair, just longer. She also had the most developed torso region among all the ladies sitting there.
They sat the farthest from him, and he just nodded, with a wave of his hand to Ashara and Larra - who waved back. The smiles on their faces indicated they thought of him as a cute child. Fuck.
"And lastly, we have Ryon Allyrion and Eddara Qorgyle." Oberyn finished with a flourish.
"Lady Eddara, I heard your Uncle was elected the newest Lord Commander of the Watch!" Rodrik started, only to be interrupted by Bran, "That's exactly what I said when they introduced me!"
"Lord Ryon, I heard you sired three sons in a year. Even my grandfather took three years for that." Rodrik commented, ignoring Bran.
Larra snorted at that, and that set off another round of laughter. They were all clearly down a few mugs of Dornish Red.
"Lady Dayne, I'd compliment you on your beauty, but then I'd rather wait a few years. That way I can at least have a chance against him if your brother decides to take offense." He continued, smiling. The Dornish were probably the only ones who could take all these comments in good faith. And he'd be damned if he let such good opportunities slide. PR was God's work, after all.
"Lady Larra, please forgive me if my eyes look away from yours. I had a wet nurse named Larra, and…." Rodrik trailed off, only to be caught by a smirking Brandon, and picked up and dropped in Larra Blackmont's lap like a child.
Larra Blackmont stayed true to the Dornish ways and just held him like a wet nurse would hold a child, mashing his face into her breast - though over her clothes. Maybe she was a bit drunk?
A minute later, Rodrik emerged red-faced and breathing heavily. "I couldn't breathe!" He accused Larra - who smirked back at him.
"You'd make a shit wet nurse, Larra." Ryon said, taking pity on Rodrik and freeing him from her evil Dornish grasp.
"Lord and Lady Manwoody," Rodrik said, still pretending to gasp for breath, "I'm afraid I haven't heard much about you, save for the fact that your uncle was a great spearman and a shit archer."
"I'd certainly be surprised if you knew much about us, to be fair. This is our first time outside of Dorne. Now, enough with the introductions. Come join us. I've heard some interesting things about you," Myles replied to Rodrik's comment.
Rodrik's mind, though, was on the fact that Denys Darklyn would be here any moment now. And so, thinking quickly, he decided to try something that could help him even the odds a little bit.
"Ah, in that case. Prince Oberyn, Princess Elia. I have a request for you," He started.
The smirk on Oberyn's face stayed the same, but his overall composure tightened slightly. On the other hand, Princess Elia just smiled at him, prompting him to direct his request to her instead.
"I met a Crownlander Lord on my way back to the Inn. He requested a meeting with me and my grandfather, but I'd rather not discuss business as tired as I am right now." Rodrik told them. The entire table listened silently. Even Bran had gotten back to his seat now.
"Oh? We can surely help with that, young Rodrik," Elia replied warmly. "Join us, then. We'll deal with Lord…." Elia prompted him, to which Rodrik responded quietly, "Darklyn."
That changed the expressions on the table. "Ah. You met the Darling of Duskendale, then." Oberyn started. "He was once a good friend. But ever since he married," Oberyn trailed off before shaking his head.
"Aye, I'll take care of him." Oberyn said instead. Grabbing an empty mug from the table, he looked back at Rodrik, "Pull up a chair, Greyjoy. Or would you rather prefer the warmth of your wet nurse?" He teased Rodrik.
Larra's face must start hurting soon, for the smirk had been there for pretty much the entire time. How long could one hold a smirk on their face, anyway?
This was a good enough plan, though. Lordly Hierarchy was one thing that everyone took very seriously. While Denys might hold a grudge, he couldn't say much if Oberyn extended his invitation instead. And with Rodrik being from another Great house, he had the privilege to get away with these sorts of things. He brought his chair to the empty spot created between Bran and Myles Manwoody.
As if on cue, everyone could hear sounds of horses trotting towards the inn. Oberyn was calm as ever as he poured Summerwine into the mug in his hand and handed it to Rodrik.
The door opened with a creak, and Ser Symon entered, followed by Lord Darklyn himself. Beyond the door, Rodrik could see… wait, four? Yes, there were four other horsemen in knightly armor. Weren't there only three others with Lord Darklyn and Ser Symon before?
Yes, Chrysaor confirmed in his mind. Hmmm, the fourth could very well be an agent of whoever supplied Lord Darklyn with the information.
"Denys, my good man! How fare you?" Oberyn greeted him with a smile on his face.
The way Denys' face didn't even twitch with surprise when seeing Oberyn confirmed his suspicions further. He even knew that Oberyn would be here. That's why it took him longer than ten minutes to get here.
"Prince Oberyn! I had heard you had arrived earlier today." He said instead, the same charming smile back on his face.
If he knew the exact nature of the conversation that happened here just a few moments ago, it could cause a problem. Nothing straightforward, no. Despite being the Lord, Denys couldn't do much against a great house directly. It had to come down to politics.
He said nothing as he saw Oberyn engage Denys in a conversation - just catching up. Instead, he leaned over to Bran.
"You're not drunk, are you?" He asked the Northman seriously.
"Just started drinking." Bran whispered back. Rodrik nodded.
"Good, now pretend you're getting up for a piss and spill your drink on me." He told Bran.
Whoever came up with the notion that the Northmen were stupid couldn't have been any more in the wrong. Ned Stark was the exception, not the norm. Rodrik couldn't believe for a moment that anyone who grew up in a household with both Rickard and Rodrik Stark could even be so socially stunted.
While a very uptight and proud individual, Bran Stark also knew when not to ask questions and just do as told. Easy ways to repay favors they were. So, Rodrik brought out all the outrage he could when Bran took a mighty gulp from his mug and pretended to lean further back in his chair than he intended.
Rodrik would have raised an eyebrow at Bran's sense of balance as his chair tipped back just enough for him to flinch, after which he violently started forward to prevent it from falling down. The action spilled half of the remaining… honey spice wine of Lannisport right onto Rodrik's head.
"Oops, I… I apologize, Rodrik," said Bran fussing a little and trying to prevent any more from falling.
There were ooh's across the table, and pitied looks sent his way, which he pretended to avoid. It was almost too easy, being a child around people who hadn't heard everything about him. Yet, Rodrik studiously avoided making eye contact with Denys Darklyn.
He didn't know everything about the situation, and that was making him uncomfortable. No, now was the time to look for his Grandfather.
"If you would excuse me, my lords and ladies, it would appear the gods dislike my clothes, hence their polite request for a change. I'll be back soon enough, Prince Oberyn. I'd like to apologize for not being able to make it to your dinner, Lord Darklyn. It seems my Lord Quellon and Lord Stark have made commitments already. I'll tell grandfather about your invitation, and he'll surely send a messenger soon enough." Rodrik said before bowing a lightning-quick bow and disappearing before anyone could stop him.
He opened the door to the stairwell and closed it firmly before making his way up the stairs. Two steps later, the wetness had disappeared, but the fragrance remained - as if he'd used some exotic Lyseni honey perfume.
A few moments later, he was in front of his door, and as he opened the room, he wasn't surprised to see the room empty. Quellon Greyjoy was not an indoors person, after all. He didn't think much of it, though, as he walked up to the polished plate mirror above the washbowl. Behind the mirror, on the nail the shiny iron was suspended, was a blue string. This meant he was out on business and would be back after dinner, so he had some waiting to do.
Chrysaor, though, was not going to wait. And Rodrik was likely to agree with his assessment. No, now was the time to use the Mist to Chrysaor's full capacity. Now was the time to change into a completely different person. He opened a box on the shelf and brought out a small red string. That would tell Quellon that he'd be back by dawn the next day.
He emptied his bag with the smithing supplies and the finished timepiece, brought out his bowie knife, and fastened it to his thigh. Making sure his butterfly knife was still stuck to the small of his back, he locked his trunk and pushed it underneath the bed.
He'd almost walked out of the room when a wave of paranoia struck him. He paused for a second and considered his options. No, he had to do this. He might not get an opportunity like this one anytime soon.
Instead, he walked back to his bed and dragged the trunk back out. Unlocking it quickly, he brought out the two and a quarter foot wide ironwood sandwich shield - its weight not too heavy on his left arm. He also brought out the chest and back harness and put it on before fastening the shield to his back. Quickly closing his trunk and shoving it back in place, he brought out Quellon's trunk instead. Picking out two of the dozen throwing knives, he slid them into their slots on his chest harness and secured them in place.
Now, with a much more relieved paranoia, Rodrik locked the room behind him, walked to the stairwell door, and opened it again.
However, the body that went into the stairwell in the first story wasn't the one that came out. No, the person that walked out was a five-foot-tall woman, back hunched and a bucket and a mop in each hand. None of the lords enjoying their drinks even paid her a single glance. It didn't take him more than a minute to exit through the back entrance.
This time, the person who opened the door on the inside and the person who walked out were two completely different people. A six-foot-tall, middle-aged sellsword dressed in leathers exited the inn with a knife at his side and a coin pouch on his hip. Whistling the tune of My Grandfather's Clock, he waved at the four knights standing guard outside the Long Night's Respite's main entrance.
"Halt, man! Who are you?" one of the guards commanded. From the voice, it couldn't have been a person more than nineteen years old.
"Me be Gerry, good Ser. A sellsword here fer the melee." He responded, keeping his voice non-aggressive and groveling.
"Ha! Man, be calm. I used to be a sellsword as well, once upon a time! Ha, those were the days," the nineteen-year-old merrily said.
"Yer just a… I mean, yer just a lad! An' ye say ye use to be a sellsword?" Rodrik asked, acting dumbfounded.
"Aye, I was a sellsword for three years in Essos, but then I met this feller, who pulled me into his trade. Eh, Dontos, what say you?" The younger sellsword asked the other man, who wasn't there when Rodrik had first exited the smithy. This was the man who'd joined them in the ten minutes it took for Denys Darklyn to come to the Inn.
"I'd focus on the job, Vinny. Lady Darklyn'd be mighty displeased if the little Greyjoy lad doesn't join her for dinner." Dontos said.
Ah, now we're coming to the juicy part. "Greyjoy boy? Small, rides horses all the time, eats apples?" He said, trying to make it sound like he'd seen Rodrik somewhere.
"Yes! That same one! How'd you know?" Vinny, the younger guard, asked.
"I were in Seagard for a year when the boy fostered. Erry dawn I see 'im, and erry dawn I think - today he smashes rocks and," He indicated with the breaking sticks hand gesture. "But no! Lad's been jumping off cliffs into the high tide since he were five! Ne'er seen none swim through the waves like him! If he's like that, imagine his pa's pa! Nay, I'm swearing my sword to Old Man Quellon the day I come across him." He said, all praising and disbelieving.
"A five-year-old! Jumping off cliffs? That's horse shit man!" Vinny laughed.
"I swear it by me mum, boy, I seen it with me own eyes! Believe me ye should!" Rodrik insisted.
"Oh, is it. Care to wait with us then? If you know anything about the lad, the Lady would like to hear it." Dontos said as if it was a soft dare.
"I know much and more about the lad, man! But I said what I said without coin already. Anything else, and yer Lady'd have to pay me for it." Rodrik said, playing the role of the sellsword best he could.
"That will be decided by the Lady, not us. Do you have a horse, perchance?" Vinny asked.
"Nay, man. 'ow far away is ye Lady? I might walk the way," Rodrik offered.
"Quite far, at the tourney grounds. Well, in any case, let's wait for Lord Darklyn to come, and then we'll see. So, tell me, where do you hail from, sellsword?"
"Born in Flea Bottom. Went with Prince Aerys' host to the Stepstones and earned me some good gold from the armbands of the Company. This knife here, too," He gestured to where it hung, "Been on me belt since the day I picked it up in the Red Lion's host."
"What about ye?" Rodrik asked, "Yer from across the sea aintcha?"
"Aye, a Merchant from Myr sired me on my mum. A slave, she was, but the merchant was good enough to leave some coin and his sword from his old sellsword days. He freed my mum, and since then, we moved all about the Cities, till she died when I was ten and four. Became a sellsword then, and met this one here in Pentos three years ago."
"Good, good. Got any scars? I've got one, right under me arm…." Rodrik said, and the men all relaxed, getting into familiar conversation territory, sharing their tales of battles and heroics.
Everyone but Dontos - the heavy, stoic man in plate armor joined in.
Soon, just as the conversation was dying out, the doors to the inn swung outwards, and out came Simon Hollard and Denys Darklyn. Simon, with the same stern expression on his face, and Denys with a frown.
The stable boy went on to bring out their horses, along with the extra one Rodrik had ridden here. Denys walked up to the group of men, but instead of commanding them, he just stood solemnly, lost in thought. That all changed when the stoic man cleared his throat.
Denys then looked around, eyes landing on Rodrik's mist form. "And who might you be?"
"A sellsword, milord. This 'un said summat about Rodrik Greyjoy, and I said I knew much of the boy from me time in Seagard."
An eyebrow rose on his forehead, and his face turned to look at the same stoic man. "A sellsword with information that's new to you?"
"We'll see about that when he talks. Shall we, my lord?" Dontos said. This was somewhat unusual. A Lord was looking to a soldier for information. Could he be the source of all the information Denys had?
"Very well, hop onto the horse…." Denys said, to which Rodrik quickly added, "Gerry, milord."
"Gerry, hm. If I were you, I'd hope that my wife likes what you have to share, man, else the payment shall be in whippings." He said candidly. Damn, his earlier assessment of Denys Darklyn couldn't have been any worse.
"Follow us, then, and leave your blade with Simon."
House Darklyns tent was large enough to have five whole rooms on the inside. Yet, it had the main area and just two other rooms. One for Denys and Serala and the other for Simon and the other soldiers if he had to guess. They seemed like the people to have guards inside their tent, after all.
They were all waiting in the main area when the flap from one of the connecting rooms flew open, revealing a gorgeous twenty-five-year-old Valyrian lady. Oh, Rodrik could see why Denys had married her; now, all that was left to see was if he could leave by giving them some tricky information and some false leads.
"Husband, you've arrived!" She said, quite excitedly, except that excitement died the moment her eyes scanned the room. "Without the Greyjoys."
"My Lady, we shall get to that later. First, this one claims to have information about Rodrik Greyjoy that others don't know. Says he was in Seagard for a year and saw a few things." Denys said, his voice sounding oddly choked and uncomfortable.
"Aye, milady. I have information, but I'd have the coin in front of me before I speak. I'd ask for bread and salt as well, but no one knows I'm here." Rodrik said.
Simon didn't like that. And it was obvious why. Asking for bread and salt when it hadn't been offered in the first place implied bad things about the honor of the host. Also, no noble southern lord would even think about offering a smallfolk bread and salt.
And so, the tall, menacing knight stood from his seat and strode towards him, intent on grabbing him by the neck and strangling the life out of him. However, he was saved by the newly introduced Lady Serala.
"Stay your hand, Ser Simon. And bring me a bag with ten gold dragons." She paused and looked at Rodrik in askance.
Rodrik nodded at that, feigning to wipe a bead of sweat and giving them the indication that their intimidation tactic had worked. Well, he wouldn't get the bread and salt - the gold was coming, though.
The best part about all of this was that he didn't even need to be a highly skilled actor to fool people. No, the Mist did most of the heavy-lifting for him. And so, a minute later, Ser Hollard dropped a leather pouch on a table, and he was offered a chair to sit on with a mug of water.
"Every time you tell us something we didn't know previously, you get two gold dragons." Serala said every word clearly and artistically pronounced as if it was being spoken on autotune.
"Alright. Rodrik Greyjoy is a lad of all faiths and none. He went to the Sept with the Mallisters erry seventh day for the sermons, and erry time they are on the road, and they come across a Godswood, Rodrik stops and visits it. My brother, who is a guard in Lord Damon Mallister's retinue, told me of it. Lord Damon accompanies him every time, as well. That, and the fact that the Greyjoys pray to the Drowned God, makes it seem like he prays to all the gods." Rodrik said, and everyone just blankly stared. Everyone, except Serala and the stoic guard. The others, unfortunately, were focused on Serala instead, with the way she was leaning forward on the table, displaying a deep and enticing view of her well-endowed front.
"Hmmm. Nice to know, but what could I do with that information? Maybe get him to a Red Priest? One dragon for that, Ser Simon." Serala concluded.
"Elbert Arryn and the Blackfish will be joining the Greyjoys on their journey after the tourney, and they'll be going to Oldtown next." Rodrik said, increasing the pace.
"My men already told me of Ser Brynden and Lord Arryn. And how do I know if you're actually telling the truth by telling us they're going to Oldtown? I could have just as easily guessed that, no?" Serala said, smiling a sly smile at him now. Rodrik decided to play into her tricks, leaning in slightly and allowing his eyes to appear slightly glazed over with desire.
"He designed a new ironwood shield. It'll deflect even the mightiest hammer blow. He…." Rodrik said before stopping himself, shaking his head. There was silence for a few seconds, where he avoided everyone's eyes and stared at the pouch of gold. His intention was clear to everyone in the room.
Serala looked over to Dontos, who said nothing and just nodded. "Very well, another two dragons."
"'e also plans on using the same shield in the Squire's melee. None know how well that shield deflects blades and even blunt weapons, and the others might lose to the surprise. 'e might even win the Squires melee." He said, continuing his previous point.
Serala smiled at that as if recognizing what he did—pausing and splitting one piece of information into two.
"Two more, Ser Simon."
"Lastly, erry day at the crack of dawn, 'e'd leap from the cliffs at Seagard - a hunnid feet high, into the high tide and go swimming. 'e be doing that since 'e was five." Rodrik finished.
Finally, Dontos spoke up. "I've heard that bit before, you see. And I don't believe it." He said.
"Believe it, I tell ye. I hear Jaime Lannister also jumps off cliffs into the sea. Mayhaps they'll be doing it 'gether if some'un gives 'em the idea?" This caused a raised eyebrow on Lady Serala.
"We'll see about that, my dear Gerry," purred the lady, "But you do know what the penalty of lying to a lord is, right?"
Rodrik nodded, resolute. He had to show that he was absolutely serious about all the information. Just then, there was a slight ruffle of the cloth of the tent and a sharp gust of wind that almost extinguished the candles lighting up the room, throwing shadows everywhere chaotically.
His eyes snapped in the direction the first ruffle came from, and for a moment, he thought he saw a glimpse of a small, bony hand.
"Just a gust of wind," Denys said, shrugging. As if there wasn't a small child who had raised the bottom part of the flap at that point. He looked back at Lady Serala and then Denys. Neither had even heard the sound and looked at him like he was behaving oddly.
Instead, Rodrik turned and looked at Dontos instead. There it was! A small tick on his face - the left side of his lip twitched downwards.
"I'll send for you after five days - after the squires' melee." Denys Darklyn said, getting up from his chair and finding his way to the table where a pitcher and cups were kept.
"By then, Dontos here should have made sure of the authenticity," Rodrik made a face at that, to which Denys responded promptly, "...correctness of your information," he said, pouring himself a cup of wine.
"If everything you said is indeed correct, you get to keep all this coin you've made tonight. All seven dragons." Lord Darklyn took a sip, savoring its taste, and then passed it on to Rodrik.
"And if not, then Ser Simon will meet you in the melee grounds. Drink." He said.
Rodrik grabbed the cup and, using the mist, made it seem like he was drinking. Wielding the wine in the glass just as easily as drinking water, he concentrated for a moment as if he was savoring the taste of wine that cost beyond his wildest expectations. At that moment, the wine dissipated into the air, filling the room with a deep smell of berries for a moment before it was overpowered by the previously strong scent of the sea.
"Thank you for your time, Gerry." Lady Serala said as Simon Hollard reached for the empty wine cup in Rodrik's hands.
"You do know I'll find out if you try to escape, don't you?" Simon growled at him. Rodrik nodded to him.
"I'll see meself out," he called, mainly to Simon, who looked like he wanted to lead him out and cut him up into a hundred pieces.
He grabbed the seven gold dragons and stored them in the coin pouch on his waist in a swift move.
A few moments later, he was out of the tent and alone in the night.
He walked in circles for an hour, making it seem like he was drunk while he tried to ensure no one followed him. Yet, he could still make out two figures that looked remarkably like children, peeking from between two logs on fences. They kept their distance, but they were uncanny little buggers, not losing track of him for long.
Reaching the walls of Lannisport, and made sure to use even more mist, hiding his coin pouch from the sight of the guards at the gate. His mind was whirring, thinking possibilities and considering plans all the while.
The Red Cloaks on duty didn't resist the use of the mist and allowed him entry without debate. Now that he had left the children spying on him behind, he was somewhat startled to realize he still had eyes on him. And this time, it wasn't children, but a fully-grown man, armored and all. Deciding that he had wasted enough time trying to evade his minders peacefully, Rodrik threw all caution to the wind and suddenly started off in a mad sprint, cutting off people and easily gliding above the paved stone road.
He didn't need to turn back to realize that the man had sped up as well. He didn't run for too long, though, just enough to make it convincing that he had exhausted himself - considering he still wore the disguise of a middle-aged sellsword.
Yet, the armored man wouldn't take the bait. He maintained his distance as Rodrik slowed to a halt in the middle of an empty street and then walked into a small alley that went in between two stone buildings.
The man decided to throw away all pretense of being unseen as he stood guard at the exit of the lane.
"You know this passage leads to the sewers, no? How convenient for me." He said in a somewhat easily identifiable Essosi accent.
"What do ye want? HUH?" Rodrik called, walking backward to keep the image that he was scared, but the figure gave no reaction. He stayed walking calmly, maintaining the twenty feet distance from him.
By this time, though, they were around fifty feet inside the alley, and the smell of the waste in the sewers was starting to overwhelm him. As he crossed it, a figure moaned on the side, and an open wineskin fell out, spilling cheap wine onto the ground.
"Who sent ye! Was it Lord D-" He'd just started saying the name when the armored man suddenly dashed towards him, closing the distance between them in mere seconds. Rodrik tried running closer to the sewers, but other than the mere second it took the armored man to stab the drunk man through his neck, he was intent to give chase. The alley started lowering at an angle, and soon enough, Rodrik stood in front of a padlocked gate - the entrance to the maintenance area of the sewers.
"Nowhere to run now, old man. You're coming with me, silently. Make a noise, and you'll still come with me silently, only you'll be dead." He heard from behind. The man's sword was in his right hand, dripping drops of blood into the paved ground. He didn't slow his pace as he walked up to Rodrik and raised his sword menacingly.
Rodrik smiled, but it didn't show on Gerry's face. No, Gerry's face showed a terrified expression as he stumbled backward on the paved street. The man unsheathed his sword, fully intent on delivering a solid killing blow. But when he swung the sword at Gerry's neck, it passed through the air, dismissing the shimmering Mist disguise. The man's eyes widened for a moment as he stumbled back wildly, trying to put space between him and the sorcerer in front of him.
Rodrik looked around to ensure no one else had heard anything and that no one would see what he was about to do. Nodding to himself, he reached for his bowie knife and brought it out, performing a few flashy tricks for the intimidation factor.
"Care to tell me your name? If no one else, I assure you, I'll remember it. You'll be my first kill, after all." Rodrik said, finally in his voice. The armored man was facing the sewer entrance while Rodrik covered the exit from the alley.
"Heh. Heh heh heh. HahahAhAHAHAHA," the man almost lost it. He laughed for a few more seconds before suddenly stopping. It took him less than half a second to pick himself up and raise his sword again - in a standard defensive stance. "I might have been caught off guard, but I'll be damned if I die without a fight - especially to a child!"
The next moment, Rodrik had to brace himself as the sword slashed in a powerful arc, and he barely deflected it enough with the knife to not have it slice him in half.
Suddenly, Chrysaor was in control.
And if someone else were witnessing the fight, they'd claim that the Warrior took hold of the boy when he fought.
The footlong blade wasn't the only weapon on him, after all. He also had a large shield on his back, which was suddenly in his left hand, and the knife in his right was trying to stab the armored man in the blink of an eye. The surprise on the man's face might have been funny to some but was ignored in the face of Chrysaor taking the fight extremely seriously.
"Gah!" the man roared, looking down at the point where the tip had embedded itself right on his hip. Chrysaor uncaringly ripped the knife out, the serrated edge amplifying the internal damage. The man cursed and fell against the wall.
"You know, I thought I wouldn't do it until I absolutely needed to, but I think you've succeeded in changing my mind. Now, please, your name." Rodrik said, but for the third time that night, his voice came out differently. It was an odd sound - as if a very thirsty old man was trying to imitate Optimus Prime without any studio audio equipment.
It just sounded wrong coming from the lips of an eight-year-old child, and the way the man's entire body shuddered, he seemed to share the feeling.
"What… What unholy demon are you?" He moaned as the strength left him, and he collapsed onto the paved ground.
"I said, give me your name." Chrysaor repeated, coming a step closer.
"NO! I will not! The Lord will protect me." He said, slowly pulling himself up. He brought out a glass dagger - glinting blood-red in the moonlight. Raising it just enough, he stabbed himself in the heart with it.
A strange hum filled the air. Chrysaor caught a flash of gold from behind the kneeling man, but he didn't dare remove his focus from him.
"Lord of Light, look down upon us," the man said, and the humming intensified. Yet Chrysaor did nothing. No, he would prefer to see what this world had in response to him.
"Lord of Light, defend us," came the words, now sounding like another voice had joined in.
"Lord of Light, protect us in the darkness," he said, except now, the sound was starting to overwhelm the silence of the night. It was past midnight - almost the hour of the wolf, and yet, there was a presence in the air as if the sun was still up at its peak. Sweat started to form on his eyebrows.
"Lord of Light, shine your face upon us," he said, and directly across from them, on the two walls, two extinguished lamps lit up, suddenly burning with possessed flame. In the now much brighter setting, Chrysaor observed the man's features.
He was tall, of course. If he had to guess, he was shorter than Bran but taller than Rodrik Stark, around six feet and two inches. He had a long, spiked helmet with a plume starting at its peak. His shoulders and arms were lightly armored to allow for the best movement, but that wasn't the case with his torso.
He was wearing a heavy steel breastplate, intricately decorated with what seemed like the symbol of the sun.
No, not the sun. The other part said inside his mind. It is a flaming heart. This… he was interrupted before he could finish the thought.
"Light your flame among us, R'hllor. Show us the truth or falseness of this man. Strike him down if he is guilty, and give strength to his sword if he is true. Lord of Light, give us wisdom," the man said, pulling himself up. He extended his sword hand outward, and the tip of the sword touched the brightly flaming lamp on Chrysaor's left. The flame jumped from the lamp onto the sword and traveled down its blade, igniting it in bright orange fire.
Another streak of flame jumped from the crossguard, straight towards the cut his knife had made on his left thigh earlier. A grunt followed, and the wound was instantly cauterized in front of him, leaving behind no scar. It was almost as if the wound wasn't even there.
Raising his knife and preparing to dodge, Chrysaor prepared for what was looking up to be the first challenging fight of his new life.
Just in time, too, for with speed he didn't possess before, the man, now with twin orange flames for eyes, leaped towards him, sword raised high and the dragonglass dagger still embedded in his chest. His lips didn't budge, but Chrysaor heard the next words clearly.
"For the night is dark and full of terrors."
A/N:
Welcome back to Lord of the Seas! Sorry for the super late update, but have the longest chapter ever instead. We just got to Lannisport, and it's been a long, long day for our poor Rodrik Greyjoy. Hopefully, I can finish the next chapter soon and not leave you guys with this cliffhanger for too long, haha.