The Encroaching Darkness (ASOIAF/GOT AU OC)
Chapter 1,
Southwest of Myr
The Disputed Lands
Essos
The parchment had long since become weary; the ink almost-illegible. Yet still, he read it once more. In the lamplight, he sat still and silent; assembling his mind into some semblance of structure.
He had heard many mention of the turmoil and plights that were afflicting his homeland. Ironborn pillaging the eastern shores, Northmen and Rivermen up in arms, Baratheons and Tyrells marching or shipping troops, while Dorne and the Vale stood at the ready. House Lannister – his family – besot on all sides.
To say nothing of tales comes from the east. Men out of Slaver's bay spoke tales of a dragon goddess scorching all in her path. But the half-crazed mutterings of charlatans and pirates were the least of his worries.
Even so, he had never imagined that his house could lose. After all, the Ironborn were better sailors then fighters, more preoccupied with taking as much loot or women as possible before they scurried their pathetic hides back to their bleak wet rocks. The North and Trident were being led by a boy who had seen less of warfare than most destriers. The Vale was ruled by a boy that, most disturbingly, was still at his mother's breast and Dorne, for all their ferocious tenacity, had the fewest men of any of the seven kingdoms.
On the other hand - most importantly of all - the Crown had the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West; his own lord uncle, Tywin Lannister. He had never seen anyone with a stronger will than he. He would have made greater king than any of the those that had ruled in living memory.
Nonetheless, Ser Jaime's capture had overturned the table. The Starks were gaining land, hostages and morale with every victory. Cersei's letter was the final arrow in the eye. Things had become more dire then he could predicted. He had to return. With haste.
The entrance flaps of his tent were pulled open to permit the admission of dazzling wind-blown sand shrouding a tall man wearing a naught but purple breeches of well-made cotton, embroidered with golden lions and kept firmly in place around his broad waist by a sash of stunning feathers ornate golden bracers engraved with ancient runes from the Summer Islands.
He turned his head slowly, examining his visitor out the corner of his eye.
The new occupant of his pavilion had passed for a living giant in many a drunk's eyes. Such was his size that his chambers, despite being larger than most tavern halls and taller than the spiny, leave-less trees that colonised in this region, his guest was struggling to keep his head below the tent's willowy canopy.
He was quiet though, and limber for man of his scope, with skin as dark and as smooth as onyx. A ugly deep gash ran down his face, crossing his high nasal bridge from the left. His powerful jaw was home to a large jagged beard, tied at it's end into a fluid decorative knot.
Conversely, his cranium was bare of any hair but the dense, swept-back, orderly locks that made their way across the middle of his scalp. His hair was often a sight to behold as each lock was of a different colour; some of vivid Tyroshi green, others sparkling Lysean blue and the pride of the lot – a stunningly rich Bravoosi purple.
The most defining characteristic of the man though, was his torso. Beside it's obvious bulky chiselled muscles, it was covered from apex to base in a swirling mass of tattoos depicting all manner of creatures and landscapes.
From clear peaks to obscure monsters, his body was a living tapestry of ivory ink with all kinds of stories to tell. 'the greatest irony was that for all his body can convey to the world, he himself could communicate as much as a babe or a dog could.' Rylan concluded. He did not know much of his friend's history or life before that had met in the Purple Harbour. Hardly Jaq's fault though; His tongue wasn't of much use in it's current state.
"Yes, Jaq? What is it?" He detested being interrupted while deep in thought but he could always make time for a friend. The Black Titan of Braavos, Jaquar Zalan - informally known to a few as Jaq - was his right-hand, spearheading his vanguard.
Steadfast as an oak, with strength that would make most bears envious. Rylan had given him the warhammer as a gift; taking a page from King Robert's book – not that he ever read one. Wielding his mighty warhammer in battle and a falchion in close combat, he made for a terrifying image – both to friends and foes. He had ridden with him in over three dozen battles and could be relied upon to follow any command. No matter how suicidal they may appear.
While that may seem to display a lack of mental aptitude, in truth it simple exemplified the level trust that existed between them. Jaq had saved his life in numerous clashes – the Battle of the Silent Sands or the Fall of the Desert King, to name a few – just as he had saved his. "Friendships forged in the flames of war were as strong as Valyrian steel and twice as useful". Father had once stated.
Jaq pointed outwards and, as was typical of him, said little by speech but conveyed much by grunts and gestures. It had taken Rylan a long time – an extensive amount of time- to understand his companion's method of communication. He was positive, though, that Jaq appreciated his dedication and to be able to regain his lost capacity to speak. characteristic
"The sun is rising," he seemed to say "a new day approaches."
Nodding to give his acknowledgement, Rylan rose, stretched gave Jaq a friendly clap on the shoulder and made his way out to take stock of the day. Donning a light wool red tunic and breeches, he covered his eyes as he witnessed the return of light to the world. The slowly heating sand stretched to the horizon like a sea of refined gleaming honey to reach the sun's embrace.
Mesmerised, he nearly missed the glint of the curved dagger that thrust forward from the side, threatening to claim his right eye. With a speed he had gained from encountering such unforeseen attacks for nearly half a dozen years, he swiftly pulled his head rearward while placing a firm grasp upon the blade's handle, wrenching it from the grip of his assailant. Disarmed but unperturbed, his would-be aggressor gave her renowned shark-toothed grin. "You're getting sloppy, Lord Commander. Mayhaps my efforts have begun to take their toll on you?"
Rylan returned in full with a grin of his own. He had recently insisted on the use of the Common Tongue, in place of the Low Valyrian that was naturally spoken between his personnel. Clearly, it was working. He could only detect a mild accent in her speech. The practice would be of great assistance where they were heading.
"It is certainly within the realm of possibility, Ves. Even if it is about as likely as swarm of blood-flies emerging from my arsehole. It is also far more probable that I've simply been pitying you." In truth, her attempts had been improving but he'd rather truly be stabbed than tell her that. Her ego had to be contained, lest it smother her; and, of course, her daily challenges did in fact keep him on his toes.
Silver haired, silver eyed and silver tongued, his left-hand was Vespa Varallia had broken the hearts of the lucky and… plucked out the hearts of those not so fortunate. She sported a rugged durable silver leather cuirass that was somehow simultaneously protective and revealing, yet not too restrictive of rapid movements; completed by a silver-plated steel guard that ran from her left shoulder to her left fist. Slung over her back was her ever present double-cured bow, made of supple golden-wood from the goldenheart trees of the Summer Isles, that she compulsively kept in good condition.
He had bought it for her as a name-day gift, acting upon the recommendation of Maester Edgarth, and though she hadn't been very grateful, she more than made up for it with her consistently high ability. Only the best for the best. She had smirked.
At five-and-ten, she was a woman-grown but oft acted more a child than his brothers Martyn or Willem ever had. What she lacked in discipline, however, she made up for in raw talent - and a lot of it. By the Seven, he certain that if the day ever came when she was serious enough to truly try to kill him, then she just might.
A former slave, she was born in Lys trained in the art of love-making, dancing, singing and music. She was bought quickly thanks to her remarkably distinctive Valyrian features, even by Lys's standards. She was a wealthy merchant's plaything for two years; more than enough time to ascertain his routine, contacts and assets.
Fleeing from Lys by a ship she had stolen from him – though, rather significantly, not before murdering him in his bed – and intoxicated by freedom, she'd crashed ashore during a storm not a day's march from Tyrosh.
Rylan had found her half-buried in silt and hungrier than a lizard-lion. The question of what to do with her was put forward; Half his men wanted to leave her, and the rest didn't particularly care. When one offered her a place by his bed-side, she speared his throat with a sharpened concealed piece of driftwood faster than they could blink. So, when Rylan had offered her a place within his ranks, there had been few complaints and fewer still who would had the balls to air them.
Years of performance had ingrained in her the importance of precise movements and fleet feet. Combined with her dextrous skill with instruments, she had become a truly outstanding thief – or assassin – with the best archery he had seen of anyone in the Free Cities or beyond.
This more than qualified her for the position of Chief Archer. She is responsible for training, battle combat and maintenance of all arterial troops and weaponry such as bows, trebuchets and scorpions.
With her silver features, clothing and gifts, men had taken to calling her SwiftSilver. A beautiful silver statue brought to life by some god, to aid us or plague us. She had fully accepted this identity, going so far as to buy silver-dyed clothing and silver-plated weapons along with painting her bow - and arrows – a shimmering silver. She had truly taken it for herself and 'made it her strength' as Tyrion was want to say.
Unfortunately, she was also something of an unapologetic sadist, inflicting pain was most amusing for her, so much so that many of his men too weary of tangling with her. As such, he was her primary target and/or sparring partner.
Not quite what he had in mind but he enjoyed their spars. Not to mention having a comical little sister – albeit a murderous one - was decidedly amusing. Almost like a combination of Tyrion and Cersei.
"Where is Edgarth? I would like to reach Tyrosh as soon as possible." Vespa sat on her customary perch at the entrance to her own tent and gave a shrug.
"Haven't seen the Greybeard. He's doubtless trying out another suicidal experiment." She gave a giggle. Of course, she always enjoyed Edgarth's self-proclaimed "advances in science".
As useful as some were, such as the firepowder that allowed for easy demolition of holdfast walls and modified milk-of-the-poppy that alleviated pain but didn't cause drowsiness or fatigue. In truth though, more often than not his experiments were more destructive than productive.
"I assume Perzys is off somewhere, revering the sun."
"Such a thoughtful assumption. I believe I now see why you're the boss." Vespa gave a predictably sassy response, followed by an uncomfortably low curtsy.
Rylan shook his head, unsurprised at her cheeky demeanour. "Indeed. Well, I fear that I am too impoverished to continue both of these classes of swordplay at the moment. You are always welcome try and assault me again later, once your bruised pride has had enough time to heal itself." He turned with a flourish, beginning his journey to the mess tent. While no sane man would turn their back to Vespa, he was sure that his both authority and their bond would restrain her for the time being.
He subtly peeked over his shoulder.
Half sure.
Having not gone ten paces, he was greeted by the sight of a makeshift camp the size of a large town. Thousands of tents dotted the landscape, interrupted the occasional guard-post or stable; All embroidered with the golden lion of Lannister upon a field of royal purple. His pride welled up in his breast. This was the temporary home of the main bulk of his forces, the sell-sword company he had spent nearly a third of his life building up – The Lion's Pride.
Among all the purple and gold, he caught glimpse of numerous early risers; those who had the dawn patrol or wished to train, in addition to several drunks still passed out outside their tents. He returned their bows of deference with greetings of the morn and wish them an uneventful beat.
He entered the mess tent – an immense structure capable of holding two hundred men comfortably - to engage the cook and break his fast. While he normally received his food in his command tent, as befit his rank, he took pleasure in coming to get it himself every now and then. "What have you got for us, Will?" he yelled. "Whatever I give ya!" came the brusque reply.
Old, overweight and half-deaf, One-foot Will was a well-travelled man who had seen more foreign lands than most men could name. Born in Oldtown, he had served for four-and-a-half decades as cook on the Light Bearer, a mercantile vessel that transported spices, silks and wine, in addition those who could pay their passage, all over the known world. Losing a foot to pirate raid though – a story that was seemingly too embarrassing for words – convinced him to seek employ on land. "After all," Will declared, "what else could I do? Wear a wooden foot? Ha!" He had been working for the Rylan ever since.
Will emerged from behind his storeroom full of high piled provisions, making his usual slow shuffle over. His potbelly and disability, Rylan knew, belied the power in his frame. Arms thick with muscle and a stern visage that tolerated no nonsense. "Oh! M'lord! I dint' kno' it was you. Still, wiv' these hungry 'lot, one can't be too careful."
"No one's been giving you too much trouble, I should hope."
"Nah, not much Lord Ryland. They wouldn' dare, ya see. Not if they wan ta be fed or lose a foot." Will guffawed, as if it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Though, perhaps you simply had to lose foot to see the humour in it.
Rylan smiled good-humouredly. "Well, I'm sure they both do and don't. In any case, I am ravenous." Will had cooked them a particularly splendid fast. Sour chunks of lamb with butter and garlic mushrooms, floating in a sweet stew. Eaten with softened bread and washed down with cool Selhorys pale green wine.
It was thanks to their temporary layover at Selhorys that they were so well-stocked with food, weapons, supplies; everything and anything they might require to complete their haphazard expedition.
After finishing the meal, mopping up the last remnants of stew with the crust of the bread, Rylan commended the chef's expertise. He pushed aside his stool and stumbled out, only slightly woozy. He gazed, eyelids partly closed, at the sun; making out the small figure standing alone at the summit of a minor hillock, arms raised.
Pant...step. Pant...step. Pant.
The ascension of the hillock's coarse exterior kept a insipidly familiar routine. It was more of hardened sand dune than a true hill or mountain. Finally reaching the peak, Rylan stopped to catch a much need breath. The figure, a young man no older than one-and-twenty, had not moved so much as fibre of his being. The remains of a bonfire, long extinguished, lay at his feet. Suddenly, without warning, his lips began to move, chanting.
Rylan quietly took a seat behind him, legs dangling loosely over the edge. The man's sombre voice was being carried over the wind; as if being murmured by the earth itself. "-f Light, we thank you for bestowing upon us the sphere of life, light and warmth. It drives away the darkness and restores our fire in our hearts. Without your great gift, this world and all it's inhabitants would cease to be. We ask for your help and guidance; both in our voyage and all our otherworldly matters. For the night is dark and full of terrors."
His words, chanted in the ancient tongue of the dragonlords, seemed resonate within in his soul. Rylan shivered, as if to physically drive out the bizarre sensation. He gave a polite coughed, to alert the unknowing priest to his presence.
The slim man lowered his arms slowly and revolved around on his axis. His eyes were as bright as miniature stars, shining from beneath his unique monkey-tailed hat. He had shoulder-length black hair, darker than night. His face was longer than most, with a slender nose and thin lips, hidden beneath a black cloth half-mask.
He was dressed in a dark surcoat emblazoned with the fiery heart of his god on the anterior, surrounded on either side by the prancing lion of Lannister. On embroidered his back, in brilliant crimson and ominous grey respectively, two great arms encircled a man coloured in white, each grasping for possession of him. "The eternal struggle." Or so he had been told.
His arms, legs and shins were loosely protected by light but durable red armour. Strangely, Rylan had never seen him overheat or sweat, despite them being presently located in a desert.
"I see you're still the last to sleep, in addition to being the first to rise, Perzys," Rylan observed "But then again, I have never yet seen you sleep. So it seems quite conceivable that you don't sleep at all."
If Jaq was his righthand and Vespa his left, then Perzys Aeksio Syndor was his back. He was solemn, serious and stalwart, in both his commitment to his Lord Commander and his Lord of Light. He was a priest of the widely worshipped – at least in Essos – fire god, known to all as R'hllor; the Lord of Light, the Heart of Fire, the God of Flame and Shadow.
Perzys, the son of a YiTish sailor, had been born to a poor but devout family in the last stronghold of the Valyrians, the oldest and proudest Free City – Volantis.
At a young age, he was given over to the largest red temple in the city, to be raised as a warrior-priest by it's followers. His dedication and discipline had impressed them to such a degree that the High Priest Benerro had taken him under his wing personally and saw to his training. He was taught the art of worship, of language and geography, of sums and combat until he was considered outstanding. His purpose: to travel across the globe using his acquired knowledge to convert more people to path of R'hllor. In fact, his name was meant 'Fire Lord's Shadow' in High Valyrian; symbolizing his role as guardian of his lord's faith.
They had met in front of the grand Red Temple of Volantis; the Lion's Pride had received their payment for completing a contract issued by the ruling triarchs of the city. While Rylan respected his strange religion and customs, he cared little for it. He was more enthralled by Perzys proficiency with weaponry and tactics. More specifically, his praise-worthy skill with his signature weapon – a red halberd on a shaft of polished Pentosi bloodwood – on foot and on horseback.
Perzys had given a public display of his prowess, defeating a group of ten bravos. The purpose was to encourage more freemen to join the temple and receive similar training. It was also a nifty was to gain more followers.
Rylan had approached Perzys with a proposal – as the captain of mercenary company, he frequently travelled all over the eastern continent. In return for his allegiance, Rylan would allow him into his company. This would allow Perzys to fulfil his duty by preaching the Red God's religion in most of the cities of the east - and possibly, one day, the west. The deal was finalized under Benerro's watchful eye; by dusk that same evening, the two young men had left as new men-in-arms.
Perzys had since served as the leader of his mounted cavalry. Due to his close age, insightful advice and reliability, Rylan considered him to be his closest friend; if not his older brother. An improvement, as far as he was concerned, to the impatient, self-absorbed brother that Lancel had been.
A small amused twinkle appeared in the Perzys 's eyes; it was one of the infrequent signs of emotion he exhibited. "I assure you, my lord, as blessed as the Red Lord has made me, I too still feel the burning necessity of rest."
"I am glad to hear it. It would hardly be fair to spar a man too exhausted to be of much challenge. At any rate, I shall soon give the order to disassemble the camp and pack up. We shall need to keep a steady pace, so as to make it to Tyrosh within three nights. Please find Maester Edgarth and relay to him my intentions. Westeros awaits." Perzys gave a silent nod and bow, before rapidly making his way down, as surefooted any mountain goat.
Rylan paused for a moment, staring wordlessly out to the west. The tranquil atmosphere was shattered by the cry of the great feathered hunter, returning from wherever it had gone. He lifted his arm, keeping it straight, unmoving. In a flash, the bird's talons had wrapped around his right arm, almost painlessly. Training him to do that much had been as excruciating as it had been frustrating.
The bird spread it's wings, displaying their noteworthy length, followed by another piercing shriek. "Alright! Alright. Enough with the noise. We all know how splendid your wings are, oh mighty one." Rylan chastised. He gently stroked it's soft white underbelly, which contrasted with it's warm brown wings and back.
The bird was a gyrfalcon, the largest of all falcons, and a magnificent specimen at that. Unfortuantely, it also knew that fact. He was conceited, greedy and fearless. Rylan had accordingly named him Argilac – after the famously arrogant and final Stormking. But He still made for decent company as well as a useful tool to find land in open sea and to deliver letters faster, not to mention more securely, than ravens - since it had been trained to avoid enemy arrows or animals.
By now the sun had almost reached it's highest point, signalling the imminent onset of noon. It was time to go. On to Tyrosh, to Braavos, then across the Narrow Sea…. to home.