Braavos

298 AC

Starag Mormont had not gotten the best sleep in the world.

The evening prior had been filled with a bit too much drink he supposed. Perhaps he and his companions had also played a bit too many cards as well.

He distinctly remembered how devilishly handy Marwyn had been with a deck of cards. The old Archmaester smoothly sliced the stack of cards in half and folded them on top of one another with sincere dexterity. So much so, that it had disturbed Mormont, at least on a superficial level.

No doubt, the man was a card sharp as well, judging by how many rounds of Poker he'd won in comparison to the rest of them.

Mormont had felt the slow jagged throb come on once again as he glanced around the dark room with a single blurry lightning-blue eye. What was the time?

Probably time for them to leave soon, no doubt. They'd have to be past the Titan of Braavos by the time the sun was well up and on its way to the middle of the gloomy grey sky.

Mormont had rolled out of bed and got onto his feet in one smooth motion. He instantly felt the cool stone of the floor beneath his heels as he walked toward the wash basin and mirror. In the corner of the room, the candlelight had nearly died out. It was flickering on and off, just about to be snuffed for good.

He'd approached the basin of fresh, clean water and had cupped some with both his hands. Then he'd splashed it against his face and ran his hands along his skin and through his beard, making sure he'd been thorough to clean himself of midnight sweat.

It was then that something peeked out at him in the corner of his eye. There was something on his skin. Something dark. What was it?

Mormont glanced down at his right forearm. He could barely see what it was this far from the dim flickering candlelight. But whatever it was, it certainly was not an animal of some kind.

He narrowed his eye at the occurrence and quickly approached the shimmering candle to take advantage of its last guttural gasps for life. Instantly, he saw it and picked out exactly what it was.

Thick lines of dark sea blue that been tattooed onto his skin. They were bent into angular shapes all along his skin and coiled around his forearm in perfectly straight lines that cut off abruptly just where his forearm had met his elbow. The lines towards his wrist had ended off in a sort of square spiral on his open right palm, and they curved outwardly on the back of his hand.

By the Old Gods… A strange feeling had churned in Mormont's gut. Where had these markings come from? Who had given them to him?

Was it some part of the drunken revelry he and his friends had gotten up to the night prior? Surely there were artists and painters who dealt in such trades in Braavos. Perhaps it was some bet with Marwyn or Wendel.

Whoever had done the markings was an expert, though. He felt no pain from where the thick blue lines had been traced and colored in on his skin. Even with a dash of water and a fair bit of rubbing, Mormont found that the stuff would not come off.

The others will know more. Mormont was sure of it. No doubt it was some kind of prank. He'd have to get it off before they went back to Westeros.

After all, whatever happens in Braavos, stays in Braavos.

He glanced out the window of his room. The sun was just beginning to rise, and there was a thick misty fog hovering over the great bay of water, adding to the morning chill. They'd need to cast off for Pentos within the next few hours.

Mormont had decided to ignore the tattoos for the time being. He quickly got dressed, forcing the throbbing in his head to quiet down, and finally buckled Longclaw to his belt.

Then, he'd tossed an iron coin onto the ruffled bed. It was not the best, but the food in this establishment had more than made up for Mormont's uncomfortable night's sleep.

The Inn of the Green Eel had been one of the finer taverns in the Ragman's Harbor, and as such, it was a comely place full of courtesans and degenerates. Mormont never really got why these flashy young women were more or less local celebrities. All they did was stand there and look pretty.

He'd been the first of his company to make it downstairs and order a fresh pot of coffee along with a few mugs. He'd also ignored the various snores that could be heard from some of the men and women who had fallen asleep due to their drink. Amateurs. He thought.

After a few minutes, Arthur had come down the stairs, barely looking as if he'd changed a wink from the night before. He found his way over across the almost empty tavern, keeping his left hand on Dawn's hilt. Dayne sat down next to him, and grabbed the pot of coffee, along with a mug.

"Morning." Mormont had greeted his friend.

"Good morning." Arthur had said back just the same.

They both drank appreciatively of their respective mugs of coffee in silence. Arthur, however, must have been dehydrated, as he downed his mug rather quickly and began filling it up again.

"These Ironborn," Arthur said suddenly, breaking the silence. "Do you think we'll run into them?"

Mormont had told them of what he and Marwyn had heard the night prior from the butcher in Ragman's harbor. Of the blood-red ship with the sail bearing the golden Kraken of House Greyjoy of Pyke. The crew full of mutes, and the rumors surrounding their captain…

Then, of course, they'd all gotten properly soused.

Now, however, was a better time than any to discuss the situation. No doubt, Arthur likely knew more about this topic than Mormont did. He'd been keeping a closer eye on the Greyjoys than Mormont had in the last few years.

"Doubtful," Mormont said. "But there is always the chance. Either way, I don't intend to risk it. There's too much riding on this expedition."

"Agreed." Arthur nodded appreciatively. "Especially with Euron Greyjoy. The man's half-mad himself, almost as much as Aerys was. Any other pirates we can handle, but that one…" The Sword of the Morning had shaken his head. "Apparently even Stannis had refused to engage him during the Battle of Fair Isle."

What? Hadn't Stannis crushed the Iron Fleet at Fair Isle? Was that not the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion itself? Why had even Stannis Baratheon been so hesitant to do battle with Euron Greyjoy?

Mormont had been taken out of his rumbling thoughts when another member of their group had made his entrance. The next to come down the damnable uneven staircase was Wendel Manderly, who had sauntered down the small steps. When he had seen both Starag and Arthur, the fat man's mustache had curled upwards and his eyes had crinkled. "Ah! Good-"

"Shhhh!" The bartender had given Manderly a pleading look as he placed a finger to his lips. The Braavosi had gestured to the still sleeping forms of his customers, who he likely intended to charge for their late night stay.

Wendel had nodded in accordance and walked over to his two waiting companions. He sat down next to Arthur. "So, my friends!" He clapped his meaty hands together. "What is on the menu for today!"

"Cold breakfast most like," Mormont said as he took another draught of his mug. "We've got to get sailing in the next hour or two. We'll find something to eat on board."

That and Mormont wanted to clear his head from all the alcohol he'd consumed the night prior. Food would absolutely throw another wrench into the mix as far as digestion went.

Wendel had nodded in understanding. "Yes, yes, of course." He said. "But surely we can, ah… Take something to go?"

Mormont had raised an eyebrow at the implication. "If you want something to eat, you better get it now before the others wake up. As soon as we're all ready, we'll be heading back to the ship."

"Say no more!" Wendel slapped his hand atop the wooden bar. He looked to the innkeeper, who was still trying his best not to make too much of a racket. "My friend! Bacon and that stew you cooked the night before!"

Just then, the next member of their party had come down the stairs. Marwyn looked absolutely haggard from their card game the night before. He'd scratched idly at the grizzled hairs that were growing out from his jaw and made eye contact with Mormont. The two men nodded, and Marwyn made his way over to the stool next to Wendel.

Arthur had slid the pot of coffee towards the other two men, along with two more mugs. Both Wendel and Marwyn graciously accepted the coffee.

"Good morning." The Archmaester had greeted them all, even the innkeeper, who looked like he was about to wrap a belt around Wendel's neck. "Where's the last of our retinue?"

"Getting his beauty sleep." Mormont chuckled into his mug. Arthur had snickered as well.

Naturally, they had been referring to Jon. As Sigmund had decided to spend the night on the Waking Serpent as per his discomfort in large cities. On some level, Mormont did not blame him. Wildlings were not used to strange foreign lands, much less to being right smack in the middle of one of the Free Cities of Essos.

But Jon had elected not to drink the night before- bless his soul. Yet, all the same, he was looking to be the last one to rise out of bed…

Starag Mormont and Arthur Dayne were from an entirely different generation. One where they had to be professional at all times. When it came to drinking, they couldn't afford to be hungover. Especially not when there were other men trying to kill them.

Jon Stark hadn't had that problem. Not yet at least.

As such, Mormont was barely surprised when only a few minutes later, the boy had somberly climbed down the stairs, wiping the tiredness from his grey eyes and almost walking into a chair while he rubbed them.

"Morning." He greeted them half-awake. Unprofessional. Amateur. That would have to be ironed out of the boy if he was to be king.

It seemed that Arthur agreed with him judging by the hard, studying look he had given Jon Stark. He certainly did not like it either.

Even then, Jon seemed utterly unaware that both of his uncles were carefully dissecting him as he sat down next to Marwyn, who had shifted over his stool to make room for him.

We'll have to up his training regiment. Make him work harder. Put him in worse conditions. Mormont decided. The boy needed to be able to handle stress. He was only as good at stress management as far as the training yard went. But the boy needed to be put under more pressure.

Arthur gave Mormont a knowing side glance. Later, those purple Dayne eyes had seemed to say.

And with that, Starag Mormont had glanced down the bar at his assembled party. "Finish your coffee in the next few minutes. Time to go."

Wendel Manderly looked almost horrified. The innkeeper was still preparing his breakfast. Regardless he finished his mug of coffee and stared at the door that led to the kitchen with a look of intense concentration.

Meanwhile, the others had finished up their coffee and slowly had gotten out of their seats. Arthur led the way out of the large tavern, with Jon and Marwyn following close behind.

"Come on, Wendel." Mormont rested his empty mug on the bar and took out a handful of the square iron coins the Braavosi loved so very much. "Pentos is only a few days away, we'll get some warm food there."

Reluctantly, and with a heavy sigh, Wendel had gotten out of his seat and walked to the entrance of the tavern. He pushed open the door with one great heave and left behind the prospects of a piping hot breakfast.

Perhaps a few seconds later, once Mormont had put his coin purse back into his pocket, the innkeeper had returned holding a hot plate of freshly cooked bacon along with a large bowl of stew. He set it down on the bar and glanced around for the men who had been there just moments prior.

Feeling only a tinge guilty for having put a wedge in his friend's morning, Mormont had asked for the man to wrap up the collection of crunchy bacon strips in fresh cloth. He'd pay extra.

And as the sun had begun to rise over the far wall of Sellagoro's Shield, Starag Mormont had walked through the slowly waking Ragman's Harbor, holding nothing but a firmly wrapped cloth bundle smelling of fresh bacon.