AN: I plan for this fic to try and emulate GRRM's style of writing, mostly as a challenge to myself to see if I can write a story that way. Serious in tone and not shy about showing things that might upset some people. Hopefully it comes out as comparable to the source material while using such tropes like the Self-Insert.
The sun was high in the sky as the Blue Whale made for port.
Aurane Waters stood at the prow of the ship and watched as they edged ever closer. The view it afforded was a sightly one. Tall and proud, as if he were standing atop a hill, the smell of saltwater spraying at him. House Velaryon did not have many carracks in its fleet, most of the ships built in recent years being war galleys to replace those that were lost in Robert's Rebellion, smashed against Dragonstone's rocky shores during that terrible storm. Once masters of the sea, he thought to himself, now reduced to playing second fiddle to the Redwynes. It was a wrong that Monford Velaryon, his trueborn brother, was so tirelessly working on righting.
In the distance, with one hand resting upon the aged wood of the taffrail, he made out the ships currently docked in the Port of Lys. There were at least two Ibbenese whalers whose stench he could smell even from the distance, three galleys painted green flying the Tiger flag of Volantis, two cogs bearing the marks of Braavos, and several Lysene galleys. With his Myrish eye, he saw that all their gangplanks were down and their crews at work, shuffling cargo to and fro. Beyond them stood the harbor itself, lined with buildings that ranged from storehouses to temples, and further inland was the city itself with its high walls.
Lys was famed for its pillow houses and pleasure gardens. But Aurane had not made the journey in search of them nor their bed slaves. What he sought was more a rumor in truth. Something he had first heard from a merchant from Myr who had visited Driftmark hoping to strike up a deal with Monford. Myrish glass and spices for well-made Velaryon war galleys if his memory served him right. The deal had fallen through in the end but not before Monford's wine had loosened their tongues.
The Captain-General of the Golden Company wields a Valyrian steel sword, the merchant and his crew had claimed, one that bears a dragon head hilt and crossguard. It sounded like an outlandish tale, but also one that could very well have been true, for the Golden Company was said to be the finest sellswords in the world. Why shouldn't their leader wield a blade made of metal so many in Westeros would kill for? That had been Monford's reaction to the Myrmen's words. Aurane had thought differently.
Even as Alyn, Captain of the Blue Whale, started giving orders to ready them for port, Aurane kept to himself at the prow. A small sense of trepidation took ahold of him as they drew near. Am I doing the right thing? The answer still eluded him, no clearer now that he was within sight of Lys, than when he had cast off from Driftmark's docks many weeks ago. It could all be a fool's folly, he thought to himself, coming to see a man who might spell House Velaryon's doom as much as he might grant us fortune.
But he could not ignore all the information that was laid bare for him, both old and new. The Captain-General of the Golden Company wielded a Valyrian steel sword. The man's name was Daemion, the so-called Darling Prince of Lys. He had the Valyrian look. All of that put together pointed at one conclusion.
There was another Blackfyre pretender in the making.
"Aurane!" Alyn called out as the crew set about steering the carrack into the docks. "As I said, here we are! Lys, the Perfumed Sister in all her glory. Didn't I say we'd arrive on time? In fact, we're a day early, ha!"
"Yes, I never should have doubted you." Aurane said with an easy smile, hiding away those uneasy thoughts. "The winds were favorable, and the Narrow Sea was clear. You run a tight ship and a disciplined crew as well."
"So, are you finally going to tell me why you needed to make for Lys so abruptly?" The Blue Whale slid effortlessly into the docks and Alyn turned away for a moment to shout some more orders. Sailors set about tying the ship to the moors and bringing cargo up from the holds for transport. "We're going to miss the Hand's Tourney because you insisted on setting sail so early. A chance to win tens of thousands of golden dragons, gone."
Aurane looked over the side of the ship for a moment. Slave laborers from the docks were already working with the ship's crew to offload their cargo. Valyrian and Common Tongue flowed through the air, mingling with the saltwater and whaler stench, and the fainter smells of the city itself. "Let's just say that if I'm right, thousands of golden dragons you might have won at Lord Stark's tourney will seem like copper stars to what we could be earning in the near future, I guarantee you that."
"Well, I hope you're right, if for nothing else than my coin purse's sake."
"Your purse will not go for wanting, whether I succeed or fail. Now come my friend, let us journey and revel in the loveliest of Valyrian Freehold's daughters."
For the journey into the city, Aurane divested himself of all armor, choosing only silk and cloth as well as a longsword at his hip. The Lysene were merchants at heart, favoring gold to steel or iron, and it showed all around him. Men, whether they be noble, freemen, or slave, all walked around with nary a piece of armor about them. Swords were a rarity as well, most choosing a dagger for protection, with some women wielding such ornate devices that Aurane couldn't tell if they were even functional or just styles of fashion.
Still, he stood out in the crowd, and had to contend with all that came to being a foreigner in these lands. Merchants along the docks shouted out their wares at him, offering everything from fish to jewels. Cheap whores flaunted themselves for his viewing pleasure, promising much and more, for a little coin. When he moved past them, the sellsword guards that patrolled the city's high walls and its gates stopped him, making him out for the Westerosi he was even though he had the Valyrian look to his features. They had demanded nothing more than for him to heed their warning. "The magisters want the peace kept." One had said, his Common Tongue accented with the Lysene lilt. "Make sure to keep it, less you want to be a head shorter."
"I quite value my head," Aurane told them. "Especially when it's attached to my neck."
They didn't laugh at his jest, but they did let him through the gates, and it was as he stepped in that Aurane was able to take in the sights of Lys in all their glory. Buildings tall and short were topped with domed roofs. Glass panes set within white marble stone glittered in the sunlight. Pillow houses of fluttering silk and soft moans that filled the air were prominent. Lys the Lovely indeed. Aurane moved with the crowd, letting it take him through the winding streets and roads, along stone older than the King's Landing itself.
All throughout the throng, he searched for who he was seeking, taking in all their faces. The slaves each had a tattoo on their cheeks, a different symbol for their trade. It was a sight that unsettled him. Westeros forbade slavery long before Aegon the Conqueror had united the kingdoms. The Faith of the Seven abhorred it. Yet in the east, in the Free Cities where no one religion reigned, it thrived. Aurane passed men, women, and children all tattooed with the marks. Some had tears, others a coin, squares of motley, a jug, or a horsehead.
It was almost by chance that he stumbled upon the rumor's trail, and in front of a pillow house no less. Men of the Golden Company were known for wearing worldly wealth upon their person, be it fine silks or jeweled armor. The golden rings that banded their arms were hard to miss as well. One to signify each year of service with the Golden Company. They were sitting along the steps of the palace like pillow house, looking as though they were made of metals compared to those around them.
"I'm looking for your captain." Aurane called out to them in the Common Tongue. There were five men of the company lounging about the steps. None of them were indulging in the vices just behind them.
"And why should he entertain the likes of you?" One of them said. The man was tall as he stood, with a weathered face and thick arms banded with five golden rings, a dangerous blade hanging from his hip in a weather worn scabbard. He didn't have an Essosi accent.
"Because I have a business proposition for him." Because I can see which way the wind is blowing in King's Landing, and it is one that can spell profit or doom, for all of us.
"Capt'n-General gets contract offers all the time." One with a distinct Tyroshi accent offered. He was lazing about the steps, stretched out like he was resting upon pillows instead of stone.
"My offer is no ordinary one." Aurane countered. He stepped up to the tall sellsword showed him the ring he wore on his right hand. One that Monford had trusted with him. "You know this sigil? Ah, I see you do, and you know I am serious. The Captain-General will want to hear what I have to say."
"I wouldn't be so sure." The sellsword smirked at him. Then he offered a meaty hand. "Ser Mark Waters."
"One bastard to another," Aurane shook the knight's hand. "Aurane Waters."
They ascended the rest of the steps to the pillow house, Ser Mark leading the way after telling the Tyroshi look over the others, and Aurane following after him. Inside was a grand setting. The room was high as it was wide, with hallways leading further in, and a number of doors leading to other rooms. All around were couches, chaises, and tables occupied with pillow slaves and wine. Aurane saw that the blood of Valyria still ran strong in them, most of the young girls and boys bearing silver-gold hair, eyes purple or pale blue. Near all of them were dressed in thin gowns of silk, hiding scant little to any wandering eyes. In the corners stood slave soldiers armed with spears, their eyes watching over them. As they passed by one of the couches, a young girl caught Aurane by the arm, trailing her fingers down his skin, a coy smile to her lips when their eyes met. The tear tattooed on her cheek was impossible to ignore.
He felt her gaze on his back even as Ser Mark led them away. The madam of the pillow house was one of the only women present who was dressed in a way that covered her modesty, if only partly. Ser Mark spoke to her in a voice too low to hear, gesturing at Aurane with a hand, before the madam simply nodded and pointed to one of the private rooms.
There were no guards at the door, and Ser Mark rapped a knuckle against it before opening the door part way so he could stick his head into the room. The sellsword knight spoke to whoever was inside and Aurane watched as a light wafting of smoke escaped the room, smelling of something sweet. He had no time to contemplate it as Ser Mark pulled the door open wider and gestured for Aurane to step in.
The room was clouded with burning incense, with Ser Mark staying outside and shutting to trap it all in. Aurane coughed at first as he became accustomed to the air. That drew the tittering giggles from girls on his right. They were laying on a couch, arms and legs twisted about each other, lithe bodies naked as the day they were born. One of them had her head nestled in the neck of the other, laying down soft kisses along the bottom of the other's jaw. Both of them had the Valyrian look, silver-blonde hair framing cheeks that were absent of the tear mark of slavey, and the girl watching him had pale blue eyes.
Then he heard the soft chuckle of the man sitting to his left. The light flowing into the room from the stained-glass windows bathed him in a slightly blue glow. Daemion of Lys was clean shaven, with short hair that was almost silver, and deep violet eyes which looked upon Aurane as if he were something to be examined. He wore a loose silk shirt that exposed a muscled chest and leather trousers. There were six golden bands on his arms. Six years with the Golden Company and already their Captain-General.
"So," the man's voice had a Lysene accent to it. "What does the Bastard of Driftmark have to offer that is so enticing?"
The man gestured for Aurane to take a seat on the third couch in the room. It faced the door and was settled in-between the other two couches. Aurane sat down and glanced at the two naked girls before turning to the man.
"Don't worry, they don't speak the Common Tongue." Daemion said, his eyes taking in the sight of the girls lazing about before turning back to Aurane. "But I am truly curious. You bear a ring with the Velaryon seal. The Old, the Ture, the Brave. Those are your words if I remember correctly. You have a lord's trust and have come to me with it. Why?"
"There are many rumors floating through the wind and across the waters about you." Aurane said. "Some which could prove very fruitful if true."
"And which ones are those? I've been to all nine of the Free Cities, you see. I've dined with the Sealord of Braavos. Walked the beaches of Lorath. Visited the finest glassblowers and artists of Myr. Listened to the three great bells of Norvos. Met with the magisters of Pentos and watched them buy off Dothraki khals. I've watched the blacksmiths of Qohor reforge Valyrian steel. Drank the wines and brandies of Tyrosh. Traded slaves in Volantis. I've also had tales told of my exploits from Meereen to Lannisport. Men talk, Aurane Waters. Most of what they say is false."
"They say you wield a Valyrian steel sword. One with a dragon head pommel. Few blades in history bear such a resemblance."
Daemion rested against the arm of the couch, fist to chin. "Cross guards and pommels can be changed."
"They call you the Darling Prince of Lys." Aurane gestured around them. The two girls had progressed to exploring each other's mouths in detail, hands groping at breasts, soft moans flowing from them and into the incense thickened air. Daemion hadn't strayed even a glance at them. "A man who has never lost a duel, who has lain with the daughters of every magister of the city, and who even dreams of the future."
"I have never lost a duel. Can't say the same of bedding every magisters' daughters or dreaming of the future."
"You wield Aegon the Conqueror's blade."
"Mayhaps…"
"The last man to wield it was hailed as king."
At that Daemion laughed. He sat up as well, elbows resting on his knees, violet eyes grinning. "You would be walking a fine line if we were in Westeros, making mention of a would be king, a Blackfyre claimant. I hear King Robert is a proud man. One who hates any talk of usurpers or Targaryens. Who even now has a bounty on the heads of the last two living Targaryens. Do you take me for a Targaryen, Aurane Waters? A usurper?"
"No, no more than I take you for a Westerosi man loyal to King Robert."
"Good, I'm not either of those things." Daemion sniffed. "I follow coin first and foremost, like any good sellsword does. So, tell me plainly why you're here, Aurane Waters. Words alone won't keep my attention. They will not move armies or feed soldiers either. The prospect of coin will."
"When Robert Baratheon dies, there will be war." Aurane said. It was a simple fact. Many would have been content to ignore what was to come. Monford was not one of them, though he was still wary of how it would come to blows, of which factions would arise in the absence of the Usurper himself. It was part of why he was taking such a risk in the first place. The fragility of the realm was tempting. "The Lannisters grow more influential at court as the days go by. The Crownland lords are still bitter at their defeat. Dorne still morns for Princess Elia and her children, murdered by Lannister men. They pay lip service to Robert but no more than that."
"You wish to hire the Golden Company for the inevitable wars to come? Make war against Robert's heir?"
"I wish to put a king on the Iron Throne who will lift House Velaryon out of the mud and put it back in a place of glory where it once had been."
"Then you are talking to the wrong man," Daemion shrugged with his hands. "I have no kings to give you-"
"He does not have to be a Targaryen king." Aurane broke in, a part of him aching to say such things. But the last one my family served drove us to ruin and humiliation. For centuries House Velaryon served House Targaryen faithfully. Loyal servants to the last. But the Targaryens were beaten, Viserys and Daenerys scattered to the wind, unlikely to ever reclaim the Iron Throne. "There are many who would flock to your banner."
"My banner? Ha! The days of the Blackfyre Pretenders are at an end. Barristan the Bold saw to that when he took my granduncle's heads, both the normal one and the little one." Aurane hid his shock at those words. So, he is a Blackfyre, if not through the sons, but the daughters. "Your Westerosi lords won't see me as anything other than the son of a whore."
"Yet you bear the sword of kings, command the finest sellsword company of Essos, and bear the likeness to great kings of the past."
"Listen to yourself, plotting treason with exiles who your forefathers fought against." Daemion smirked and stood from his seat. He padded his way over to the two girls, both of whom opened their arms to him as he sat amidst them on their couch. "I am not the King Who Bore the Sword. I am not Daemon Blackfyre. I am Daemion of Lys. There is no lust for the Iron Throne in me."
Aurane frowned but understood. It was a fool's folly to be true. A desperate gamble. He stood from the couch and made his way through the thick air to the door. One of the girls wiggled her fingers at him as he went. He had the door just barely opened when Daemion spoke again. "But your offer does intrigue me."
Ser Mark looked at Aurane through the sliver of the door before pushing it close. Aurane turned back to Daemion and found the man receiving a hand massage from one of the naked girls. The other was kissing her way up his neck. It belied the seriousness of their conversation.
"My men wish to go home, it is true." Daemion gestured for Aurane to retake his seat. He did so. "We are Westerosi are heart, the sons of exiles, all wanting to return to the Seven Kingdoms of our fathers' fathers. Yet it is not so simple as that. While I may claim the Blackfyre name, wield the Conqueror's sword, and command the largest of the sellsword companies. I do not have the strongest claim. Who does you ask? All a matter of your loyalties. Some would say Joffrey Baratheon. Others, Viserys Targaryen. Hells! Some would say even Daenerys Targaryen has the better claim than I do. Not many would fight for a Blackfyre now, Aurane Waters. Those days died on the Redgrass Field with Daemon."
"I can't say I know much about Viserys Targaryen, but I do know much and more of Joffrey Baratheon." Aurane paused a moment. Daemion watched him with a critical gaze, undisturbed by the two girls on either side of him. "He is much more his mother's son than he is his father's. Cersei Lannister pampers the boy. Coddles him. I've seen it with my own eyes. Then there are the stories about him."
"Oh?" Daemion smiled to himself. Like he was laughing at a joke only he knew of. "Pray tell, what horrors have come from the Red Keep's hallowed halls this time?"
"The boy has a cruel streak. A vindictive nature for one so young." Aurane grimaced. "I heard tell of a rumor that Prince Joffrey cut open a cat that was soon to welp just because he was impatient and wanted to see the kittens. That he beats his little brother, Prince Tommen. He treats the servants much the same."
"So, the boy is cruel," Daemion then gestured to himself and the two girls, "and I am supposed to be some bastion of holiness compared to him? I killed my first man when I was two and ten, Aurane. So many more have followed that I've lost count. Some of them were innocent of their crimes. Others not so much. I've been to the Meereenese fighting pits and profited off the deaths of slave fighters. My heart is blacker than that of the little prince, I assure you."
"Be it so, you would not be the worst king to sit the Iron Throne." Aurane knew his histories well. He knew of worse who had sat upon that throne of twisted steel. Aenys the Weak. Maegor the Cruel. Rhaenyra the Usurper. Three of the Aegons, the Elder, the Dragonbane, and the Unworthy. Baelor the Befuddled. Aerys the Mad. They all had sat upon the Iron Throne, and all had led the Seven Kingdoms to chaos. Greatness and disaster came hand in hand it seemed.
One of the girls spoke up, Lysene Valyrian flowing from her tongue like music in the air, and Aurane regretted never learning that particular language. There were many forms of Bastard Valyrian and not all of them were made equal. Whatever it was the girl had said, it had Daemion smiling and the other girl giggling, and then the man was on his feet.
"Come, you Bastard of Driftmark," Daemion said as he pulled girls to their feet one after the other. "Laela here says you are too sad on such a fine day." The one named Laela retrieved a shawl from behind the couch and wrapped it about herself. The other girl did much the same. It did little to cover them, but neither seemed to care. "I am of a mind to agree. Come, Robert Baratheon still sits the Iron Throne, and he will most likely still sit it tomorrow. Let's leave this talk of wars to come for the time when they do indeed come."
Aurane had no choice but to rise to his feet and follow them. Ser Mark joined them on their way out of the pillow house, handing Daemion swordbelt which held a dragon head pommel. Daemion of Lys belted it to his waist as he offered the madam his thanks with a kiss on the cheek, while the girls both found themselves better fitting traveling cloaks to wear and slippers to cover their delicate feet. Outside on the steps, the other four men of the Golden Company stood and readied when Daemion called to them, the Tyroshi speaking to him softly.
Whatever was said did not please the Captain-General.
"A blessing and a curse." Daemion muttered before turning to Aurane. "War is upon us my friend, but not in Westeros. Myr and Tyrosh are poised to clash over the Disputed Lands. No doubt Lys will soon join them, unwilling to surrender the gains she made in the last war. We'll have to cut our time together short, for the magisters of Lys wish to negotiate a contract with the Golden Company."
"I understand." Aurane said. "But I hope you'll keep in my offer in your thoughts. When the fat stag dies there will be war, I can assure you."
"I shall, Bastard of Driftmark." Daemion laughed as he slung an arm around Laela and her friend. "Until then, keep your eyes open, your trust away from a Pentoshi magister, and your wits about you." As one the group turned to head inland, towards the domed palaces in the distance, and Daemion glanced at Aurane from over his shoulder. "My word is as good as gold! By all the gods I swear it to be true!"
Then they swallowed up by the midday traffic, leaving Aurane standing at the steps of the pillow house, with thoughts of future glory and not a small hint of fear. He may have set House Velaryon along the path to disaster with his actions, may have set them on a truly mad gamble, but what was done was done. The game of thrones was a vicious one. It was win or die.
Aurane intended for House Velaryon, and most especially himself, to win.
