Part 4 – Everyone Has Plans
Cassius (III)
Cassius Lartius Mucianus, Legatus of the Legio Nona Hispana, stood beside his senior quartermaster outside the temporary paddock created to hold the eight titanic horses of his new guests. Once it became evident that Rex Robert's tour of the castra would take awhile, the Legatus convinced the retainers left behind to guard the monstrously large creatures, through repeated gestures and slowly spoken words, to move them to a place where they could be unsaddled, watered, fed, and groomed.
"Can you mimic the saddle shoes, Armicustos?"
"Yes, Legatus," came the clipped answer.
"Are you angry Brutus Pius?"
"No, sir. Yes, sir. I mean … its just … so …"
Cassius chuckled, "Obvious. Yes isn't it. My eyes near goggled watching it support the dismount of three hundred pounds of barbarian muscle and fat."
"Think of the leverage a man could bring with sword or spear! Oh, imagine Legatus, how you and our lads from the old Quarta Flavia Felix would have hammered those damned Sarmatae allied to Decebalus."
"They led us a merry chase across Dacia, didn't they?"
"They did, though I don't recall at the time thinking it so jolly."
Cassius inadvertently flexed his left bicep, feeling the pull of the scar taken from the spear that Sarmataen rider had gotten around the edge of his scutum. "How long to make saddle shoes for every horse?"
"Tonight I make five. Then we try them in the morning and figure out what I got wrong. After that …," the Armicustos paused to calculate the number of horses among the Legio and their auxiliaries against the number of metal workers, leather workers, and the required supplies he commanded. "Hhhmmmn, say two weeks."
Cassius raised an eyebrow.
"Alright. Less than that. Once the mongrel Gauls and Mauretanians get a whiff of this, every whoreson of them will be working on a pair for their own mounts," he grumbled.
Cassius nodded in agreement. "And what else does your trained eye tell us?"
The silver haired man scratched the back of his neck. "The leather and metalwork is damned good for savages; of course so was the Dacians if you remember, Legatus."
"Yes Brutus Pius, but even a dunghill chief might have a smith who can forge a decent sword or a tanner who makes supple leather. What does your gut say? Are we meeting people with the craftskill of Dacia or Caledonii?"
The Armicustos tentatively pursed his lips. "Parthicum, Legatus. Parthicum."
Hermann had only recently cleared away the remnants of the spare dinner Cassius provided to the Tribunus and the Primipilus when the guards announced the return of the Tesserarius, accompanied not by that grinning ox of a Rex, but by the hard lined face of Titus Sidonius, the Pilus Posterior. The two veterans saluted smartly upon entering the command tent.
The Legatus returned the salute. "You are short a visitor, Tesserarius. I hope the Second Cohors did no harm to our important guest?"
The Pilus Posterior snorted in amusement. "Hardly. Hercules is having drinks with the lads. Seeing him happily soused in wine and trying to teach them some song he says is about a bear and a virgin, Publius Postumius and I thought it time to report."
"Hercules?" muttered Lucius Pomponius.
"The men of the Second Cohors think it apt," replied Publius Postumius, "after the great lummox almost beat a contubernium with only a shovel and a mattock."
Cassius raised his eyebrows to query the Tesserarius' statement.
"A great warrior once no doubt," said Publius Postumius to answer the Legatus' unspoken question.
"When his arse weren't so fat," interjected Titus Sidonius with a grin.
"But he seems another Junius Strabo to me," finished the Tesserarius.
The Legatus, the Primipilus, and the Pilus Posterior all knowingly nodded their heads.
"The name is unfamiliar. Please tell me of the man," said the Tribunus.
"He died, oh, four years ago, Lucius Pomponius," Cassius answered. "Long before you came to Britannia and the Nona Hispana. No man was stronger or fiercer in battle. But like the true son of Jupiter, this cross-eyed Hercules took little joy away from war. In garrison he whored, he gambled, he drank, he borrowed, and he fought. For every rank he valiantly earned on the battlefield, his failures at a soldier's everyday duties reduced him by two; 'till one final tavern brawl found him stabbed to death."
The Tribunus now nodded his head too, the story matched well with what he had already briefly seen of the oafish Rex' character. "And to such we will pledge our swords?"
A predatory grin flared on Cassius's lips. "Fortuna, Tribunus. Think of it as pledging ourselves to Fortuna, for when was the last time the Sons of Rome lost a game of thrones to barbarians?" As those in the tent smiled at the implications, the Legatus continued, "Titus Sidonius, please tell us what else you have learned."
"Rex Hercules may be a buffoon, but the old General in the white cloak – he is dangerous; his eyes see everything and his hand remembers the feel of a sword. And it is not by sword alone they fight either, is it Tesserarius?"
"They fight by horse. Did you all see the straps for feet attached to their saddles?" asked Publius Postumius. When the others quickly nodded, he continued. "Not only do they use sword, axe, and hammer, but oversized lancea too; ten or more pedes in length."
The Primipilus whistled. "That would outreach a pilum."
"And those elephants they call horses wear mail, making them harder for a pilum to tickle," said Titus Sidonius.
"What of the men?" asked the Legatus. "The old warrior wore a breast plate."
"Those of the Ordo Equestris wear plate armor over their whole body, with mail covering the joints."
"Impossible," sputtered the Tribunus. "The cost would be beyond reckoning."
"I do not think the old one would lie. It is not in his nature," said the Tesserarius; to which the Pilus Posterior nodded in agreement.
"How many of the Ordo Equestris does the Rex command," Cassius asked quietly.
"In the battle where he won his crown through rebellion, and surprisingly the old warrior served the defeated Rex, he led an army of over thirty thousand. Perhaps five thousand were Ordo Equestris, ten thousand more like one of our own alaris, and twenty thousand of mixed Cohors Millaria."
"Parthicum," whispered Cassius.
"Legatus?" several of his commanders asked.
"The lands of this Rex suddenly appear strong, yet he has interest in hiring us as auxiliaries. Why?"
"Hercules was impressed by the discipline of the lads," declared Titus Sidonius. "Never seen nothing like it before."
"If he likes discipline, let's give him some more tomorrow then," announced Aulus Vibius, the Primipilus. "How about the First Cohors go up against your boys, Titus Sidonius?"
"That seems wise," agreed Cassius. "But we have much to learn about this place before I want to risk the Legio in battle for these barbarians."
"Another thing, Legatus," spoke Publius Postumius. "This 'Westeros,' which they call their land, is large; mayhap as long as from Brundisium to the mouth of the Rhenus, and as wide as Gaul. And while the Hercules is Rex, he leads only one of seven great noble houses, and only directly rules two of the eight satrapies they have divided their land into."
Cassius perked up at this information. Despite the several superficial similarities between Parthicum and this 'Westeros,' the Legatus felt his confidence returning. Perhaps Fortuna simply required them to work a bit harder since the prize now appeared so much greater than he first imagined.
Lancel (I)
"We're here!" shouted out Tracking Master Ronquin, loud enough even the end of the train carrying the King's hunting camp could hear. Lancel, ears still ringing, noted the trees were thinning. As he stood up in his stirrups to try and catch a view of the mysterious 'Sellsword Castle', Lancel winced, the blisters on his feet still raw and weeping. 'Damn you to the Stranger, you fat ox,' he thought. 'Abandoning me without a horse, so I must walk back in disgrace to camp and tell everyone the King is missing.' And for a full day all Lancel had heard were accusations of "You lost the King." That is until Ronquin had shown up with a tale fit for the Age of Heroes, and a royal command to pack up the camp and bring it to the now found fat ox. And so two days later they had arrived.
As he emerged from the forest onto a large field, he scoffed to himself. 'That's no castle. Five hundred red Lannister lances would charge through that like a sailor through a whorehouse.' The thunder of hooves snapped him back to attention. Four score riders, clad in leather and holding bows, charged around the far corner of the earthen wall 'til a horn sounded, and then, nearly as one, they pulled up, partly turned their horses, and stood in their saddles to fire a volley of arrows. A horn sounded again and the column of horse archers quickly resumed a fast trot that took them not a dozen yards in front of him and Ronquin.
Within seconds of the last row passing by, the familiar sound of that hated bass voice cut across the sound of hooves, "Lumpy! Here! Now!"
Following the sound of the imperious call, he spotted the King and Ser Selmy on horses by a gate in the short dirt wall, accompanied by a strangely dressed pair of sellswords. The strangers were also mounted and both wore visorless helms topped with some sort of big red brush or plumage. Immediately, both he and Ronquin turned and broke into a gallop so as to rapidly close with the thunderous boor, before he could find reason to yell at them again.
Heat rose in Lancel's cheeks when he realized one of the lowborn scum was riding his horse. The one he'd lost the morning three days ago when the King had absconded off with the might-have-been bandits.
"Took ya' long enough to bring my things, Lumpy," rumbled the King. "Take a wrong turn somewhere did you Ronquin, finding camp?"
"Your Grace," answered Lancel, bowing from his saddle.
"No your Grace," replied the Tracking Master. "Is it my fault, your Grace, that your servants are lazy, drunk, and stupid? They refused to work through the night I arrived. Had to debate things. Discuss whether I was a liar."
The King's eyes narrowed. "And my written command?" he asked with icy danger.
"Possibly forged, your Grace."
"Blast it Lumpy, you could have helped the man here," the King snarled.
"I … I was disgraced your Grace," Lancel interjected. "for losing you and Ser Selmy in the Kingswood. None would heed my word."
"Oh alright," said the King, granting begrudging acceptance to the explanation. "Ned Stark better well listen to this message if he knows what's good for him."
"Your Grace?" both Ronquin and Lancel questioned.
"This is Cassius," and the King jerked his thumb at the older sellsword to his left. "and this is Lucius. They command the Legio Roma Company of sellswords. I'm hiring them and I need the Hand to sort out all the details. You, as my squire, need to get things moving."
"Yes, your Grace."
"Ser Barristan, give Lumpy the letter."
Ser Selmy lifted a flap on his saddle and pulled out a tightly rolled scroll, fastened by a blob of wax sealed with the King's signet ring, an emblem of a Stag, but not including a Lion as his proper Coat of Arms should show. Lancel accepted the message and tucked into his cloak. "What am I to tell the Small Council, your Grace?"
"Bugger the Council, tell Ned. He's the Hand. He'll get it done."
"But tell him what, your Grace?"
"Open your damn eyes Lannister, look around. These hard assed bastards haven't been here more than five days, and they've built all this." The King waved a hand at the man high wall of dirt behind him, bristling with wood stakes. "Westeros can use real men, who know how to sweat and work and fight, instead of puny armed things like you who'd rather listen to minstrels all day than learn how to swing a sword."
"Yes, your Grace," Lancel contritely replied, hoping that he had managed to keep any hint of hatred from his voice.
"There are near seven thousand of these swaggering cocks, so it will take a bit of work to arrange things for them in King's Landing. And what's more, the cagey sods want to make sure they aren't stepping in the shit by joining me," a notion that caused the fat oaf to chuckle to himself. "So tomorrow I'm leaving here with a cohort of them and marching to King's Landing so they can study the battlefield for themselves."
"Battlefield? And what's a cohort your Grace?"
"Are you dense?" shouted the King.
"If you will forgive the lad, he has just arrived and knows nothing of our new … friends," said Ser Selmy, kindly diverting the King's rising ire.
The Stag sighed heavily. "Five hundred men. Tell Ned I'm coming with Tribunus Lucius and the five hundred men of the Second Cohort; Oh! And some others to act as translators. The boys here don't speak the common tongue, but a few of them know a bit of Free City speech. It's all there in the letter. We should be there in four days. Now off with you two," the King commanded.
Lancel shared a look with Ronquin. "May we take an escort, your Grace?"
"Of course you can! Why are you bothering to ask me? By the Seven, show some initiative, I'm not your damned mamie," the King roared with disgust. "Now get out of my sight! I see my son and others I'd rather speak to than the likes of you."
Jeyne (I)
Jeyne took the last two free loops of Sansa's long, auburn hair and quickly, deftly braided them together; all the while listening to the din through the window of the Lannister red cloaks drilling with swords in the yard below the Tower of the Hand. Her nimble hands didn't betray the nervous butterflies flitting about in her stomach. Only a fool like Moon Boy could fail to detect the tension of the past few days inside the Red Keep, and Vayon Poole's daughter did not consider herself a fool. Well, maybe a love struck fool, she sighed, the image of the perfect knight passing before her eyes.
"Are you dreaming of far away Lord Dondarrion again?" Sansa barked in a sharp voice at her best friend.
"Yes," Jeyne shyly replied.
"Well you are not the only one to lose your true love," Sansa said angrily. "It is very horrid of my father to drag me away from my sweet Joffrey, isn't it?"
"Yes, but what is to be done? We leave tonight," Jeyne pointed out practically.
"I will see the Queen!" said Sansa forcefully. "When she hears my plea she will think of something to convince father to keep us here, at least until the King returns. Then with both Joffrey and Queen Cersei to bend his ear, the King will command me to stay and marry his handsome, brave, son," Sansa spouted dramatically, as if to convince herself what she proposed must come true.
"But Sansa, rumor is the King has been kidnapped by bandits and your lord father has forbidden us the last two days to leave the Tower."
Sansa stomped her foot in frustration. "Think of something Jeyne. You must help me," her friend demanded petulantly.
Jeyne smiled at the inspired idea which popped into her head. "The godswood! We tell the guards we want to pray in the godswood before we depart on our journey."
"Hhmmmn, maybe that would work. But wouldn't we have to go with an escort?" Sansa asked skeptically.
"Yes, but only one or two. There are so few men from Winterfell left now in the Red Keep. So on our way, I pretend to slip and hurt myself. During the distraction you scurry off to the Queen. And I'll say I saw you continue on to the godswood."
Sansa squealed and jumped off her stool. "Oh Jeyne, that's brilliant! We'll do it. Now how do I look? I must go have breakfast with my father, Septa Mordane, and Arya."
Jeyne stepped back to take a look at her beautiful friend, dressed in all in drab grey travel clothes. "Pretty as ever Sansa. Your hair shines wonderfully against the green embroidery, but why don't you wear a silver necklace to add a little glitter too."
Torrhen and Small Dorren stood guard at the small gate to the Tower.
"Excuse me lady Sansa, Jeyne, you must stay inside the Tower," came the deep bass of Small Dorren.
"I remember the command of my lord father," Sansa answered. "But we intend to pray in the godswood."
Both men's faces soured at her words. "Sorry, my lady. We have our orders. Fat Tom would strip our hides if we let you out," said Torrhen.
"Oh please," begged Jeyne. "You know we leave tonight. We've never travelled by ship before. The Narrow Sea scares us."
"You want the old gods to watch over us don't you?" wheedled Sansa.
"Well …." hemmed Small Dorren.
"And we'll be taking the bones of poor Jory, and the others slain by the Kingslayer, back to Winterfell. You want them safely returned, don't you?" Sansa quickly added, noting how their resolve waivered.
"I don't really think …," started Torrhen.
"Lord Stark is sending at least ten guards with us. You might be on the ship too," struck Jeyne.
The two guards exchanged glances.
"One of you will come with us, of course," said Sansa, her tone reasonableness itself. "You can pray too."
"Alright," rumbled Small Dorren.
"I'll go with you," Torrhen promptly interjected. The smaller man stepped aside to allow the nearly grownup girls to pass through and then he dropped in right behind them as they headed for the copse of trees situated near the wall of the Red Keep overlooking the Blackwater Rush.
Not more than a minute out of direct line of sight from the Tower of the Hand, Jeyne's ankle turned and she crumpled to the ground, screaming in pain.
Torrhen leapt forward to crouch beside the fallen girl.
"My ankle, my ankle," Jeyne sobbed, head bobbing back and forth in 'extreme pain'.
Torrhen gently laid a hand on the girl's outstretched foot. Jeyne shrieked louder, all the while watching through the slits of her clenched eyes as Sansa snuck away.
Jeyne stopped in the middle of folding yet another dress when the door to Sansa's room swung open to reveal her friend and a stern faced guard, Varly.
"Please don't tell on Torrhen and Small Dorren to my father," pleaded Sansa.
"Torrhen was so helpful when I twisted my ankle," added Jeyne, pretending to limp as she stepped closer towards the door.
Varly's eyes narrowed.
"I only went to the godswood to pray," Sansa said sweetly.
"So you've already told me," the guard declared suspiciously, "Though there was no sign there when I came in search of you."
"I was already finished praying. Praying for a safe passage on this Braavos ship my lord father has hired. Praying for poor Jory's soul."
"And for brave Alyn as he chases after that horrible Mountain alongside sweet Lord Beric," piped in Jeyne.
"Oh yes," Sansa readily agreed. "Him and all the brave Winterfell men."
"Then where were you?"
"I stopped to watch a knight tilt his lance at one of the straw dummies."
"A Lannister no doubt," grumbled Varly.
"Not that I noticed," said Sansa. "There were some red cloaks practicing at swords, but the knight wore blue."
The guard scrunched up his face in thought, trying to remember which knights in blue were still currently in the Red Keep.
"Varly?" asked Jeyne, interrupting his musings.
"Yes."
"If Arya is done with her dancing lessons, and you see her. Please let her know I'll help her pack her chests if she needs any help."
The guard paused a moment, a long moment, clearly unsure what his next step ought to be. Finally, he nodded his head and replied, "Very well. Ladies." and stepped backward out the door, closing it in front of him.
The two girls held their breath, staring at each other, waiting for their hopes to be crushed by an overly diligent household guard. The moment lengthened, 'til both began to feel they had gotten away with their scheme.
"Well?" asked Jeyne anxiously.
Sansa's face lit up. "The Queen was sooooo understanding. She said she'd try to help me."
Jeyne giggled with glee, which started Sansa giggling too. The girls grabbed hands and started spinning themselves in circles till they fell on Sansa's bed together. As they regained their breath, Sansa leaned forward and whispered in her friend's ear. "But the Queen made me promise I'd tell no one we talked today."
"My lips are sealed," Jeyne answered.
Darkness had fallen several hours earlier. Jeyne had shared a very light meal with Sansa in her room, now much less cluttered since the earlier removal of all the packed bags and chests. Both girls were nervous and time seemed to drag on; they mostly kept their thoughts to themselves, waiting for any sign of Queen Cersei's promised intervention. Jeyne watched as Sansa fidgeted more and more, her face growing ever sulkier. The quiet jingle of a team of horses approaching the tower at a walk foretold their near departure even before the knock on the door by Cayn, one of Lord Stark's men, who had come to escort them from the tower one a last time.
They met with Arya and Septa Mordane in the stairwell. Arya too carried an air of resigned disappointment. Only the Septa tried to maintain a cheery mood. At the bottom of the stairs Jeyne's father, Vayon Poole, Lord Stark's Steward, gathered her up in a tight farewell hug. She embraced him back just as strongly, sniffling back tears. Once released from her father's arms, she stepped outside, to see that many of the twenty Stark household guards who would accompany them were already mounted and tTwo large carts were halfway loaded. Jeyne's father led her past the column of guards to a docile mare and helped her mount.
When all the men, except her father and Lord Stark, suddenly reached for the swords at their belts, the height of her horse gave Jeyne an excellent vantage point. At least a score of gold cloaks, some holding torches, marched from the vicinity of the bailey near the main gate toward them. They stopped a dozen yards away and the formation of the city watch parted to reveal the figure of a slender, short man.
"Baelish," Lord Stark's voice menacingly rasped out. "What do you do here?"
"I feared the hour might be perilous, my Lord Hand," came the answer with a slightly amused tone of voice as the dapper little man stepped forward to be better seen in what torch and moonlight lit the yard.
"How so," the lord snapped back.
Lord Baelish's eyes scanned back and forth at the assembled Stark might, such as it was, in King's Landing; pausing only once, to rest for a moment on Sansa. "Why else are you skulking in the middle of the night, my Lord? I am not the only one to realize that in the game of thrones, even the smallest of players," his eyes settling first on Arya and then on Sansa, "have value. Even considerable value."
"Which is why my children, of no concern to you, Lord Baelish, are returning to Winterfell."
"Tsk, tsk. But it is my problem, you see." And as he spoke he slowly took small steps forward, bringing him closer to Lord Stark. "After all I did promise dear Cat I'd do my best to help you, and with only twenty of your household guards to escort sweet Sansa and young Arya to the Wind Witch, it appears to me you need all the help you can get."
"How did you discover this Baelish? Have you been spying on me?"
The glint of white off his teeth revealed his smile as he laughed. "Of course I have my Lord Hand. How better to know when to aid you. However the better question is if I know, who else knows?"
A grimace came across Lord Stark's face. "Varys," he declared.
"And if the spider knows, then who else surely knows?" spoke Lord Baelish as if talking to a child.
"Cersei."
"And thus I come with Allar Deem to offer you a score of his best gold cloaks to assist these stalwart northern lads of yours in getting your family," reaching out a hand to gently pat Sansa, already astride a horse, on the thigh, "safely to that galley from Braavos."
"And will you stay as my guest until word returns that the Wind Witch has pulled away from the quay?" Lord Stark asked suspiciously.
"Certainly," he softly chuckled, "and Allar too. I hope your taste in wine runs to vintages from the Arbor. I am terribly thirsty for a fine golden." He rubbed his fingers together. "I am Master of the Coin after all."
The long procession, Winterfell men on horses and gold cloaks on foot, passed out of the Red Keep once Baelish's man Allar Deem gave orders for the portcullis of the outer bailey to be raised. The street leading down from Aegon's Hill seemed terribly desolate to Jeyne, though she acknowledged she had seldom been outside the Red Keep at night, and never so late. Near the base of the hill, the party veered to the left on to the Hook. Several blocks down all hands went to weapons as several men rushed out of a tavern, drunkenly yelling. After the first was dropped by a slap to the side of his head by the flat of a gold cloak's sword, the yelling increased, but the louts turned and ran back inside.
The Hook ended when it joined with Muddy Way, and only a short distance after that moved them into Fishmonger's square. Even at this hour a few merchants and workers were busy preparing for the morning, repairing their stalls, off loading new wares. Various scallywags, vandals, and churls skulked about, up to no good, but at the approach of the riders escorted by gold cloaks, all but the most foolhardy disappeared into the shadows.
The River Gate proved more difficult to pass through, as it was fully drawn shut. Gold cloaks shouted at their brethren to open it, which initially was ignored. Fat Tom, apparently placed in charge by Lord Stark, even threatened to come up and knock heads if the Lord Hand's orders were not carried out. Eventually some coin passed into the gatehouse achieved the desired result and the portcullis rose, but only after fifteen precious minutes had passed.
The party wound through the ramshackle Fishmarket, toward the docks. Finally a voice hailed, "The Wind Witch!" Jeyne felt her nerves, drawn tight by the long, secret night time journey, start to relax. In less than a minute she spied a ship, light shining on it from long torches mounted on the dock beside it. Then the first sounds of men dying reached her ears.
Two motley bunches of half armored wretches carrying swords and cudgels surged out from between shacks on either side of the fish smelling muddy road. Jeyne shrieked.
Cruel hands snatched the reins from her hand and reached up to tug her out of the saddle. A flashing blade caused a spray of blood to shoot across her and the hands fell away.
Men crowded in front of her, blocking her from Sansa and Arya.
A surge of three gold cloaks pushed in and swept the scum back. She dug in her spurs and the horse leapt forward toward the light, her friends, and the ship.
Her horse passed around one of the carts and Jeyne saw Septa Mordane slumped over, a hand axe buried in her chest.
Four or five men grabbed for Sansa and Arya. Suddenly a slender, long blade appeared in the young girl's hand and Jeyne watched the child stab one of her attackers in the face. A club whipped around and smacked Arya a glancing blow in the side of the head, staggering her, as her weapon dropped from her hand.
Without a thought, Jeyne again put spurs hard to her horse and drove it right at the man grabbing at Underfoot. Her mount sent the man sprawling and Jeyne reached out to stop Arya from sliding out of her saddle.
Fat Tom drove his sword into the back of one of the men clutching at Sansa. The other turned and crossed swords with the stout, older guard.
Shouts! Loud shouts! Jeyne spun her head and saw ten or so men charging down the dock toward the confused melee in the dark. "Sansa! The ship!" she screamed. All three horses lurched forward. Again Arya almost fell off, but both Jeyne and Sansa snatched at her, keeping her aright.
The sailors, carrying scimitars and spears, rushed past them. At the edge of the dock one large man, wearing mail, gripped their reins. "Sansa Stark? Arya Stark?" he demanded in a loud voice.
"Yes!" Jeyne yelled, so did Sansa. Arya only moaned.
"Come!" he commanded, yanking them one at a time off their horses and pushing them toward the boat. Welcoming hands helped them across the foul gap twixt dock and ship. Then a whistle blew. All three girls slumped down on the deck, crying. Soon they heard feet running down the dock and leaping onto the gunnels of the boat. In fear they looked up, but only saw the smiling faces of men dressed like sailors, some carrying bloodied weapons.
A faint sense of movement, the sound of water slapping on wood, thrummed up through the boat. "We're moving." Jeyne gasped.
"Safe," sighed Sansa.
The tall man in mail suddenly stood in front of them, bending down to get a better look at them in the dark. "Welcome aboard the Wind Witch. My name is …"
"Lothor Brune," answered Jeyne. "You defeated Jory Cassel at the Hand's Tourney."