Part 17 – Any Port in a Storm

Jeyne (III) - November 23.

All the Wind Witch's cats seemed to have taken to gathering in Jeyne's tiny little cabin over the last two days. Any time their keepers' unlocked the door to bring a meal or swap out the slop bucket, a slender furry figure might slip out in search of food; or, a new feline dart in and hop up on Arya's bunk. And now in the darkness before dawn, both she and Sansa were covering their ears in annoyance, and maybe a little fear, as the current quintet of visiting tabbies and spotteds in the tight compartment caterwauled and hissed incessantly while more outside the door joined in on the unholy shrieking. Jeyne curled up on a bunk beside Sansa didn't doubt the ears on each one of the little devils were pulled back and flat in postures of anger.

"rr-yowww-eeow-rr-yow-or!"

"rr-yowww-eeow-rr-yow-or!"

"Myup!"

"merrow! Merrow! MERROW!"

"MYUP!"

"RR-YOWWW-EEOW-RR-YOW-OR!"

Amazingly to Jeyne's ears, the feline cacophony seemed to crescendo and then abruptly peak. Within a minute, only the sound of heavy panting, purring, and an odd gurgling noise filled the smelly cabin.

"Go see what's happening," Sansa squeaked from her protected position up against the bulkhead.

"You do it," Jeyne snapped back, remembering the swift claws and nips of the temperamental, fiendish tomcats. "It's your sister they're … in love with."

"gwah, gwah."

Sansa nudged her.

Jeyne nudged back.

Sansa responded by extending her curled up knees into Jeyne's back.

"Stop it," she whined, feeling her body pushed towards the edge of the bunk.

"ilk … flahn."

Jeyne grabbed on hard to the thin mattress. "Ooof," shot out of her as she tumbled out of the berth, a blanket trailing behind her, and smacked on to the deck.

"Meow?"

A soft thud landed next to the girl's head. A paw softly pushed against her shoulder. Jeyne tensed.

"mier-r-r-ow."

"Niiiiiice kitty," Jeyne answered, tentatively reaching out a hand.

The little monster rubbed its neck against her wrist.

"Purrrrr. Purrrrrr."

"Sig-ill. Ga-nuff."

The purring stopped and the nearly invisible cat crouched and leapt back up to the top bunk.

"What is it?" Sansa called softly.

Jeyne half moaned, half sighed in frustration at her friend. "Dunno." She slowly stood up, peering through the gloom and darkness to make out the bundle of cats, some revealed to be rolled up in tight balls and other undefined lumps stretched out. "Arya?" she whispered, maybe, barely detecting the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of the sheet spread out over the injured child.

She reached out a hand toward …. "AGGGHHHHH!" she screamed in fright.

"AH-AH-AH-AH!" Sansa shouted from below hysterically.

A hand had grabbed Jeyne's wrist.

From the light of the lanterns brought into the cabin by Ser Lothor and the Wind Witch's First Mate, Arya's grey eyes showed white with terror.

"Ga-Ga. Ixall," she sputtered nonsensically.

"It's alright Arya. You're safe with me on a boat," Sansa said, trying to sooth her sister, gently running a hand up and down the waif's skinny arm.

"Do you understand me child?" the hedge knight asked gruffly.

"Hava … hava … HAVA!" Arya replied, clearly agitated.

'Old Gods save her, she's as stupid as Hodor,' Jeyne thought despondently.

Lothor Brune grimaced. "Can you nod?" he demanded harshly.

The slip of a child blinked once, twice. Then her head bobbed up and down.

A slight look of satisfaction appeared on his tough, bulldoggish face.

"Jibidah?" Arya blabbered.

"Quiet," the man ordered. "Follow my finger, girl." And Lothor Brune pointed a forefinger and began moving it slowly in front of Underfoot's long horse face.

Her grey eyes, now looking a little less scared, easily followed the callused digit back and forth.

"That's good Arya, very good," Sansa's quivering voice encouraged.

"You were hit hard on the head, Arya," Jeyne interjected. "Do you remember? Back at the wharf?"

"Uk-uk," which made no sense, but at least was accompanied by her shaking her head no.

"Grab my hand," the hedge knight ordered.

Arya complied.

"Squeeze harder."

Lothor Brune seemed to grunt in satisfaction.

"Will she recover?" the First Mate asked bluntly.

What might have been a reassuring smile spread uncomfortably over their 'protector's' hard used face. "The body responds well. But head wounds are tricky things. That barber seemed to know what he was about. Go send someone to bring him here."

As if in answer to the very command, the sound of teeth clicking came in through the doorway. "Do my two eyes see the wild child no longer among the sleeping?"

If Jeyne still had any doubts as to who Florio the Barber/Syrio the Dance Master was, they immediately vanished as Arya Horseface became gleefully frantic at the sound of that sing-song, Bravosi voice. "Harba, gutup … ganish," spouted out of her mouth and she tried to sit up in bed.

"Stop, stop," Ser Lothor rumbled, grabbing Arya's shoulders and pushing her back down into the bunk.

Several cats hissed, upset at the sudden movements.

"Is right, the great knight. Not to sit up now. "Florio clicked his teeth. "Girl not speak much, but has head to move, yes?"

Arya's head shook excitedly.

"Is good. You have hurt to head." And he tapped the bandana covering his own shaved dome. "Lucky girl hard so of bone here. Understand?"

More head wagging, which Jeyne suddenly realized looked quite funny, as Arya's head was wrapped in some yucky sailor's smallclothes and out of the top of which dangled some of Horseface's kinked, greasy black tresses.

"Other ways of speaking have, not just with mouth and tongue and teeth, but with fingers," Florio/Syrio declared as he pulled a ratty piece of parchment and a charcoal stick out of a bag attached to his belt. He handed the two items to Arya. "What is your name, wild child?"

"Skivitch … gun," she muttered, gesturing back at the barber/dance master.

He smiled gently. "I know my name. Florio. Barber to sailors."

And with that, Jeyne caught the quickest of winks pass from the Braavosi to Arya.

"Your name. Now write," he chided gently.

A – R – Y – A appeared in big, wobbly letters.

"Ah, just so," he said with a smile. Then he pointed at Sansa. "And her name, remember it, yes?"

S – A … Arya's hand drooped. She sighed and then continued to scribble … N – S – A.

Florio/Syrio's teeth clicked with satisfaction and he turned to look at Lothor Brune. "The clever still in girl. She tire. Need more sleep. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, brain teach mouth how move again."

A dubious expression skipped across the bulldog face of their 'protector.' "Alright, everyone out. Ahem, not you ladies of course," he said, addressing Jeyne and Sansa. "Would you like to keep a lantern?"

"Yes, please good Ser," Jeyne's friend answered sweetly. "So we may check on my sister if she needs us."

"And the cats?" he grumbled. "They sounded like demons from the Seven Hells. You want to keep them?"

Arya shook her head 'yes' to the question, while the mangy creatures' ears slanted back and they hissed in anger.

"Suit yourselves, then," he replied, and backed out of the cramped space.

Florio/Syrio handed a wine skin to Sansa, "See she drinks." He tapped his head. "Sleep best potion for brain." Then he smiled at Arya. "We finger talk soon, yes?" He winked and stepped out as well.

When the door shut, Sansa swooped down on Arya to hug her. For the moment, the cats didn't seem at all to mind sharing the bunk.

November 29.

Thirteen days! Thirteen days locked up and terrified on this Braavosi, or actually Myrian according to Syrio, ship had at last come to an end. The Wind Witch stood placidly in the watery roadstead off the busy port of Pentos. Jeyne stood anxiously on the gently swaying top deck of the galley together with Sansa and the still mute Arya under the watchful eye of Ser Lothor Brune. Several ship cats strolled between their legs, rubbing up against them, partially distracting the girl from the amazing vision tantalizing her senses. Even through the strong, salty scent of the Narrow Sea, Jeyne recognized the teeming smells of a mighty city and its untold mass of humanity. The odors were similar to the revelation King's Landing had been to her bland northern nose, but somehow even more exotic: mysterious spices, sweat of unknown beasts, and smoke from fragrant woods all mixed in with the stench of hundreds of thousands of people packed cheek by jowl, all birthing and living and dying together in the crowded metropolis. And the sounds and sights of the city hovering in the distance offered a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors, unusual architecture, and the strange beat of foreign tongues all wrapped up in the unending call of the sea. Two days earlier, when the Wind Witch first glimpsed sight of Essos, Ser Lothor had promised the trio that this bizarre city held a secret safe haven for them; one supposedly prearranged by Lord Stark with the drab yet competent Hedge Knight in the event open rebellion broke out against the King and his Hand. This promise, again according to Syrio, was a false one. So as a crew of deck hands lowered the galley's pinnace over the side and the great unknown lay spread out in front of the girl, Jenye began to yearn for the familiar fear of the trio's cramped, fetid, vomit stained prison of a ship's cabin.

Splash!

The pinnace settled in the water and a couple of mates tugged sharply on a pair of ropes to pull the Wind Witch's tender snug against the hull of the ship. Another pair of sailors threw cargo netting that was attached to the gunnels over the side. Several rowers and a coxswain then promptly scrambled up, over, and down into the pinnace.

"Time for you to climb a little, my lady," the Hedge Knight politely, but firmly, addressed Sansa.

Jeyne's auburn haired friend and social superior tapped her foot irritably. "Ser Lothor, I really must insist," she demanded petulantly. "My dear sister is still quite ill and this Florio of the ship's company has proven a healing balm to her." Sansa's head pivoted about trying to spy out the clandestine dancing master turned surgical barber.

"Aaah yulk, hip dig vin," Arya's gibberish spat out in agitated agreement.

The middle aged, nappy grey haired man sighed audibly through his tourney melee squashed nose. "My Lady, we've already discussed this … more than once. Admirable as this Florio's help has been. He is only a barber." The Hedge Knight raises a hand, palm side up to gesture out at the city beyond them. "The city boasts a guild of trained physic practitioners, from which the lowliest of journeymen will know more how to nurse Lady Arya than simple Florio."

'Oh he's not so simple!' Jeyne thought angrily. 'Hey, who's winking at me?' The girl focused her gaze on the back of a group of bandana wearing, shirtless sailors near the bow. 'Syrio!' The man wore his typical good humored, wide grin.

His smile split wider when he realized the girl had at last taken note of him. The Braavosi pointed a hand towards the shore and then curled and uncurled his fingers to make a shooing gesture.

Jeyne pouted, not wanting to leave him.

Syrio dropped a slow wink and then slipped back to disappear completely from view.

"Degobugha!" Arya cried.

"Ser, unhand me!" Sansa snapped, indignant that anyone, and especially a knight who should know better, would touch her without clear permission.

Jeyne realized the Hedge Knight was practically man handling her friend over the gunnel. She bent over and quickly whispered in Arya's ear. "Syrio wants us to go."

Horseface blinked in surprise and started to open her mouth in protest.

Jeyne repeated fiercely, yet quietly, "It's true, he must have a plan." And then she stood up straight as the Hedge Knight turned away from the now descending Sansa and announced in a voice that well hid her fears, "I'll go next."

When Sansa reached the pinnace, Jeyne climbed over with the help of Ser Lothor and put her feet in the rungs of the cargo netting. Her eyes grew big. The seeming little tender wasn't all that tight up against the galley, as the gaps of deep blue sea water that shown up at her revealed. And it was a good twenty foot drop down. She screwed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, and started blindly feeling for the next rung. Down a step. Down a step. Down … ooops, try again. Down a step. Down a …. "Ahhhhh," she shrieked. Rough callused fingers grabbed her and set her down on the oscillating pinnace to a round of laughs from the amused hands.

"Zee po grun va," Arya announced and quickly started swinging a leg over the gunnel, eschewing any assistance from the Hedge Knight.

Almost immediately a fierce chorus of outraged cats caterwauled above and out of Jeyne's view.

"Hing wha du!" Horseface shouted, shaking her head from side to side in disgust. After a brief pause the waif thin girl continued her descent as hisses, cat growls, and undoubtedly claws filled the air.

By the time Arya settled in on a seat in the middle of the pinnace, the sounds of feline warfare ended and a great big tom, whom during the voyage they'd named 'Snow Eyes' for the pale splotch of fur across his face, leapt up on to the gunnel. Horseface raised two hands and blubbered, "Pisoop rewt." The cat meowed uncertainly. Arya wiggled her fingers in a come here gesture. The cat looked down a moment and then jumped.

The rowers gurgled in surprise.

The boat shook lightly as twenty pounds of tomcat landed softly on the only open bench.

This time the crew let loose a brief cheer at the display of acrobatic dare doing.

Lothor Brune looking down from above simply shook his head in disgust, picked up a valise, and climbed down the cargo netting into the pinnace. As the sailors above let the ropes holding the tender to the galley drop down into the bow and stern, the Hedge Knight and the tomcat held a brief staring contest as to who would own that last seat. Snow Eyes decided he'd rather perch next to Arya than tussle with the old man.

After twenty minutes of rowing the pinnace passed through the wide gap in the jetty that separated the roads from the inner harbor of Pentos. Within it, galleys and carracks and ketches and cogs sat bobbing at anchor, packed near tight together as a barrel full of fish or grains in a bowl full of mush. The smells of the city only grew stronger as they approached and now Jeyne could discern individual people, some dockworkers on the jetty and others sailors diligently working or lazing idly about their ships. Many, maybe even most, sported flamboyantly dyed hair; greens or blues or maroons, whether it was flowing intricately or wildly off their heads or burnished into long forked or bushy beards.

Lothor directed the coxswain to take a slight turn and head toward one of the many wharfs by going between four sleek, double banked galleys, each one sporting a banner of an outrageously buxom, weeping woman. As they neared the first one, a green haired man with big gold dangling earrings aboard the ship whistled mightily once; then almost immediately again, but this time with an oddly quavering pitch. The call brought several handfuls of similarly dressed, coifed ruffians over to the rails of all the galleys, where they began hurling insults down at the much smaller pinnace and its crew. The coxswain shouted out something in Braavosi to the rowers and the beat of their pulls remained steady, at least until the uncouth sailors started to pelt them with trash. Immediately the coxswain stood up, despite the now uneven strokes by the put upon scullers causing the tender to wobble, and flung violent sounding abuse back at the dastardly lot. Jeyne, despite being much taken and more than a little afraid sitting on a bench behind the Hedge Knight, oddly noticed that of everyone she could see on the pinnace, only the Hedge Knight didn't look up at the whistles. He just kept his pug ugly face staring straight ahead, head bobbing and weaving in unison to the tender's herky jerky movements.

The raised tempers lasted for a few minutes until they passed out of the watery, intimidating alley formed by the four galleys and approached a crowded dock, where wooden ramps led down to long, thick looking rafts that floated abut to the wharf's retaining wall. Their small tender slowly back oared until an opening appeared and the rowers then quickly hauled on their sculls to dart the boat into the space, receiving rude shouts from another launch that apparently had hoped to snag the same spot. As Ser Lothor hustled the girls off the pinnace, the coxswain, evidently still riled, stood up and started shouting something undoubtedly vulgar in Free Cities' pidgin Valyrian at the rival tender until the Hedge Knight dropped a small pouch of coins in the foot of the pinnace. Instantly the man's nasty composure changed to all business and he bent over to collect his bonus.

"The silver's for you, Otte. Be sure to spread the copper, all the copper, among the lads," the middle aged man called.

The coxswain narrowed his eyes in displeasure at being told what to do with the purse.

Ser Lothor laughed. "Do as you want then my friend, but don't blame me if you wake up one morning with a red smile." And the Hedge Knight drew a thick thumb across his throat while making a gross cutting sound. Apparently done with the Wind Witch and clutching his battered leather valise, he turned his back on the pinnace and addressed his three wards. "When we reach dry ground," and he pointed up the nearer ramp busy with scruffy workers carrying heavy cargos up and down it, "walk slowly and carefully. You've been at sea for two weeks and it'll take a day or more for your land legs to return. Don't be surprised if you find the earth spinning on ya; or if you puke."

The girls grimaced, they were well experienced at vomiting aboard ship in heavy seas and had firmly believed coming ashore would end that predicament. Snow Eyes however, perched next to Arya casually licking a paw, just mewed disdainfully in response to the man's advice.

Now it was Ser Lothor's turn to narrow his eyes in displeasure that his trio of wards appeared to have permanently gained a fourth to their numbers.

As the covered cart pulled by two heavily muscled men, bare above the waist except for a bronze collar, maneuvered along crowded streets and past square brick towers, Jeyne looked excitedly out the front; watching beggars cry for alms, humble freehold wives and plainly clothed servants crowd about food carts and trader stalls, ragged urchins run and play, nobles and rich merchants exquisitely bedecked in pastel or florid shaded silks enter shops out of which the most amazing perfumes permeated, and brown garbed septons and red robed holy men preach the word of god. Sansa on the other hand lay back as far as she could in her seat, quietly moaning in misery, her pale complexion turned an unhealthy grey-green. Arya however sat contently stroking Snow Eyes, who lay in her lap purring away. While Ser Lothor, eyes alert, never let his hands leave either the pommel of his short sword or his travel worn satchel. After an hour or so, the cart turned off a modestly busy thoroughfare and moved on to a wealthy enough looking street that hosted both multistory buildings made of painted bricks constructed right at the curb and hints of elegant manors hiding behind tall stucco coated walls.

"Here," the Hedge Knight grunted. When the cart didn't slow, he roared, "Stop!"

The two porters jerked to a stop.

Ser Lothor jerked a thumb at the girls indicating they should climb out, which they did. The Hedge Knight quickly followed and flipped two small coins at the men. Then instantly forgetting them, he strode confidently up to the salmon colored door fronting a bright yellow painted three story brick building.

"Why Lothor Brune, as I live and breath!" a pretty blonde haired woman, a bit plump and past the first blossom of youth with an olive complexion, squealed. "And are these our special wards? Why there's three," she said with a touch of surprise. "Well never mind, come in please, you are all most welcome." The woman who wore a simple white satin dress, though of light weight and a loose weave, with a golden pendant of the Mother pinned above one breast stepped back to let them enter. The foyer was spacious, with wide stairs leading up, comfortable looking and graciously furnished sitting rooms on either side, and a small passage to the back that likely led to the servant's quarters. She led them to the lounge on the left and ushered the three girls (and one cat) to a pair of plush, upholstered sofas. "You pretty darlings look fit to collapse, poor dears. Have you had anything to eat or drink?"

The tiredly shook their heads. Sansa looked perhaps even greener at the mention of refreshments.

"Ser Lothor," she scolded kindly. "Never send a man to do a lady's chore," she confided in them as she picked up a small hammer from a table beside on of the sofas and lightly tapped a gong with it. "Now which of you delightful creatures is Lady Sansa?" the welcoming woman asked.

"I am," the auburn haired girl mumbled, trying to straighten herself up and act the proper lady. "So kind of you to offer us your hospitality, Lady ….?"

The woman chuckled. "Call me Nym, dears. I'm no lady, only an expelled Septa," she announced plainly. "Though," and she gestured at her white gown, "I try to keep some of the old ways."

All three girls gasped at the pronouncement, while Ser Lothor snorted quietly, but in obvious amusement.

"Behave, Ser Lothor," she again scolded him in a tone that held little heat, though she did raise what suggested to be a formidable eyebrow. "He can laugh dears, because he knew the gallant, handsome knight who swept me off my feet. Wounded he had been, during the Greyjoy Rebellion, which is where he met Ser Lothor and made an impression on Lord Stark."

The girls perked up at the hint of a love story.

"He was recovering from his wounds at the hospital my motherhouse set up in Old Town to assist all the brave knights of the Reach. For weeks dear Deron hung between life and death, my Mother Septa ordering me to stay by his side. Such curly red hair he had. Well," and Nym's voice fluttered with emotion," at last he got better and swore t'was my tender touch that salved his wounded heart." The blond haired woman then started to blush. "And he touched my heart such that I never took my final vows at the motherhouse." She sighed.

All three girls sighed too.

"Well enough of me, you are my special guests," she declared.

Jeyne was enchanted by the brief love story. Already she wondered what had happened to Ser Deron. He didn't appear to be in the house. Was he alive? Had he scandalously left the love struck septa?

"Which of you lovelies is Arya?"

"Oova dum," Horseface responded in her gibberish.

"Oh my poor dear," Nym gasped dramatically. "Have you been hurt?"

Arya nodded.

"She took a blow to the head," Jeyne answered.

"And here I thought they'd simply shaved your hair because of all those filthy pests infesting your ship," she nearly wailed.

A man in simple, but clean brownspun clothes arrived in the doorway to the sitting room, he carried a tray upon which fruits and breads and cheeses rested.

"Paxton, please take that upstairs, the girls can eat in their rooms, I'm being a dreadful hostess. You girls need to rest," she declared. "Please follow me," and with that Nym swept out of the room back to the foyer.

The girls, one cat, and one Hedge Knight followed this pudgy little blond tornado.

From the foot of the stairs their hostess gestured towards the servant's passage. "Go make yourself useful Lothor, though I can't imagine what that might be. Come girls, come." And she started climbing to the second floor. "Would you care to rest first, or perhaps have a bath drawn. I'm sure you can't wait to scrub the salt and sea and ship off you."

"Rest, please … Nym," Sansa said quietly. "A bath when we awake would be a blessing, if it's not too much trouble."

"Pshaw," the disgraced(?) septa mewed. "No problem at all, I promise. Now here is your room," and she gestured through an open door to a large room with a window fronting the street. Apparently her man Paxton had already come and gone as the tray of food sat on a table located between two beds.

As they passed their hostess, her hand swept over the sailor rags they wore.

A disapproving clucking escaped Nym's mouth. "Oh these clothes just won't do ladies. Won't do at all. You need something finer and I now just where to get it. You'll like being pretty again I dare say," she said with the confidence of a mother or maybe an older, already married sister.

Nym stepped in behind them and laid a gentle hand on Jeyne's shoulder. "I'm sorry there's only two beds for now, but we can have that fixed tomorrow. Alright?"

Jeyne returned a weary smile.

Nym lowered her voice and asked kindly, "And who are you dear? So quiet and serious and pretty. Are you their servant?"

"Oh no," she stuttered. "I'm Jeyne. Jeyne Poole. My father is Lord Stark's steward. I … I'm not sure who I'm supposed to be."

"I think you're supposed to be my friend. Would you like that?" Nym asked solicitously.

"Yes, I'd like that," the girl answered gladly, feeling secure for the first time in two weeks. 'Perhaps Syrio had been wrong.'