Lohgun grunted. The muscles of his neck, chest, and right arm bulged out near as thick as the cordage supporting the sails on King Robert's Hammer. Salty sweat dripping down his cheeks touched the corner of his lips. He grimaced. The Badger sucked in a huge breath; every sinew heaved, face turning purple, eyes bulging from their sockets. Lohgun's grunt turned to a groan. His opponent's huge right hand, wrapped around and clutching the Badger's own paw, wobbled and moved backwards an inch.
Buuuuuurrrpppppp!
The stench of ferment grape wafted into the short, stout man's sensitive nostrils.
"That's … nasty," he gasped.
The large, muscular man sitting across the narrow table from Lohgun guffawed at the accusation. "You farted last bout," he laughed cheerfully. "Almost cleared the deck with your vile wind. Didn't he Barristan?"
The ramrod stiff middle aged man standing guard behind the King smiled politely. "T'was right glad I had this white cloak to cover my nose, your Grace."
"See!" shouted Robert Baratheon the First of His Name, gleefully. "So what's a little scent of Arbor red to that?!" he asked rhetorically. "Speaking of which …" And without a quiver or twitch to show he suffered any strain from the Badger's arm wrestling assault, the King reached over with his left hand to pick up a flagon of that very vintage which shared the table top with two powerful, large elbows. The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms smiled as he slipped the mouth of the pitcher to his lips and started draining its contents into his thirsty belly. Until finally he set the flagon back down, proclaiming, "Ahhhhhh, that warms the spirit."
"Best five of nine then," the Badger snarled his challenge.
"But I haven't won the fourth bout … yet," the Demon of the Trident teased, right before flexing his bicep. The back of Lohgun's hand, well actually his hand wrapped around by Robert's fingers, smashed down on to the table top.
"Damn!" the shorter man swore heatedly. The King released his grip. Lohgun lifted up his mangled hand and started massaging out the indentations made in it.
"Hope I didn't hurt you, little man," Robert chortled.
The middle claw of his right hand popped up. Snickt! "Fuck you … your Grace."
The Baratheon Stag's chortle turned to an outright roar of appreciative laughter. "You northerners never show the proper respect to your betters. Seven Hells, I couldn't even convince Ned to come to Lannisport for the Celebration Tourney. Noooooo!" The King's deep bass slid up several octaves in imitation of a woman, "I have to get to Winterfell in time for the birth."
Lohgun pursed his lips and then let them droop into a frown.
Robert's "Cat's already delivered him two. She's clearly fertile; there'll be more after this one, eh?"
"Yes," the Badger answered with a lack of enthusiasm.
"And he missed the worst of it. The belly growing fat, the crankiness, the mooooooood swings, not letting you touch her." Robert shook his head in disgust. "May the gods bless me like they did Ned and I'll be happy to stick a babe in Cersei the night before I leave for a good long war!"
"Your grace!" cried out Jaime Lannister, striding in gold plate armor and a white cloak down the long deck of the royal warship from the prow. "Lannisport."
A childlike grin spread across the King's face. "No ill looks from you Badger, there's a Tourney to enjoy. And the best part," he hooted, "is that my sourleaf of a goodfather will pay for it to thank me for smashing those cutthroat Greyjoys. You'll be entering the Melee, won't you Badger? I'd like some competition for a change."
"I will," Lohgun mumbled, feeling miserable inside.
"Good, good. My war hammer might have a hard time finding such a little man in all the tumult. You'll do fine," Robert Baratheon rambled.
In the nine months since Victarion Greyjoy and the Iron Fleet burned Tywin Lannister's ships at their moorings, enough of the hulks had been salvaged to make Lannisport useable again. Twenty galleys and forty cogs carrying the cream of King Robert Baratheon's army were coming to visit and celebrate the subjugation of the Iron Islands back under the yoke of the Protector of the Realm. Warriors from the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, the Reach, and the Westerlands all looked forward to landfall and its bounty of taverns, gambling, spirits, and whores. Most definitely whores. The salt wives and rock wives of Pyke, Great Wyke, and Old Wyke were a dreary lot of damp, lumpy flesh.
With King Robert's Hammer near four hundred oars rapidly closing the distance to the city's main pier, Lohgun sniffed the air. Through the sea spray and fish, around fresh cut wood and paint, a hint of smoke still tenaciously clung to the waterfront, another recipient of the Iron Born's generous offering of fire at the start of their failed rebellion. Yet by the hard work of the small folk and certainly a liberal dose of Westerlands' gold the harbor gleamed and bustled. A fair amount of the supplies used to keep three separate sieges going had originated here. And as savvy a lord as Tywin Lannister was reputed to be, he had undoubtedly squeezed his share of the profits out of that venture.
With such a large fleet arriving and it flying the Stag banner of the Baratheons, Lohgun began to search for signs of the Warden of the West who would surely be present to greet the arrival of his King and goodson. He squinted against the strong sun, looking for a particularly large red and lion banner to proclaim the man's presence. A large shadow of a pair of wings flew out over the water and hovered over the ship. The Badger grabbed at his forehead as an impossibly hot, sharp beak pierced his forehead. The short, stout man collapsed to the slowly rolling deck.
Lohgun opened his eyes. He floated high, high in the air; wind whipping past him. He saw mountains and where the land sloped down to meet the sea. The sensation unsettled him, he felt like vomiting.
(logan)
(logan)
(logan)
"Leave me alone," he snarled. Without looking, he knew a crow with three eyes soared next to him, barely more than an arm's length away.
(fly or die)
(fly or die)
"I can't!" he screamed in frustration more than terror.
(fly or die)
As always with the nightmare, he didn't need to look to know he plummeted towards the razor sharp, jagged mountain peaks.
(beyond the wall)
"Beyond the Wall"
(beyond the wall)
"Beyond the Wall"
(beyond the wall)
"Beyond the Wall" he chanted. The gods damned bloodraven always repeated itself in threes, since the first time his mind saw and heard it decades past at Castle Black. His impotence triggered a mindless rage. The Badger automatically tried to spring his claws, desperately wanting to skewer the taunting black bird and end the dream. Nothing appeared from the back of his hands as he flailed his arms about.
The middle eye blinked once and the crow faded into night.
A boot nudged him none too gently, "Get up little man, get up," groused the hard voice of the Greatjon. "The King's standing. What did you drink that didn't make him fall over too?"
Lohgun opened his eyes. He lay on the deck in the large shade cast by the Umber's huge body. The ugly, bearded face of his friend stared down at him."
"Must be the food."
"Bloody tough food to knock you over little man." The giant lowered a hand.
Lohgun accepted and found himself lifted back to his feet in an instant. He looked around in the bright sunlight. He cupped a hand over his brow and stared up to the top of the mast. There sat a massive raven, but with only two eyes.
"Quit gaping before someone shits in your mouth Badger," the Greatjon rumbled. "Time to make our fancy greeting to the High and Mighty Gold Shitter himself and his fat brother."
"Where?" the Badger asked.
The Lord of the Last Hearth pointed to the dockside, where Robert had already disembarked to meet his wife's family. The tall, bald man with huge golden sideburns talking with the King matched the descriptions of Tywin Lannister, but failed to do justice to his essence.
(shaw)
And standing next to Tywin was his brother Kevan, clearly another Lannister; shrewd, intelligent, and strong but his girth made him somehow not quite as impressive.
(leland)