The Bloodwine plowed through the rough seas, the three banks of rows on each side of the war galley sweeping backward, forward, backward to a steady beat. The outer pickets gave way, allowing the mighty ship flying the burgundy grape cluster banner of House Redwyne unimpeded access to the heart of the Royal Fleet. Trailing behind the Arbor's flag, the rest of Paxter Redwyne's convoy carrying Lord Eddard Stark's host began to spread out, searching for sea space to take station within the growing armada. The Stormbreaker turned aside, as did the Crowned Stag and the Battle Turtle, at last revealing the Queen Cersei, with twenty or so oars sculling lightly to keep the behemoth holding aloft King Robert's Black Stag standard in place.

The Bloodwine's speed dropped as the Oar Maester called for a slower beat on the Bosun's Drum. The Sail Maester soon let out a bellow and several dozen able seamen ran out on the top deck and heaved on the halyards to lower the galley's two lateen rigs. When the two giant sheets were halfway down and being wrapped around the lower spar, the Maester Pilot called out a new mark and the helmsman pulled on the wheel, causing the rudder to push out and cut into the salty water. The ship began a long arcing turn to make it parallel and aside of the King's flag vessel. Twice more the pilot called out minor course corrections, once because Paxter Redwyne heckled him into doing so. With only a hundred feet left before the Bloodwine's prow pulled even with Queen Cersei's stern, the Oar Maester blew a staccato call on his whistle and the oars on the port side, nearest the oncoming King, quickly got pulled back in through the rowlocks. The dozen oars on the Queen Cersei's starboard side promptly matched the Bloodwine's and moments later the screech of wood rubbing on wood filled the air as the sides of the two ships fought to embrace each other. Lines shot through the air and sailors tied the galleys together.

"Took you damned long enough, Paxter!" the loud, booming voice of the King carried over the deck. "Thought I might have to have a go at that arse Greyjoy all by myself."

Robert Baratheon seemingly grumpy face, seen leaning over the gunnels of his ship's slightly higher poop deck into the Bloodwine, suddenly broke into a huge smile. "Gods it's grand to see ya Ned. Hop aboard and we can drink a bottle while I show you the plan for storming Lordsport and caging that blasted rebel in his castle."

Seeing the grinning face of his best friend, years of responsibility visibly flowed off Ned, revealing in one of the very rare moments the happy youth who must have existed in the Vale before the flames of Lyanna and Rhaegar, Robert's Rebellion, and the Tower of Joy tempered his soul; always the dark shadow cast by the Tower of Joy.

"Gladly, your Grace," the Lord of Winterfell called back with a grin, already moving for the ladder down to the deck.

"'Grumble grumble grumble', your Grace," Lord Redwyne muttered indistinctly, but loudly into the wind.

The smile never left the King's face. "You too Paxter. With Stannis off blockading Great Wyk, you're now senior captain of the fleet. I would never dream of planning a sea assault on Lordsport and Pyke without your expert advice. Besides, I couldn't serve Lord Stark a bottle of your special golden reserve without you present to guide his dull northern pallet through the experience."

The crotchety, orange haired man bobbed his head low enough in acknowledgement to the King that his bald spot showed. For a second, with the Redwyne lord stooped over, the Stag caught Lohgun's eye and jiggled his eyebrows to express his amusement in dealing with the overly touchy, but extremely important noble.

"And bring ugly hide over as well, Badger," the Stag thundered on Lord Redwyne's departure. "Can't leave Ned without his pointy clawed bodyguard." The King craned his neck around to see who else he might spy and know aboard the Bloodwine. "Don't suppose Willam or the Greatjon are over there, eh little man?"

"No!" the wildling shouted back, shaking his head for emphasis. "Will stayed home and the dumb giant is on another ship with his bannermen."

"Oh well, can't be helped then," Robert proclaimed with a disappointed shrug, right before a mischievous look spread across his face. "You'll have to do Badger, even if I shit things bigger'an you are."

Lohgun popped the Stag a one clawed salute, prompting a gale of laughter from the mighty warrior King.

A royal liveried steward led Lohgun into the great cabin aboard the Queen Cersei; the King, Ned, Lord Paxter, and some unknown elderly sea salt were already gathered around a table smack dab in the middle of the space, staring and stabbing at a detailed map of the Iron Islands with fingers and hands.

Robert sneaked a look up at the wildling's entrance, "Took you long enough, Badger. Why don't you grow some longer legs?"

"Where's the wine?" Lohgun said gruffly, answering the banter with his own question.

"Thoros," the King grunted, and then turned his head back to look down again at the table top.

"Over here, friend" chirped a jolly voice laced with the honeyed accent of Myr.

On the far side of the table, partially blocked from view by the muscular bulk of the King and the solid presence of Ned, sat two men. So Lohgun started to navigate his way around the large table, toward them and the promise of grape.

"Oh, I wouldn't be too quick to call him friend. He looks rather like a pimp I once knew in the dodgier part of Lannisport," came an overly affected, aristocratic Westerland voice, apparently attached to a blond haired man in his late twenties or early thirties sporting well groomed mutton chops and a connecting mustache. "Had the loveliest whores you'd ever care to romp away an afternoon a top of; or beneath for that matter."

"I take it this paragon of honor met a ghastly demise?" the bald headed man from Myr asked wryly.

"Quite. Chap found religion," words that caused the blond man to shiver. "He still roams Sunset Hill, seedier looking in his Septon robes than ever he did dressed as a seller of nubile flesh." Sigh. "But now he only blathers on about the sin of fornication instead of its pleasures." Sigh. "Death would have been kinder. He's turned me off seeking whores at Sunset altogether."

While the bald man was chuckling nearly all the way through the story's telling, Lohgun arrived and planted himself in front of the two. Each man reclined in a comfortable chair, a table sporting several bottles of wine lay between them, and each clasped a fully laden goblet. Both men wore red. The bald one wrapped in the long, flowing robes of a red priest. The dandy inside a silken shirt sporting the sigil of a golden lion. Both their faces appeared relaxed and sported the rosy cheeks of men well into their cups, but where the priest's eyes were welcoming with the tiniest hint of banked flame, the dandy's eyes were almost rheumy, reflecting the boredom of a man who had seen all life had to offer.

"But you're not Brother Pox Bane, are you?" the blond inquired rhetorically.

The wildling grinned at the Lannister's relentless droll humor. "Lohgun."

The dandy pointed at the red priest with a smirk. "And this tub of lard, and lard he has for the robes just hid it well, is Thoros, …"

(rusty)

"… a servant of R'hllor, and master of flame, shadow, and the King's wine chest."

"A pleasure, Ser," said Thoros, picking a spare mug off the wine table and handing it to the wildling.

"Meeting you or drinking the wine?" chirped the Badger.

"Oh I think I might enjoy this one," interjected the Lannister.

Lohgun sniffed his cup. "Me too, bub. But Paxter will be disappointed, this red is a sour Dornish, not an Arbor. Still, I'd rather drink a beer."

The Lannister sat up, looking intrigued. He place his fingers atop his head and ran them back through his hair and down a queue held together by a dapper bow.

The jolly priest laughed yet again. "Being such a clever northman, you've already figured out my companion is a Lannister, but about the only one our dear King seems able to stomach."

The blond smirked, "And that includes my dear niece whom Robert named this atrociously uncomfortable galley after." The man held out a hand, which Lohgun reached for. "Gerion, youngest brother of Tywin, the Great Lion of the Rock himself."

(wyngar …)

The Badger clasped Gerion's hand. The ship gave a brief lurch. The light in the great cabin dimmed as dark clouds rolled in to obscure the sunlight which had shined in through the large windows at the stern. Thoros got up and excused himself. Lohgun took his seat and began talking with Gerion. Conversation seemed so easy, so unguarded with the man.

(wyng …)

Ned, Robert, and the others droned on and on in the background. Lohgun found himself retelling his earliest memories, of being found above the Wall by rangers, of their attempts to tame him, and how the Chief Hound finally agreed to allow him to go with Qhorin, Mance, and a dozen others on a ranging in pursuit of wight spore; only to discover white walkers attacking a village of licensed wildlings. The eyes, the old man eyes, simply drew the story out of him.

(wy …)

Lohgun blinked hard. The sun shone again in the cabin. The wildling looked about the calm room, all but him, Gerion, and the King stood near the map table. The Stag's brawny body took up most of the cabin's main doorway. The dead eyes of a stolid looking maester could barely be seen over the top of one of Robert's huge shoulders as the man whispered some message into the King's ear. Ned finally caught the Badger's gaze.

"You're craftier than most, Lohgun," his friend said. "Do you have any ideas on the assault?"

Paxter Redwyne gave a harrumph at the notion of asking such a non-entity as the Badger. Ned just smiled at the interruption and added, "Well?"

"Point me at'em and I'll tear'em apart for you," the wildling enthused. "Sea, beach, land; they're already dead, they just don't know it yet."

"That's the spirit!" Robert called. "Ours is the Fury!" he hollered.