Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 41: Myths and Monsters
"The tides of darkness come again."
– Princess Lyarra Stark
The raven had flown in through the great doors as if it owned the place, circling around the rafters without a care. Serana had noticed her Uncle Rodrik watching the bird – as if he'd known somehow what was to come – on dark wings with dark words to come. She'd watched quietly, largely ignoring the idle chatter of the lords present.
What started as a usual dull gathering of nobles turned on its heels in a flash. Serana eyed the raven lady curiously, too young to have known her until now…
"Speak," King Rodrik had demanded of his supposed sister, with an edge of winter to his words.
"What words should I pick?" Princess Lyarra asked him, an eyebrow raised in question.
"All of them," Prince Edrik decided for his twin and king.
"Tell us everything," Rodrik demanded once more, eyes narrowed – some strange mix of fury and longing.
"Very well," the raven Princess grinned, a feral thing. "The cold winds are rising, Your Grace. The tides of darkness come again..."
It seemed that her aunt had some great flare for the dramatic, or she was touched in the head; only the gods knew.
The King merely scowled at her words, demanding she "Explain" in his confusion and growing annoyance.
"Where should I begin?"
"The beginning," Serana answered, earning a glance from her family.
It seemed that most of them had forgotten she was present in the hall, except for Brandon.
"What?" She shrugged innocently at her kin. "All good stories start at the beginning…"
"Serana Stark," her Aunt Lyarra named her – with a gaze that felt strange – for whatever reason. "You, I like…"
"Um-" Serana blinked in reply. "T- Thanks?"
"How's the egg doing?"
She blinked again, confused at the sudden question.
"The silver one dear," Lyarra seemed to enjoy toying with people. "From the giant chicken, hmmm?"
"You've an egg?" Darion's eyes darted over to his cousin.
"I um-"
"Several," Varin muttered, not taking his eyes off the Princess.
"And a child too," Cregan added with a roll of his eyes. "She's hiding one in her cabin…"
"A child!?" Prince Edrik barked, with a father's fury in his eyes.
"N- NOT MINE!" Serana practically screamed the denial.
Her cousin Brandon was trying and failing to stifle his laughter.
"Explain yourself young lady," Edrik growled then. "I swear if-"
Lyarra Stark began laughing, heartily and loud, earning glares from them all.
"How in the hell is this funny Ly-"
"I dreamt of you," Varin blurted out, his hand absently stroking Freki's fur.
"I know," Lyarra merely smiled at her nephew.
"Leave us," Rodrik decided with a sigh. "All of you, I'll speak to her alone…"
"Brother," Edrik frowned. "She's my-"
"Know," the King told his twin. "There will be time after, I'm certain; but I must speak to her alone brother."
Her father looked ready to argue Serana thought, watching as the Prince and King traded glares; before one of them broke.
"So be it," Edrik huffed, sparing only a moments kind glance to his lost sister.
Princess Lyarra didn't seem phased by any of it. That smile hadn't faded.
"Serana, come!"
She followed her father without complaint.
"You too Darion," Rodrik told his heir with a glance.
"But father-"
"I must speak to her alone."
The young heir seemed conflicted. He had so many questions…
"Come along cousin," Brandon encouraged. "We'll spar, eh? I fear fighting those savages might've dulled your skills…"
"Has bloody not Bran," Darion scoffed in amusement, nudging the older prince as he passed him by with a smirk on his lips.
Rodrik gave a nod to the young man as he turned on his heels, off to keep Darion's mind occupied. In a moment's passing they were alone as Lyarra told her tall tale of green men, gods, magic and demons; recanting her brother with old tales of heroes and speaking of myths and monsters. The king found himself cursing the gods.
Brandon was the eldest and only son of Prince Artos, nephew to the now King Rodrik at the young age of only eight and ten, a man in the eyes of his family and a capable swordsmen thanks in large part to his father's teachings; he was determined to prove himself as his father's son and one day surpass him... but that was no small feat…
The familiar sound of clashing steel echoed in the air of the ancient palace as two young wolves fought, without any eyes to watch them fight. They were alone.
They now stepped around an imaginary circle. Brandon, the eldest of the pair, stepped the opposite way while maintaining his distance and preparing to defend against any blow. Prince Darion was a year younger, less patient and quickly grew tired of waiting, lunging forward in his frustration over being dismissed from the great hall.
Their swords locked and the sound of steel echoed while the pairs wolves sat silently beside each other, looking over their masters dutifully.
Prince Darion's sword was void-black, its surface gleaming; almost oily – with an unsettling aura. It was forged from the great two-handed axe his uncle Cregan had once found in a sunken temple. King Rodrik had ordered the blade melted down and reforged into two swords for his two sons. One for Darion, another for Varin.
The swords held a certain alluring if not unnatural beauty to them. He'd name his Lightsbane, while Varin took to naming his simply Sharp.
"If I have to call it something," Varin had shrugged, uncaring when he'd been asked. "I'd just call it Sharp."
His brother had never been one for the fanciful things in life. Sharp, was the name, despite protect – it had somehow stuck.
"You're upset," Brandon eyed his cousin, easily parrying the young heirs strikes. He wasn't trying – not truly – he just wanted to hit something.
"She's my damn aunt!" Darion Stark snarled, using his strength to push himself free. He swung with all his might and smirked as he seemed to gain the upper hand for a moment, pushing his opponent further and further. He swung Lightsbane forward, hoping to end things there and then. Too confident. Too brutal a lunge.
"Mine too," came the reply as Brandon side-stepped, easily dodging the strike and disarming his foe.
"Gods damn it," Darion pouted, standing idle as his cousin picked up his void-black sword and tossed it back to him.
"We'll have time to talk," Brandon took a step closer as he feigned a parry; only to bring his sword up, wrapping it around his swords edge then sliding it down the outside of his blade, jerking his own sword inward and causing Darion's sword to fly out of his hand. Leaving the younger Prince without his blade once more.
"Damn it," Darion sighed, feeling his anger calm somewhat. "Thank-
"Thank you," Brandon bowed at the non-existent audience. "I'm here all week, ladies and gentlemen…"
"Never mind," Darion rolled his eyes at the mummery, though he'd not fought the smirk at the nonsense of it.
"Getting sloppy I see brother," came Varin's voice from the hallway, with Sharp strapped to his hip.
"I'm tired little brother," came the defence with a weary sigh.
"He's pissed," Brandon corrected, sheathing his blade.
"Aren't we all," Varin hummed his agreement. "She's…"
"A bird person?" Brandon added unhelpfully to the conversation.
"Our aunt," Darion's frown returned. "And alive… but how the fuck is that possible?"
"How is a ten-foot giant chicken-eagle with silver quills possible," Varin countered, less of a question than a statement with a roll of his grey eyes. "The world is full of mystery brother; can't say I'm wise enough to unwrap the puzzle – it's called a mystery for good reason, isn't it?"
"Thank you, brother, that speech was ever so helpful…"
"I try," Varin smiled innocently. "Now, how about a drink eh?"
"Half the city is burnt ruins," Brandon raised his brow in question.
"The other half isn't though cousin; the lads must've left us something…"
That was doubtful. All the 'spoils' from the seizing of Ibben had been given to the King for distribution.
"Ryder's got some of the good stuff," Varin's smirk turned devious.
"How do you-"
"I have my ways..."
Darion scowled at his brother.
"A drink sounds good," Brandon agreed, looking to the heir for his decision.
"Gods," Darion groaned. "Fine, damn it all, fine – you win brother…"
"Don't I always?" his brother beamed proudly in his mockery.
"In your dreams," Darion pushed back his brother and walks down the hall, taking a right at the end.
"It's to the left!" Varin called out to him, his voice smug as they watched Darion turned around and head the other way.
Some drinks would do them good, Brandon thought as he walked with his cousins, after all the fighting and Varin's encounter with that giant chicken… well… they were far from the only people on this damn island that needed a drink. As it turned out, Lord Ryder's heir shared the sentiment, welcoming the Princes to drink with open arms.
The lion was grander than those in the mountains back home, with its pristine golden fur – a far cry from tan – it almost seemed to gleam as it lunged forward, its short red-gold mane brushed aside with the winds; the great cat roaring as the whole world seemed to shake. Its jaws ripped away at his throat…
Varin felt the teeth sink into his flesh, yet it was a cold feeling, the numbness of a winter that brought with it the threat of years.
That numbness spread like waves crashing onto rocks, colder and colder with each sudden crash.
The lion was watching him now, mouth awash with crimson and a look of… disappointment…
"I- I'm sorry," the voice wasn't his own. It felt older, tired, distant; so very far from his ears.
He died with a name on his lips, but Varin couldn't quite hear the whimper of it. It faded as quickly as it came.
"Dreaming, are we?" A new voice gripped him, the world fading away like summer snows; all for her…
"You…"
She was smiling. As a matter of fact, did she ever stop smiling?
"Now now dear Nephew," The smile was an unnerving thing, for he knew it for what it was. Lying. False…
"Aunt Lyarra," he begrudgingly named her, more from primal fear than kinship – like a beast that knew itself hunted.
Lyarra Stark stepped forward, placing one absent hand atop the lion's mane as the creature growled furiously in reply to her touch.
"You don't like me," she turned her eyes to the lion as it cracked and burnt under her palm as a gust of wind blew its ashes away.
"That's more of a statement than a question…"
"Is it?" She'd winked with her reply. "I say what I see…"
Never before had a simple wink ever terrified him to his core.
A thousand questions rang against his skull in the moment, but one demanded an answer here and now.
"Why are you here?" Varin decided, starring at her as she watched the ashes blow away on a strong northern wind.
"To see," came the frustratingly unsatisfying answer. "To say what I see, such as it is dear nephew."
"Riddles it is then, eh?" Varin huffed at her, hand moving to where he'd hoped to find his blade – but the dream hadn't fought to give him-
"Your sword," Lyarra held one out – suddenly in her outstretched hands from thin air – though it was not His sword.
"That isn't mine," he snarled at her, once again more seeming more wolf than prince in the dream.
"Oh, but it is," came the smirk, a twisted and cunning thing – he'd not be fooled by it.
The blade was of ice, crystalline and razor thin; glowing a sickly pale blue.
"Frostbite," he thought to himself at the mere look of it. His Uncle's sword…
"No," Lyarra replied as if he'd asked aloud. She tilted her head, as if in thought. "Yes…"
"Fuck your damn riddles," he snatched the blade from her hands and gripped it without thinking.
The cold hit him first. In his heart, not his hands; as it clutched his very soul and SQWEEZED in a titan's grip.
"G- Gods," Varin fell to his knees, unable to breathe as the biting cold gripped the core of his very being; hungry and without mercy.
"Language," Lyarra scolded mockingly, teasingly, all with that smile. "You really must work on your repertoire little wolf..."
"W- What the FUC-"
It gripped his soul even tighter – whatever It was – as cold as death.
"No," Lyarra told him as his vision faded. "Not death. Not quite. Not yet…"
The dream faded to black with his breath, but he could Feel her smiling at him in the darkness; beckoning him to her…
"FUCK!" Varin screamed out to the waking world, clutching at his now breathing chest and darting eyes back and forth around him; with hand clumsily grasping for anything that might resemble a sword. As he eyed the surroundings, they were still in the rundown tavern from the night before… alongside the others…
He found Sharp in the dim candlelight, gripping the handle and finding it oddly warm to the touch. Not quite hot, but there was a warmth to it.
Varin was ready to swing at the woman, aunt or not, he screamed at he moved to lunge.
To the hells with his fucking repertoire. To hells with HER!
"YOU FUCKING BITC-"
"GODS DAMN IT LAD," Came the very Not-Lyarra sounding gruff voice in reply.
"Some of us have a bloody hangover boy," another growled at him. "I swear, you Starks; bloody mad the lot of ya!"
Varin blinked, lowing his midnight blade and catching his breath.
"W- Where is my…"
"Prince Darion left us to our drinks early lad!"
"Boys lost his memory heh…"
Ah, shit, that was right… Darion had never been much of a drinker…
"F-" He made to curse, then decided to mutter "Bitch," instead; smirking to himself at his boundless genius.
Take THAT scary dream invading aunt raven-lady. Heh…
"Ryder," Varin looked to the man he knew to be Bolvar Ryder. "What time is it…"
The heir to House Ryder blinked at him, eyes bloodshot as he frowned and replied, "fucked if I know lad!"
"Louder than Hangovers," Varin mumbled his mockery of the Ryder words, strapping Sharp to his belt, stumbling out of the tavern and into the cobblestone streets of Ibben's Port. His head was practically stabbing him as he walked – were it possible for a brain to wield a knife, then his surely did. "Never drink with Ryders…"
The passing thought of "You really must work on your repertoire" would've made him smirk if it weren't in his aunt's voice, or if it weren't a ludicrous notion.
"Fuck off," Varin mumbled curses beneath his breath to no one in particular.
The first thing one noticed were the sails – hundreds of them – both filling the dockyards and anchored in the bay of Ibben.
All around him was full and bursting with activity, waking with the dawn; he knew the banners well. The bear of Mormont, the shark of Fisher, the horse of Ryder, the anchor of Wright, all aside the direwolf of Stark; prominent on still waters. The smallest and most numerous vessels had two square rigged masts and were impressive enough on their own to most folk, but The Shipwright rested in the heart of the fleet with three masts, three great decks, and its great snarling direwolf figurehead.
Varin's eyes darted around as he watched men and women scurry across the dockyards of Ibben, all frantic; about their duties tasked by their captains.
The docks were separated into groups that clearly represented the dominant naval strength of the Winter Fleet, those of Mormont and Flint being overshadowed by the banners of Fisher, Wright and the numerous Starks. Prince Varin brushed through the crowds, heading for a man who's face he knew well enough.
"Lord Hodir," he halted by the old lord, eyeing him and the commotion around them as it unfolded.
"Prince," Hodir Wright smiled at him, as warm as the summer sun – far from the coldness of his own aunt.
"What's happening?"
The old lord hummed, handing off some parchment to one of his men.
"Another trick of your aunts I fear," he shifted uncomfortably at the mention of that woman. "They arrived in port last night – Mormont's wargs caught sight of em; with purple sails and purple hulls too, calling themselves friends of Prince Snow. My son has vouched for them… he's with the King as we speak…"
"Arthur vouched for em?" They claimed to know his uncle too, these strangers. "Where did they come from?"
"The West," Lord Wright answered with a forlorn look. "Barry, or some such place; gods know lad."
"Where is my father?" Varin pushed, with too many questions for this old man to answer.
"He'll be with your brother and young Bran on the Shipwr-"
Varin turned on his heels to leave the docks behind him.
"Lad!" Lord Wright barked at him as he moved to leave. "Your father left you clear instruction…"
"Gods sake," Varin muttered under his breath.
"You're to sail with us it seems, Prince…"
"With you?" Varin fought the urge to frown at that notion.
"Don't look so gloomy lad," old Lord Wright smirked kindly at him then. "I'm not so old as to be such a burden on you, am I?"
Varin shook his head briefly. "It's not that," he denied easily enough. Lord Wright wasn't a bad man, as far as his father's bannermen went, he was perhaps one of the few truly good ones. Still – regardless of the man's nature – orders were orders. "What's to be our course then, eh, my lord Wright?"
A large column of men paraded down the cobbled street behind them in response, flying the banner of Stark at its head with the rampant wolf of Greystark flying proudly beside the direwolf of their founders. "Your aunt's friends from the West sent us their regards; talk of a war and the like – it seems young Prince Willam has been busy…"
"Uncle Will does have a habit of finding trouble," Varin muttered as he eyed the Greystark's marching by with respectful nods in his direction.
"That he does," Lord Wright kept his face stoic. "War, the Antray fellow spoke of – or was it Antarra? Antary?"
"Getting old I see, Lord Wright… forgetting our guests names…"
"Prince Snow," Wright shot him an uncaring glance. "With age comes experience, young man…"
"Would that my brother were years my elder then," Cregan replied with a weary sigh.
"War is it then, Uncle?"
Cregan looked at the boy for a moment before speaking.
"It appears trouble follows my brother like a damn shadow…"
"Plenty of shadows about of late," Lord Wright added sagely as he looked over some parchment. Crew assignments and cargo, one assumed…
Varin knew – at his best guess – they were probably a keeping of spare parts and crew numbers.
Lord Wright was nothing if not a vigilant man.
"You're coming with us then Uncle?"
"Aye lad," Cregan confirmed with one hand resting on his pommel.
"Someone has to pull Prince Will from the fire," another walked up to their little gathering.
"You'll never put out that fire I fear, Arthur…"
"We can try," Arthur Wright shrugged in reply. "Plenty of ocean out there; it'll drown out any blaze."
Is that what they planned to do then? Drown their enemies with the tide, cut their throats and bleed them into the sea perhaps; just as the King had done to those green skinned natives back east? Poor savage bastards. "When do we leave?" Varin asked of them, deciding it was best to not voice his doubts aloud.
"Within the hour," Arthur answered him, his eyes glinting proudly. "Father had tasked me with finding you, young Stark…"
"Well then," Varin supposed, resting one hand on Sharp's pommel. "You've found me, Lord Arthur…"
"Not a Lord lad," Arthur smirked at him. "That'll be my brother before me!"
"And not for years yet," the old Lord added with a huff in reply.
"Gods willing father," Arthur looked kindly at his old man. "Gods willing, we've a great many years till we're to suffer Uther's rule!"
Lord Wright briefly chuckled at his son's words before rolling his eyes and turning away with muttered talk of "youngsters" and the like.
"Prince Varin," came a voice from the shadows.
Varin wiped the frown from his features before he turned, plastering on a fake smile to face him.
"Duran Greystark," he named the shadow, standing in silent vigil with a flank of Greycloaks and two wolves at his sides.
Freki moved over in an instant, all black; strong and large with one large scar over his eye from Griffin's claws.
"Good boy," Varin scratched behind his ear.
"Lead us on a wild goose chase, he did…"
Duran didn't look happy, but then… when did he ever look anything but sullen?
Varin made a mental note to give Freki a treat later for keeping the grey shadows off his back for so long.
"You're to accompany us then I assume Greystark?"
"I am your sworn shield, Prince Varin…"
"Would that he'd remember it," Cregan added with a scowl for his nephew.
Freki growled at Duran's wolf in reply, though it seemed unconcerned. Lupa was her name, she-wolf and mother to many litters.
There were numerous bloodlines among the Greystark's wolves; royal or not – while the biggest and strongest were often present as gifts to the ruling Starks – the rest served the Greystarks who in turn served the Starks. Freki was brother to Fenrir, Darion's wolf; with Volki as their smaller nimbler brother.
There were others – beyond count truly – or at least, more than Varin cared to remember. Sol, Flash, Vigil, Skoll… many others…
Greycloaks were often flanked by their shadows, wolves following their masters loyally; just as the Greystarks followed the Starks.
"Princes," speaking of shadows; one such man casted a great one – standing at some eight-foot tall.
Lord Towers was a monstrously tall individual. His family blade was aptly named Titan, strapped to his back, looking as daunting as always – the blade as tall as Varin was; as wide as a man's forearm, it made of dark blue tinted steel of various shades that rippled down the blade like waves in the ocean.
"My Lord," Varin didn't bow his head. He might've if the man didn't stand some two feet above him… but still…
House Tower's was not a powerful family, but they were as proud and as fierce as they were tall. Titans of Winter, they often claimed.
"My boys are ready," the giant of a lord spoke down at Arthur as if he'd somehow insulted the man's mother.
"See to the kings orders then my Lord…"
Towers left with a hum of agreement, turning with his snow-white cloak bellowing behind him.
"Lovely man," Arthur mumbled quietly.
"No matter," Cregan dismissed the notion.
Tower's weren't to be trusted – they'd all been taught that much as boys.
A single vigilant black tower on a field of white. Tall, proud, strong, vigilant… all in abundance and fit to bursting….
Varin's father had told him a story of them once. House Tower's claimed some distant kinship to the Stark's of Winterfell – calling themselves a cadet branch where they've no business doing so; spinning tales of how they were Lord's of the Neck in the ancient days, ruling from Moat Calin before they brought down the Hammer of Waters with aid from the children to sink the land; crushing some grand Andal army in the process and saving the whole damn north. Such was the story at least…
Winterhold's library spoke of another story, far less grand, of an arrogant king who toyed with magics beyond his blood and tore the very land asunder.
The Green Men claimed there was magic in a man's bloodline. This was the reason the old ways bid them hang their foes entrails from trees.
"Old legends," he'd heard his grandfather dismiss them once long before his passing.
"Myths are for children," King Brandon had told him as a boy. "Monsters? Those are just men…"
"Women too," Varin's thoughts drifted to his new-found aunt. He couldn't shake the cold whenever his mind lingered on her…
There was always some underlining truth to myths though, Varin thought quietly, a frown etched across his face.
"Prince?" Duran's voice snapped him back to the world.
Freki's wet nose nudged at his hand, earning the wolf a silent smile.
"Come on then," Varin decided, shaking away the frost from his bones. "We've a Stark to hunt!"
"I wish you wouldn't phrase it quite like that, Prince…"
Varin ignored the man as he walked towards Wright's ship, up the plank and onto the deck of The Wrightwind – as fine a ship as he'd ever seen, though it held no candle to the Shipwright far out in the bay where his father and brother were – with Brandon at their heels, ever the dutiful cousin that he was, eager to please the King.
It was a fine sight, as the Winter Fleet lifted anchor and set sail towards the western horizon. He almost didn't see Serana hiding amongst the crew. Almost.
He shot her a knowing smile – only to earn a glare in reply – as his smile turned sour, eyeing a raven flying between their sails.
The andal 'common' tongue was a strange thing in Rodrik's opinion; fancy and flowery, but Manderly had taught them the gist of it these past few months.
Ezio Antaryon was an ecstatic man – despite the circumstances – his little venture eastward had born fruit; just as he'd hoped it would. News out of the east was usually a dull affair full of fables or talk of horselords and savages, but there was always news of some kind. So when word came from Lorath of refugees fleeing wolves… well…
His weakness had ever been curiosity. The Three Princes of Lorath had called for aid, though in truth all knew their power laid with the Magister council.
"The Free Cities are hardly friends," Ezio was telling his hosts with a kind smile. "War is bad for trade however and trade, Your Grace; is our lifeblood…"
King Rodrik hadn't seemed to blink once since their meeting.
"There needn't be war," came the reply after but a moment pause.
He'd done that on purpose to add an edge of steel to his voice, Ezio knew, this King of Wolves.
"A sentiment my father and I share…"
"Your father is well then?"
"As well as last I saw him Prince Snow," Ezio hummed in answer, nodding to the man only briefly. "My thanks for asking after him; most kind of you."
"He was good to us before brother," Cregan looked to his king then with his view.
"As fine a host as ever," Arthur Wright added from his stance. "I couldn't complain Your Grace."
"Strange taste in pets," came Marlon Manderly's voice with a huff, recalling his encounter. "Good enough sort though I'd say."
"You flatter us my lords," Ezio smirked at their praises. "His invitation stands, to speak in person…"
"So be it," Rodrik decided easily, his steel-grey eyes darting. "Lord Antaryon, we-"
"Please," he interrupted. "My friends call me Ezio…"
"Ezio then," Rodrik corrected. "We accept your invitation."
"Grand news," the Sealords son clapped his hands. "Shall we drink to it?"
He'd reached for the jug without offer, happily pouring himself a cup of dark blood-red wine.
"Gods," Ezio exclaimed after taking a sip. "What vintage is this!?"
"Imperial Red," Rodrik answered him plainly.
"From the far east," Cregan explained. "We've friends other than yourself, Lord Ezio."
The wine seemed to have a not-so-subtle threatening aftertaste, but he liked it – making a mental note to discuss trading in the future.
"I should very much like to see these friends for myself sometime…"
"In time," King Rodrik halted him swiftly. "We've more pressing matters, no?"
"Alas," Ezio made a show to sigh, gulping down a mouthful of the wine. "Another time then, yes?"
He put the cup down, moving his finger gingerly across the map laid out on the table before them all.
"The Axe," he tapped at a peninsula on the northern coast. "We'll need to pass by here, where more friends await us…"
"Lorath," Rodrik replied, more statement than question.
"Norvos too," Ezio smirked once more, scanning the room's faces for reactions.
"Quite the popular man aren't you…"
"I'm a likeable individual," Ezio shrugged innocently.
"These men of Norvos," Rodrik pried bluntly. "How friendly are they, truly?"
"Terribly unfriendly in all honesty," Ezio admitted freely and uncaring. "Lorath and Norvos have been claiming the Axe since long before my time – or even my fathers – in ages past; the borders of Lorath once reached so far… but they lack the strength to enforce their own waters yet alone distant claims such as this…"
"What about Norvos?"
Rodrik stared at the man, who had avoided the question somewhat.
Ezio's smile turned cunning at the look. The sealords son seemed to be enjoying himself terribly.
"Their land stretch as far as the western bank of the Darkwash and the Rhoyne to the west," Ezio regaled them with his answer, like a man teaching children unaware of things all men of Essos knew well. "What the fairness of Lorath lacks in manpower, the Norvos make up in axes; for their pale sunny lands aren't so fair."
"Poetic," Darion huffed from his father's side, eyeing their guest curiously.
"Life is too short to not enjoy yourself, my young Prince," came Ezio's amused counter.
"It sounds like Norvos and Lorath are more like to fight each other than fight us Lord Ezio."
"I would agree under normal circumstances," Ezio tilted his head ever so slightly in reply. "Your arrival on our stage is enough to sway arrogance…"
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," Prince Brandon muttered from his cousin's side.
"Oh, I like that very much," Ezio had heard every word of his mumbling.
"Words are featherlight," the King of Winter countered easily. "The best alliances are born of mutual interest."
"Now who's being poetic, eh Your Grace?"
Ezio had laughed at that, pouring himself another cup of blood-red wine.
"Braavos stands with our sister cities," he declared coldly after a gulp of wine. "We may have our differences – even fighting from time to time – but is that not what family does? Norvos and Lorath will swallow their pride or risk ending up like Ibben, a fate none wish to share. You sent your message, Your Grace, and we've heard it."
"I was taught to put out embers before they becomes blazes," Rodrik argued, eyes narrowed at the man.
"A wise lesson – do not mistake me – you'll not find the Free Cities shedding tears over Ibben… but our own cities however…"
"As discussed," Rodrik dismissed the notion. "That is not my intent, Lord Antaryon."
Ezio frowned at the oh so formal use of his family name, putting down his cup of wine.
"Sail with me then," he put forward once more. "Meet with my father; let us share interests…"
The king hummed in thought, darting a look to heir and waiting only a moment for him to speak.
"We accept once more Lord Ezio," Prince Darion spoke with his father's approving glance.
"Excellent," Ezio lifted up his cup to them all. "To Friendship then, my good lords?"
"To shared interests," King Rodrik lifted his own cup as his lords and heir followed suit.
It would do, Ezio thought with a smile; glad to have things going so smoothly with the wolves.
There had been talk from Norvos of war – this much was true – though neither Lorath nor Braavos were interested in such an outcome. It would be peace and a prosperous future, not war and blood. There would need to be a treaty of some kind... assurances written and promises made… but these were matters for another day…
My Note(s): A relatively short and originally 'unplanned' chapter (at least by My standards anyway) but I wanted to throw some extra PoV's here before we headed back to Westeros, leaving this chapter off with a portion of the Winter Fleet setting sail for Braavos by invitation in the aftermath of Rodrik's little conquest of Ibben. I skim over the 'language differences' without fussing over it much – you've Manderly/Cregan/Arthur and a couple others that've taught Rodrik n Friends the basics; though their grasp of it isn't excellent – it's an aspect of the story that pops up on occasion. Language will come up with Willam in the next few chapters, actually, in theory.
Next chapter, we're off to King's Landing to catch up with events there. Suko's having a simply marvellous time in the capital :)
Dave/Guest/246vili: Excellent :) Scaring people with the direwolves was the whole idea – sadistic bastard that I am! :D Greywind was meant to worry people haha.
Jeric: Jon/Dacey isn't set in stone, though I do like the concept. She doesn't know Robb's considering Moat Cailin for him; but the son of Ned Stark (bastard or not, he's a night and well respected by now) would make a fitting husband for her with their children taking the Mormont name. There are others to consider too especially if/when Jon's named a Lord, you'd have numerous nobles trying to push their daughters on the newest branch of House Stark. Life has a way of being unexpected, so we'll see.
Force Smuggler: It was genuinely odd to write the wedding without any deaths happening, didn't feel natural, but there IS several subtle differences between the canon version of the wedding and this version; not limited to the quality of food that was served as just one example. In the books, Frey served trash, while Here he didn't etc.