Bronn

This Lord business could be very odd at times, he thought as he sat on the rock and cast the hook of his fishing rod carefully into the river. He'd found this place on his third day of being Lord Foxhold. The river held trout. His river. His trout. He pulled gently on the line, let it out again and then peered up at the sun. Oh yes. A lovely day and some fishing. It didn't get better than this.

Of course some people didn't like the fact that he was Lord Foxhold. The names confused him at times – Bronn Cassley, Lord Foxhold. Mind you, the last man to hold the title had been called Cawlish. He shrugged internally. One of his neighbours was one Lord Derkin, a younger man with a large nose and next to no chin. Oh and a raging snob. He'd been horrified by the fact that the new Lord Foxhold was not nobly born and had curtailed his one visit quite sharply.

On the other hand his other neighbour, Lord Flinters, seemed to approve of him. The older man had left a few hours before and had been a fount of good advice. "All nobles were smallfolk originally," he'd muttered to him in his solar over a cup of wine each. "And anyone who says different is an idiot. There are lords alive now whose grandparents or great-grandparents were sellswords, or merchants or whatever. Look at the Riverlands – the Tullys were originally lesser lords before Aegon arrived, whilst in the Reach the Tyrells were stewards to the Gardener Kings!

"No, lords come and go. It's what you do that counts. Old Jordy Cawlish was a good man, but his wife was never able to give him children. He loved her dearly. And now the Cawlish line is gone."

Bronn had sipped his own wine. "Not entirely gone," he had replied shrewdly, causing the older man to peer at him quizzically. "I saw the likeness of my predecessor on his tomb. Bore a rather striking likeness to my Steward, Ursula Stone."

Lord Flinters had grunted with approval. "You noticed that did you? It was the one time that he strayed. He was a good man, as I said. He regretted hurting his wife – she found out, he was terrible at keeping a secret – but he loved his bastard daughter. Kept her close and taught her well. But he could never bring himself to get her legitimised. A shame. I think he wanted to, in his last days, but by then… it was too late."

A shadow flitted to one side in the water and he gently pulled the lure to one side slightly. He had to admit that Ursula Stone was a fine Steward. She knew the Foxhold backwards and forwards and she knew the land like the back of her hand. The only problem was that she seemed to loathe his very existence. Which was fair enough. If he'd been in her place then he would have loathed him as well. It just made life a bit, well, awkward.

He sighed. That wasn't the only thing that was awkward. This news about Lord Arryn's wounding and the disappearance of his wife… well, it made him uneasy.

He tilted his head to one side. All of a sudden he could hear horses off to one side. Fast horses, being driven hard. And in a team. He looked to one side. Yes, there was dust being kicked up by something on the road that was just on the other side of those trees. He looked back at his lure. It was nothing to do with him.

But when the carriage emerged, being pulled by a lathered team of horses he did look over. The three men at the front and on top of the carriage were looking about wildly and when one of them saw him he waved furiously. "Ho there!"

He sighed and looked at them. "Can I help you?"

"Where are we?"

"Don't you know?"

"We were in a hurry and got turned around. We are to the North of Saltpans are we not?"

"Aye. This is Foxhold."

The man looked at his companions with what seemed to be confusion. "Foxhold?" he called back at Bronn. "Is there a Maester here?"

"Aye, there is," Bronn shouted back as he reluctantly reeled in his lure and then stood up. "What's amiss?"

"We… we have a sick woman here," the first man replied. "She needs a Maester. Is there a ford nearby or a bridge?"

He peered down the line of the river. "There's a bridge to the Foxhold about a mile that way. Of course you'll need Lord Foxhold's permission to get into it. The Foxhold that is."

The two men stared at him and then at each other. "And where is he?"

"Here. I am Lord Foxhold."

The men peered at him, then at each other and then back at him. Well, he was wearing an old pair of breeches, scuffed boots and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his usual fishing attire, but he didn't look that bad did he?

"You're Lord Foxhold?"

"I am."

"Er-" But whatever the man had been about to say was lost as someone within the carriage screamed something. Whatever it was, it was totally incoherent and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. What was going on?

"I think whoever that is does need a Maester. Swing along the river and you'll soon see the bridge." He peered at the rise behind him and the tree where the roan he'd taken from the stables was tethered with a feedbag over its nose. "I'll meet you there." Something was niggling at him, some feeling that something was very wrong here.

A man on a horse could always beat a team, pulling a carriage, especially as he could ride across the bend in the river when they had to follow the curve. By the time they reached the bridge his curiosity had been well and truly piqued by the livery that the men were wearing. They looked like Valemen – and from House Arryn.

And the last news from King's Landing had all been of woe for that house, with the Hand of the King injured and his wife missing. So who were these people? And who was the woman?

As they road to the Foxhold he looked at the sweating man who was urging the tired horses on. "So, who is this lady?"

The man looked at him almost fearfully. "Lady…. Lady Barnley. On her way to, er, the North. To see her son."

Bronn did not stare at the man, nor did he sigh and shake his head. Whoever he was he had no idea how to lie. "Oh aye," he said instead. "Lady Barnley. Fair enough." And then he caught a whiff of something. It was coming from the closed carriage and it hinted at corruption. Just a whiff, but he had smelt it before. Whoever was in the carriage was injured – badly enough that a wound was tainted. It explained the earlier incoherent scream.

He nudged his horse on ahead and as they approached the gates of the Foxhold he waved at the guards. "Get the Maester! Get Haster!" Yes, it was still an unfortunate name, but he had to admit that the young man knew his bloody business.

If there was one thing that made him realise how well organised the Foxhold was as a result of his bloody-minded steward's work, it was the way that his people (and yes, it was still taking him almost by surprise when he realised that they were his people) reacted with such speed and care. As the carriage came to a stop then ostlers and grooms came out to care to the exhausted horses, whilst others locked the wheels. He could see Haster hurrying down the steps from his chambers, whilst Ursula Stone, her face as flinty as ever, was also approaching.

One of the men on the carriage jumped down and went to the door. Looking at Bronn out of the corner of his eye for a long moment he finally opened it. Inside Bronn could see two figures, both women. One was large and slumped across the seat, whilst the other was holding what looked like a wet cloth to her forehead. The second looked up at the door as it opened and Bronn could see at a glance that she was desperately worried. He was worried too. The smell was stronger in here.

"Lady Barnley, I presume?" Bronn asked, and was rewarded by a confused look from the woman with the wet cloth.

And then Haster was next to him. At the sight of the Maester the woman started to babble about how her Ladyship had been injured and had a corrupted wound in her arm and how they had tried to treat it. Haster did not seem to be listening. Instead he was inspecting the comatose woman with an air of deepening concern.

"My Lord," Haster said eventually, "We need to get her indoors at once. I need a litter for the Lady, a clean table, sheets on it, my instruments and…" he sniffed the air and turned, if anything, even paler. "A brazier."

Bronn nodded and then relayed the orders back to Ursula Stone, who was now at his side. As people started to run about and a small party ran up with a litter. As the woman was transferred to it she stirred feverishly – and then she seemed to awaken for a moment. She looked straight at Bronn and a single, oddly hopeful, word dribbled from her lips. "P….Petyr?" And then she was unconscious again.

As they disappeared into the main keep with her Bronn followed, thinking furiously, before pulling his Steward to one side by the door. Ursula Stone looked mulish at the interruption, but also curious.

"I want guards keeping an eye on them at all times," he said in a low voice. "They say that she's Lady Barnley, but if that's her real name then I'll eat my own foot. They're lying. And I think I know why. They're Valemen – House Arryn I suspect."

She froze at this but then seemed to think about it very hard indeed, before stealing an eye at the carriage. "Ah."

"Ah indeed. If what I suspect is true then we'll need to send a raven to King's Landing to say that we've found the missing Lady Lysa Arryn."

At this point Haster ran out, obviously looking for them both. "My Lord!"

"Quietly Haster, quietly. What news?"

"It's bad my Lord. She has a corrupted wound in her arm – and it's bad. There are red lines up her arm."

Bronn winced. "Can you save her arm?"

"I will do my best, but I suspect not. It may be that even if the arm comes off I may not be able to save her my Lord. I will know more soon. But also… her name-"

"Is Lady Arryn, I know. Do your best Maester. We will send a raven. But try and keep her alive."

Gendry

It was his first time on a ship and so far he wasn't enjoying it much. In fact he wasn't enjoying anything much these days. A month ago he'd been apprentice to Master Mott and he knew what his future held – an anvil. Maybe a wife someday. And then the Hand of the King had appeared, with Lord Stannis bloody Baratheon, and everything had changed. He'd always wondered who his Da was. Well, now he knew. The King. His Grace the fucking King. The moment he found out, he'd damn near shit himself.

And now he was here, on this ship, in a new set of clothes, with a bag of gold coins and a Warhammer. The clothes had been given to him by the man who had sent him to the ship, Ser Davos Seaworth, a man that he had heard good things about.

And the gold and the Warhammer… well the King had given him those. He'd arrived at dawn, the day that he'd sailed, looking slightly haunted and had inspected a bleary-eyed Gendry carefully. "Gods," the King had said, "The more I look at you the more I see my father. And the more I wonder which God cursed me with Joffrey." And then he'd given him the gold and the Warhammer. "Thought about this a lot," the King had said quietly. "Not much use giving you a sword if you can't use it and the fact that you're my bastard son means that you might have to defend yourself. So take one of my hammers. You're used to them and it shouldn't take you long to train yourself, so to speak. I've sent word to have you trained."

He'd stared at the Warhammer, seen the quality of it and made a noise of protest, only to get a wave of the hand from the King. "Bah, I've got a dozen of the things left from when I was growing up. I had that one when I was your age, before getting a heavier one. It'll do for you. It's not much. I wish I could do more and perhaps I can one day. But I'm going to war and I haven't much time. I sail for the North in three days. Be well, lad. And don't trust anyone who says he's a Lannister. They'll have no love for you." And then he had gone.

So now here he was on this damn ship, discovering the joys of seasickness, much to the disgust of the Captain, a crusty old Stormlander called Hedrick. Especially after throwing up on the man's boots.

The ship swooped downwards into another trough in the water and he swallowed and tried to stop another dry heave. Wonder of wonders he succeeded, mostly because there was nothing left in him to bring up. At first he'd asked if they'd sailed into a dreadful storm, only to be told it was 'a bit choppy today', which has made him wonder what a real storm was like.

That had been two days before. He now knew exactly what a storm was like. He also knew what it was like to be so miserable that you wished you were dead.

The ship dipped sickeningly again and then rolled and he stared at the wall ahead and held his breath for a moment. Yes, that worked and he tried, desperately, to think of something – anything – other than his stomach.

It was then that someone pounded on the door, before opening it. A small man in drenched oilskins stood there, panting. "Cap'n needs to see you - he's at wheel," he said in a strong Stormlands accent as he threw another set of oilskins at him. "Needs t' see ye now."

Gendry stared at the man. "But there's a storm out - *hork* - there."

The other man scowled. "And there'll be a bloody storm in here if you don't go to him!"

He went. It wasn't easy. The ship was pitching and rolling and he knew that he didn't have sea legs. Twice he almost fell and that was before he got onto deck. And when he did get there… it was bedlam. The wind was howling and the deck was wet from the waves that surged by. The cable things that held the masts up were thrumming as the wind vibrated them. And the sky… black clouds roiled by, bringing with them something that was more than drizzle but less than steady rain.

Even with the oilskins he was soaked by the time he got to the wheel. The Captain was standing next to it, by two men who were wrestling with the wheel itself, and all three were looking at the mainmast worriedly. As he approached the Captain he could see that he was holding a piece of metal.

"You're a blacksmith aren't you?" The Captain bellowed at him as he got close.

"Aye!" He bellowed back.

"Take a look at this!" And the piece of metal was thrust at him. He stared at it and then at the Captain and then back at the metal. It looked like a bracket or some kind of fitting.

"What?"

"Look at it! You know metal, don't you?"

"Aye?"

"Is it any good?"

He stared at it and then brought it close to his face. Then he braced himself against the nearest bit of wood, pulled out a knife and then scraped at it, just in front of his eyes. "No," he finally bellowed. "It's bad. Poorly cast – quenched wrongly and brittle."

The Captain stared back at the mast and then let loose a string of fascinating swear words and curses that went on for some time without somehow repeating himself. He finally finished with a curse on all shitty Dornish fucking chandlers.

"It fell off one of the masts earlier," he shouted at Gendry. "I had new ironworks fitted a month ago, in Dorne. If I ever see that smooth-talking bastard again, I'll gut him with the bluntest spoon I have."

Gendry thought about that and then winced. It was at this point that he made the connection. "Wait – how many fittings are like this one?"

"Too many for me to feel happy about being at sea in a storm. Especially a storm like this one. And-"

The Captain never finished whatever he had been about to say, because all of a sudden there was a horrible creaking noise, like a giant post being bent by a pair of giant hands, and then all of a sudden the tallest mast on the ship was topping to one side, breaking cables as it fell and bringing the sail that had been on it down as it fell. The whole mass fell with a rumble and Gendry heard muffled screams from the men who were caught up in it. Another cable parted as it failed under the stress, with the free end smashing into a man and in an instant he was gone, his pale surprised face arcing backwards as he was knocked into the sea.

"Axes," Captain Hedrick bellowed desperately. "Axes! Cut the remaining cables, get it free before the mast acts as an anchor and we broach! Axes!"

Total chaos everywhere followed, the Captain ran forwards, other men appeared, struggling desperately with the wreckage. Gendry stared at it all – and then he too ran towards the wreckage. A man appeared from nowhere, a thin stringy slip of a man, and he flailed at a nearby cable with the axe he was carrying – with no real effect.

"Here!" Someone threw an axe at Gendry and he caught it without thinking about it, before stepping up to the cable. He hefted it in two hands, brought it up and chopped down with all his might. The axe jarred in his hands at the impact, but half the ropes in the cable had parted at his blow and the next one did the job, the ends flying apart.

"Stand clear!" Gendry bellowed as he stepped up to the next cable, that disappearing face in his mind, and then he chopped again with everything he had. This one was thinner and took just one blow to part it, but the one after that was a monster. One blow hardly shook it and he gritted his teeth, wiped the rain from his eyes and then chopped again and again. The cable groaned as it weakened and he paled a little. "Stand clear of this one when it goes!" Gendry shouted and was rewarded by cries of acknowledgement to either side. It was good that they did, because his next blow severed it and the ends whipped out cruelly at a shocking speed.

On to the next one, and the next and then the final one in front of him. As the last one parted then the mass of rope and timber shifted a little – and then it was gone, pulled over the side. Someone screamed as it went, but Gendry could see that one of the trapped men had been freed and was being pulled away by a shipmate.

The ship staggered as the weight went and then he heard the Captain shouting orders at the top of his lungs, something about bending on another sail once the spare spar was jury rigged, about steering due East and about getting another hand on the wheel. After a moment he realised that the last thing meant him.

"You've got some muscles on you lad, replace Dirk on the wheel – the shorter one. Relax, you're not there to steer the ship, you're there to hold the ship to whatever course Harnley, the other one, sets."

He nodded, did as he was told – and was astonished at the force it took to keep the wheel steady. The hour that followed was torture, a constant battle to keep the jerking wheel steady as the wind howled around him and sheets of rain hurtled down. Various crew members ran around like madmen, pulling on ropes and as he watched a very short new mast was raised and lashed to the stump of the new one.

As the new sail was raised and sheeted into place he felt a hand on his shoulder The Captain, with another two men next to him who relieved them both. He let go of the wheel with a barely suppressed groan of relief and then staggered back down to his cabin, where he pulled the sodden oilskins off. He was looking at the rest of his dripping clothing with distaste – at which point the door was banged on again. "Come!"

The Captain entered quickly and peered at him. "Well done today lad," he said tiredly. "If you hadn't cut those cables when you did… well, we might have broached and that would have been the end of us. But with a mast gone we have to seek port. We're headed for Dragonstone. I just thought you should know. Try and eat something, we're not out of this yet. I lost five men today, with ten more wounded. That makes me light on crew. Get some rest. You'll be working out a part of your passage."