Post by The Forgotten God on Apr 15, 2015 22:09:28 GMT -5
Storm’s End, January 5th 382
They passed through the gates, the seven of them, three men and four women, doing their best to remain calm as the party died around them. The moon was out, unfortunately, illuminating the road but also making them easier to see. And the last thing Meera Stark felt the need to be was seen. “When are we ditching the road?” she asked quietly, to the woman in charge. Ellaria Dayne looked back, the light dull on her dyed hair.
“The port’s about eight miles away. We couldn’t use the closest one because the fleet is there. We meet up with Nicholas at the fishing village, take a boat to Estermont, and then head to Pentos.” The girl sounded sure of herself, so Meera shrugged. She’d already gotten farther with them than she had on her own.
“Who is Nick? And…well, why did he abandon us?” One of the men spoke back, now out of earshot of the castle area.
“Abandon? Hell, he went to go destroy Dayne’s ability to track us. Something about blood or fire or whatnot. Sorcerer talk,” he said with a bit of a shudder. My blood, she thought. The blood that betrayed her. The blood that could let the man allow her to get to Asshai and still not be safe from discovery.
“I see. Does he work for my father?” Ellaria arched an eyebrow. Meera wasn’t yet sure how she felt about her rescuers, but she couldn’t say she was a fan of the woman’s looks at her. She was hardly an idiot.
“In a manner of speaking. He’s, well, your brother. Your natural brother, of course.” That explained the looks, she supposed. His hair and eyes must have come from his mother.
“I didn’t know my father had natural sons.” She went to say more when the castle exploded with sound. A fight was clearly on. Riders were pouring out the gates, and the seven left the road, heading west along the coastline. Far ahead, around a sharp bend in the rocky fjords of the Stormlands, she could see the village, fires burning across the moonlit sea.
“Frances,” Isabel cursed, her new friend hissing the word. Her hands wrapped tightly around the spear they’d stolen for her. Even the strange men shuddered at that.
“We knew he’d be coming sooner or later,” Ellaria said. “Though it’d be nice having more swords to greet him with. Our other diversion should be enough to let us get to the ship.” As she spoke, an arrow shot through the air.
“Or not,” the Dornish woman said drily. “Better speed up.” Two of the men turned their horses about, then dismounted and took cover on a ridge. They had two crossbows each, and swords and a shield.
“Why are they getting off the horses?” Meera said. “They’ll die!” The third girl, the silent one, spoke up.
“Because they came in expecting to die, I think.” Meera looked disturbed at that, but the red haired girl was nocking an arrow and aiming carefully. A sudden thrum and a man screamed in pain. Meera couldn’t even see him. Even better than Robyn, she realized. Heavy crossbows clicked and more screams were heard. Then the noise was all pounding of hooves and screaming of wheels.
“Can I have a crossbow?” she suddenly asked, inspired. “And a short sword?” The items were handed over by the last man. “I’m not going back,” she vowed. ”I’ll die before Frances gets a hand on me.” Certainly better than dying after he does, she cursed herself for the thoughts. She reached out for something, anything, a bear, a wolf…a deer, but the animals had been scared by the noise, and she couldn’t bring her mind to focus.
Long minutes passed, and the port was about a mile away. A sudden jolt hit, and the wheel of the wagon came off, and the group tumbled from the cart onto the ground. A crossbow went off, the bolt flying into the sky in front of her face, and Meera felt a burning pain across her side and legs and arms as she bounced off rock after rock after branch until coming to a stop.
A dozen men were there, suddenly. Too many, she realized. The one closest to her had a spear and grinned evilly, teeth shining in the light. She fell back and hit the release on her crossbow, watching with sick fascination as the heavy bolt tore through his shoulder, near separating his arm. He cried out and fell down, squirming. She drew her short sword, and without thinking she plunged the steel into him. It was easier than she’d thought, the blade passing through stomach like it was made of butter. She rose her head to see two more men charging her, but then, improbably, Isabel was there, her spear striking cat-quick at the lead man, jamming hard into his eye. The second swung, but the woman shifted away from it quickly, then slammed her knee into his groin. She was nearly as fast as Benjen, she thought,as a dagger sprouted from the man’s mouth. Isabel turned tosay something, but then a flash of light came and an arrow struck her shoulder. She fell forward as the last male rescuer caught her. “Run!” he called out. FUCKING RUN!”
Adrenaline and a goal had Meera’s feet pounding on the ground. She heard Ellaria and the other girl firing arrow after arrow, and hearing steel hit flesh more often than not. Isabel panted as she tried running. The five moved swiftly through the woods, and as they cleared the forest, Meera’s hope soared.
And died, immediately. Twenty men stood waiting at the entrance to the village. In their center was Frances, the Bastard of Starfall. Ellaria panted and gasped, and the knight grinned handsomely at them. “That was fun, my ladies,” he said, “but Father isn’t here to save you all now.” The men advanced in a steady line, when from behind them more bolts lanced out. Strange foreign voices called out as men poured into the street, attacking the Dornishmen.
The five withstood the first few men who came upon them, Isabel and the nameless man holding their own, but then Frances was there. He was faster than anyone, Isabel, anyone Meera could think of, his serrated spear slashing the Lady Uller across the side. Ellaria fired an arrow at him, but missed wide, and he grinned more as he dodged, ignoring his adversary, trying to kill his sister. The archer woman drew a sword and got in his way, but suffered only a heavy mailed foot to her stomach for her efforts. Nothing could stop the rampaging knight as he cut through to his sister, and Meera saw more troops coming from Storm’s End. We need to get to the boat, she realized. She looked at her useless short sword and threw it at Frances. It actually hit him, albeit pommel first, but he did stumble with surprise enough for the man to face him again. He waved the others away as men came from behind them, and Meera saw the strange allies they had acquired break through the original group. The four sprinted towards them as mounted troops hoofprints thundered behind her. The foreigners had longbows and fired at the line, and sounds were heard but she couldn’t look back. The nameless man screamed as only the dying do, and Meera saw the foreigners retreating to the ship, arrows covering their way. She kicked in the last of her speed to reach them…
And then it all went wrong. Something heavy smashed into her back, and the small princess fell forward, feeling her face bounce painfully off the packed earth. Ellaris turned back to grab her with panic in her eyes, but Meera heard the footsteps behind her. No time…no time…she waved her off. “RUN!” she screamed in a breathless desperate yell. An arrow buzzed by Ellaria’s head, and she turned and ran back as the first man reached Meera. His boot landed right between her shoulder blades, and she felt a sharp crack as a rib broke.
“Kill the others,” Frances said offhandedly. “Board the ship and bring me their heads. I guess you can spare my sweet sister. Kinslaying is an abominable act, after all.” He pulled the princess’s head up by her hair and smiled down at her. “It is rather fortunate we aren’t kin, isn’t it?” Meera saw no point in responding, but hot tears spilled down from sheer pain. “Not even remotely kin.” He waved the other man off her back. Meera went to stand but got kicked back down. “Wolves stay on all fours, don’t they?” As he gloated, a man rushed to him.
“My lord….your father! There were assassins! This was a diversion!” Frances looked shocked, then down at the princess.
“Gods damn it! Disguise a damned assassination as a rescue…” he looked down at her thoughtfully. “Guess your dear family didn’t think you were that important after all,” he said, grinning his handsome grin as his men got ready to put her on his horse. He waved them, amused. “No, no, lads, she doesn’t get a saddle. Not for killing my men. She walks back. See to it, Garen. I hear you get along with the Starks so well, maybe you can entertain her with stories while she comes home.” The knight nodded and leered at her. “But it’s time to return. If the northmen killed Father, they shall be scourged until they wish the Others had returned instead of me.” Meera watched as the ship sailed off, arrows uselessly flying after it. Without another word the knight mounted his horse and began the ride back to Storm’s End.
///
The last bits of the blood vanished down the cesspit, and Nicholas Snow breathed a long sigh of relief. Bryce Dayne’s ability to find them had just been severely compromised. He looked to the woman who he had met in the keep, some strange assassin. He couldn’t remember her name, not that it was important. Even Dayne wasn’t so arrogant as to throw away his own magical resources. He idly wondered if she worked for Terrence Stark, too, some sort of insurance policy. Make sure the bastard does what he’s supposed to. That would figure.
She was quick, he’d not begrudge her that. Failure at talking, maybe, but there really wasn’t a great excuse to be here so late. It wasn’t until she’d spilled the beans on the escape attempt he realized he had misjudged her, and badly. Not North, for sure. Maybe one of Malryas’s rogues, or Reach…or Faith. He swallowed his rage at her excuse, but the guards had left Bryce Dayne largely alone, and since he was here…well, fuck it. He hated wizards. He WAS a damned wizard and he hated wizards. Kill him, move on to the rest of the plan. Simple…
Ten minutes later it wasn’t quite so simple. The damned woman was dead, but she had shot the sorcerer through the chest with her poison crossbow. He had killed three men to give her time to finish him, but now it was time for evasion. Doors, window, halls, guards…his eyes flicked back and forth. Got to find the sister, got to get on the boat, got to get to Pentos…a crossbow bolt shook him from his frenetic thinking. He needed to move. He ditched his bulky sword and smashed through the window, falling fifteen feet to the ground, rolling as best he could. He needed space for the shadows to work. He got up and sprinted behind a stable, then touched one of his cuts and concentrated. As his pursuers searched, he leaned back, just part of the wall, nothing but a black spot behind that big war horse. A solitary guard’s over-curious search later, he had himself a new disguise. Starfall can have two bastards, now. He probably looked like a fool holding a spear. Nicholas had never bothered learning how to really use one, but faking it couldn’t be that hard.
Frances and his ilk were gone. Unfortunate. No horse, no cover, just him and a spear he was terrible with, and a dagger, and an alert camp filled with people who wanted him dead, if they knew who he was. Maybe Frances guessed wrong, he prayed, maybe he went north, towards the real harbor. He doubted it, though. The man could hunt better than a dozen of his father’s best bloodhounds. Going north was too obvious, too well protected.
As he snuck into a tent, he ditched the guard outfit and went for warm clothes, and a sword borrowed from some passed out Stormlands knight. He could keep the woman he was with, though. He had some standards, after all. Best not think on that one too hard. Moving on was going to be tough enough without thinking of what he was missing…
The ship would be long gone by the time he reached the village, Nick knew. Even at a fast pace it was over an hours’ run away, and he was hardly in the proper attire for that. He walked quickly and quietly, staying thirty yards off the road, eyes open for danger. Miles passed, and after about an hour he heard hoofprints galloping. Two dozen men or so stampeded on, the bastard in front. No prisoners, he breathed in relief. Not that that meant they weren’t dead, but Frances liked his trophies. He hid as they passed by and waited another ten minutes. Silence reigned as he began to trot down the road.
Solitude suited him well, but on this night, with so much going on, it was his enemy. The fear of failure brings out the worst in men, the insecurities dormant during action appearing like mythical beasts during reflection or anticipation. And even his strongest supporters, or lovers, would cheerfully admit Nick Snow had made his share of poor decisions.
As he approached a bend he heard men’s voices, with the overly familiar tones of taunting. Mockery was a tone he knew perfectly, in any language. The strong preying on the weak. Perhaps it was the way the world worked, but it was not the way it worked when he was around, not if he could help it. Some peasant getting spat on by a Dornish knight…well, that was something he could rally behind. Action kept his thoughts away, of people he shouldn’t be thinking about.
He scampered behind the trees and waited. The air was chilly in the early spring, and a slight rain had started. It turned into one of the storms these lands were famous for, finding shelter soon would be essential. Wet and cold were like kindling for fevers, and if he caught a fever Frances would find him. Even at his best he doubted his chances against the spearman. Frances was bigger and stronger than he was, and although Nick found it difficult to believe it was possible he was even faster. Definitely a poor recipe for success.
The men he saw with the prisoner made his blood boil. Twenty of them, dragging a woman with a collar around her neck down the wet road, giggling and poking and slapping and tugging the poor lady. The Hunter’s dogs, Ser Garen the biggest mutt. He remembered the man from Eddard’s Rest; the charm, the arrogance, the ice cold blood running through his veins. A poor man’s Frances, really.
Meera. Gods damn it. Her shirt had been ripped open and he saw mud and maybe blood on her face. Regulating his breathing grew more and more difficult as he saw them torment his sister. Quell the rage, he told himself, wait for that perfect moment, twenty is too many, going to have to wait. They won’t kill her they won’t kill her they won’t kill her…Frances is going to kill her.
Twenty was far too many to attempt anything against, and Nick watched and followed silently as they marched the broken princess another mile, before at last she passed out, and the knight dragged her onto his saddle and rode through the assembled army, and into the grey and grim castle.
///
Awareness came slowly, her breath forced out of aching and bruised lungs, every inhale sending pain through her broken rib. Her eyes blurred with pain as they slowly focused on the upside-down face of the grinning man standing above her. No, no no no no. She struggled instinctively, her arms trying to flail, but they were splayed out and tied underneath the table she lay on, not with rope but some kind of wire, so the more movement, the more they cut into flesh. Apparently the days of being a valuable hostage had ended. Her shirt had been removed and her bared upper body shivered with cold and fear.
Frances Dayne smiled at her. “So happy to see you awake. Your friends were so quick to run off, I thought perhaps you’d just given up and died of shame.” He ran a finger around her chin from his position above her head. “But I am glad you’re here so we can get to know each other better. I think we got off on the wrong foot.” He frowned at something on her face, licked his finger, and wiped it off. “I hate dirt. Why are you so filthy?” He sounded disgusted, and a second later a pail of cold water was dumped on her. She kicked her feet, which had gone untied for some reason, the cold suffocating in its intensity. Frances wiped her down with a towel, not making any effort to spare her ribs or back. “Better. Now, then, we got off on the wrong foot. You probably thought I was a lap dog, right? A whipped little cur. But I am rather more than that, I’m…” He leaned in to her face, and Meera couldn’t help herself. I’m dead anyway. She bit him on the nose as hard as she could.
Frances screamed like a baby, she thought with satisfaction. She knew he was a coward at heart. He grabbed a knife and she felt the end coming, but the blade slammed into the table next to her at the very last moment, and he exhaled sharply. “No, no,” he said, more to himself. “You don’t get to die so easily. No, no,” he wiggled a finger in the air, pondering, “this calls for an old favorite. Did you know I studied to be a master?” he said, his voice a bit funny from his nose being messed up. Meera had to smirk a bit at seeing how ridiculous his now-nasally tone was. “I did. I should have been your maester, up North.” He had a little chisel, then, and a small hammer. Meera felt her bladder threaten to empty. She had talked to Arania about Frances’s…hobbies. “I have had a lot of experience with dentistry, in particular. And I find you Starks have such lovely teeth…”
She squirmed and squirmed and kicked her legs but he just grinned, his confidence restored. “But not this tooth,” he said with a frown. “This tooth looks unhealthy. Fortunately, I can remove it for you.” The chisel went in with one hand. “This is fun, usually I have to use poison to stop people from moving, but no poison here. No movement to help, and,” he looked about. “No damned Valyrian sword to save you.” A crack sounded as the hammer came down, hard but not brutally so, and Meera fainted as her left bottom canine came out.
As she came to, she felt hands running up and down her bare skin. A woman with dark eyes smiled at her, as her mouth pounded in pain. “Frances has made you hurt. How tragic,” she said, rolling a nipple between her fingers, trailing down to the tie on her pants between her legs. Meera stared at her in confusion. “Do you need some dreamwine? It will ease the pain.” Meera nodded slowly through the haze. The lady pulled out the bottle and then had her take a spoonful. To her surprise, it was some sort of spice, and her mouth burned and she sweated like a pig in heat as the fiery liquid went down her throat. The woman covered her mouth with a hand as she struggled to spit it out, then covered her nostrils until she had no choice but to swallow. “No, no, my dear, not yet. If you don’t stop kicking I’m going to cut your lady parts out and serve them to my betrothed on a plate.” She stared at the strange woman, who was smiling much like Frances did.
“Why..?” she couldn’t get her mouth to make words properly. The woman had a knife out, now, and as Meera tried to protest, to say anything, the blade went gently around her stomach, up her chest, tracing the curve of her chin, then resting between her lips a long moment, and Meera was sure she was going to lose another tooth.
“Shhhh…” the woman said. “I’ve got work to do, and you want me to concentrate on it so I do a good job. But, if you must know, I’m Karissa Gevenna, soon to be the Queen of Westeros,” she said with a smile. “Isn’t that wonderful?” She was darker skinned and tall, with blonde hair and blue-grey eyes. “Now, if you are wondering why I’m torturing you, well, that requires rather more explanation. The short explanation is that I think you’re a lovely young woman, maybe lovelier than me with all your teeth and no wounds. I don’t like competition. Besides, it’s fun.”
Meera squirmed as she brushed her hair back and began chopping off chunks of her long tresses, but fell still finally as Karissa slapped her on the missing tooth cheek. “If you ever get a chance to really torture someone, you should try it.” She stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Perfect. No competition at all, now.” She set the knife on Meera’s chest and walked for a glass of wine. She gave the princess a sip of it and then finished the glass herself. “It is tiring work, really. You have the easy part, just lying there and complaining.” She untied her wrists and dabbed the wire cuts with liquor. “Don’t want those wounds going septic, now. Would be a shame to lose a present from my betrothed so soon after he gave you to me.” She hands Meera the liquor and a clean cloth. “Wipe yourself off, now.”
While Meera cleaned herself off, Karissa poured some more wine and sat on the bloody table, legs crossed demurely. The cuts stung and it took a monumental effort of will to ensure the bleeding was stanched and the cuts disinfected. When she had finished on her wrists, Karissa took the liquor and poured it down her body, soaking all her bruises and cuts in the burning liquid. A sopping cloth was applied to her face and more brandy forced into her mouth. “Better, she said, “Now clean the table. It is disgusting.”
As Meera wiped the table down, Karissa whistled and went to a drawer, pulling some other items out. The blood loss and exhaustion and brandy had made her head heavy, and the princess stumbled and caught herself falling. Karissa’s strong hands lifted her back onto the table and ignored her feeble resistance. Silk rope tied her hands back down and Karissa looked her over. “I hope you Starks are as strong as your reputation,” she said with a smile at the girl, “I think we could have a long and prosperous future ahead of us.” Then she picked up the knife again.
///
God damn it. Nick looked both ways down the hallway leading to Frances’s room he had been in just hours earlier. He has wasted two hours and plenty of his remaining magical focus searching the dungeons for his half sister and the bastard of Starfall, and his wounds and exhaustion were starting to mess with him. In the early morning there were no guards save near King Bryce’s doors; the men not wanting to cause a show of panic, he figured. Pools of blood still stained the floors. If Frances has Meera in his little torture chamber I’m killing him, he resolved. Escape was unthinkable now; the army on alert, his ship gone.
He heard a hollow and sickening crunching sound coming from up the stairs, followed by a scream that swiftly faded into silence. His palms felt sweaty as he gripped the hilt of his sword. Some guards came up the stairs and walked down the hallway, and Snow waited in the storeroom he was using. Broad daylight was coming, no shadows to use, nothing to gain. Every bone in his body screamed for him to run. No one knew him here, he could catch a ship, sail to Pentos, enter his uncle’s service and do whatever he wanted. The Starks had never had anything to do with him until he had kidnapped Joanna Lannister and they had sent assassins after him, after all. Pentos called, its women, its wine, the way he could blend in among the magisters and his bastard birth would be little impediment.
Joanna, Ellaria, they’d never forgive me, he thought. But really, I’d never forgive myself. He had been plenty of terrible things in life, but never one to simply let a sibling die. Even one he didn’t know from anyone else in the world.
Wait. Pentos. That’s it, he thought. There was no idea that appealed to a rogue like Nicholas Snow half so much as an idea that would enrage EVERYONE. And he had just thought of a perfect one. Or as close to perfect as an idea concocted on thirty six straight hours of sleep and punctuated by a straight up sword fight could be. A real desperation play. But perhaps Frances would go for it.
He slipped into the old Lord Baratheon’s quarters, hurrying as best he could. He ruffled through clothes until he found the finest ones he could fit into, and a fine scabbard besides. Hiding everything in a bag he used his guard uniform to head to the army tents. A half hour later he was shaven and dressed in a manner befitting his station overseas.
This time he strode into Storm’s End with an air of supreme confidence. He had enough gold left over to play off having run into a stroke of misfortune. He walked to the keep and spoke to the guards with the practiced condescension of a magister. “Callen ____, ambassador of the Free City of Pentos, here to see King Bryce Dayne,” he said, in the accented Westerosi of a foreign lord. The guards exchanged a look.
“His Grace is busy now, my lord,” one answered. Callen narrowed his eyes.
“What’s your name, then, guard? He will be furious when he hears his potential ally has been ruined by ser….” The man stammers.
“But, but, Ser Frances is available! Right upstairs! I’ll take you there myself!” Callen let his look last another long second, then nodded.
“Fine, you gross incompetent.” He swore in Pentoshi. ‘Take me to him.”The door guard hurried him up to the stairs he had been at the night prior.
“Prince Frances! An ambassador from Pentos is here for you!” Frances’s nasal tones shouted back.
“My prince,” Callen called out. “I have come with an alliance proposal between your great kingdom and our fair city. Please give me a moment of your time.” A he spoke, a woman’s voice called down.
“Oh, please, let him come up. He should see this,” she said. Callen went up the stairs and he saw her and for the first time that day he thanked the gods of whoever had sent him some fortune. The good fortune was not the half naked woman bleeding on the table, of course, but the woman who had spoken. He bowed. “Karissa Gevenna, how unexpected. It has been, what? Three years?” Karissa narrowed an eye at him and flicked the girl’s breast again, then tapped her mouth a few times to provoke a scream.
“Four, Callen. Four years since you came to Volantis on behalf of that….wonderful family of yours. They were such manically debauched people,” she said with a sudden grin. “Your uncle Cassadar especially. But you were such a booore. It’s like you’d never even SEEN a good orgy before.” Callen smiled through the aggravation. She patted Meera on the knee. “How about a spin with this one? She’s had some…dental work, and probably been passed around a bit, but she’ll be up for a roll soon enough.” It took Nick four full seconds to swallow the vomit that tried desperately to escape his throat at the thought. On the one hand, Karissa knew him as Callen, scion of the Second House of Pentos. On the other hand…she was Karissa Gevenna, resident nightmare of Volantis, daughter of the prime triarch. He shook his head.
“Not in public, Karissa. You know how shy I am. When not in an orgy, at least,” he allowed. “I’ve had to grow up, according to Uncle Iain. No more sleeping with all the female envoys and whatnot. But,” he allowed, after a moment of literally tasting the degradation of his soul in the back of his throat, “She isn’t bad looking. If you’re feeling generous you can send her to my room, which, speaking of, where IS my room? It’s like my uncle’s letters don’t even arrive here.” Karissa smiles and untied the princess. Her cut wrists ooze dark blood onto the floor and she lolls about, half conscious at best.
“Never say King Bryce isn’t generous,” she said. “Walk, bitch, and GUUUUARRRRDDDDSSS! Give this man a damned room! Now! Or be flayed!” Some hustled up. Callen put his cloak over Meera.
“Commoners don’t get to see a lord’s trophy,” he said, as Karissa chuckled.
“Take her to the third floor room where that dreadful Donder-however you say it was.” She told the guards. “Prince Frances will be thrilled to see you. His father is fallen ill and so we shall be your hosts for the time being.” Callen nodded.
“It is good to see true hospitality isn’t dead in this part of the world,” he said. As he spoke, he heard a man coming up the stairs as Meera was led out. The guards split, and Meera almost fell as Frances looked at the new arrival.
“Who is this? Ambassador from Pentos, my ass! We haven’t heard anything from them for nearly eight months!” Karissa looked to Callen with a sudden suspicion. Time to improvise. Even more.
“Old Merwyn was stealing the letters being shipped, he was in Braavos’s pocket,” Callen said. “We had to let him go. As apology, and a measure of the seriousness with which Pentos takes our friendship, the Magister’s Council has sent me to speak with you and your father in person. No confusion this time,” he said with his most diplomatic smile. Frances looked to Karissa.
“Sounds like bullshit to me. How do we know he’s even from Pentos?” The woman smiled.
“Oh, Frances, Callen and I have known each other since childhood. He’s Zenobia’s daughter. The witch, remember? He’s been busy in Norvos or Qohor or…” Callen smiled.
“Ibb, mostly, but Norvos and Lorath too.” As such would be a major demotion, he continued. “An indiscretion with a Targaryen princess,” he explained, then added, “and her cousin. Had to lay low until the incident and my uncle’s wrath cooled down. I’d rather have faced that green dragon’s flame,” Frances nodded finally as his betrothed giggled.
“Fine, then. What do you propose?” Callen smiled.
“Pentos, Volantis, and the Kingdom of Dorne will enter formal alliance. Our ships will clear the Stepstones and we will push south against Lys and Myr and Tyrosh into the Disputed Lands. Our position on the Narrow Sea will let us control the shipment of Braavosi goods into Westeros, allowing you to conquer King’s Landing and bring the Baratheons and Tyrells to heel. Once that is done, then we will send a fleet to their unguarded North and take White Harbor and Moat Cailin. Your father is crowned in the Great Sept or wherever, and you give us forty percent of the war spoils.” Frances scoffed.
“Fifteen.” Callen narrowed an eye.
“Thirty, then, though it pains my heart to see such a friendship be so tested.” Pentoshi diplomats, he knew, like politicians everywhere, had to be fluent in bullshit in any language. Frances smiled in triumph.
“Twenty five,” he said, like an overeager child who has just won his first fight. Clearly Bryce never let him speak to diplomats. Wise of him. Callen made a visible show of concern for a treaty he had made up less than an hour prior.
“Very well, twenty five percent, and not a copper less,” he warned. “The storms here ruined my ship. If you could lend me the use of one of your corsairs, it would greatly expedite our travel.” Frances nodded agreement.
He leaned in. “When you’re done with the woman, throw her overboard for the sharks…or better, do me a personal favor and skin her when you have grown tired of her noise. She is one of the King Wolf’s little pups, and his family vexes me greatly.” Callen pretended surprise, though the disgust was increasingly hard to conceal.
“A princess? Impressive, my prince. Truly your skills at striking at your foes is impressive and worthy of song,” he said. “You know how my uncle likes his harem. He pays premium for fallen royalty.” Frances raises an eyebrow at that.
“A premium, you say? How much for a princess? A real one, not this soiled drab you have.” Callen sat down and had some wine poured. May as well act interested.
“It entirely depends on her age, beauty, condition…the like. Like you Westerosi judge horses, I believe. No one wants a nag when you can have a…desert?” Frances chuckled.
“Destrier. And this princess is young, beautiful, and I want her gone. What could you offer?” Callen widened his eyes a bit. What the hell is he doing? He must know, he’s just letting this play out until he skins me alive.
“You must tell me more. If I came back with a princess with all her teeth and as beautiful as you say, why, I would become an heir to him. I could even make that wolf girl a pet and keep her on a leash around home with that much gold.” Frances smiled widely.
“Nina Martell. She is that old Nalya’s daughter, and,” he leans in conspiratorially, “she wishes to wed my father.” Callen nods.
“You fear she will have an heir over you, then?” Frances nods his head in agreement. Callen smiled, one of his first real smiles in a long time.
“Well, how about an exchange, then? You give me Nina and I’ll skin this Stark girl for you and mail pieces of her to her family, and as thanks for giving me a good lay on the boring boat ride home, I’ll give you your sister. We have it on good authority she is fled to my home city, and will arrive shortly.” He raises a glass. “A princess for a princess.” Frances grins ferally.
“Oh, one last thing. In Westeros, we seal every alliance by blood. Not shedding, mind, not usually, but by marriage. Well, we have no wedding suitors, so we must go the other way.” He hands Callen a paring knife. “After you fuck her this afternoon, as a sign of your friendship, I’d appreciate a present to send to King Terrence. A few inches is fine, for now.” Karissa grinned.
“Sealed by blood!” she giggled in a childlike way. “How adorable!” Callen took the paring knife, awkwardly, like a real squeamish diplomat might, but his blood ran cold. So much for ever going North again. He rose and bowed. “I’ll need dreamwine. I cannot abide screaming in bed,” he said. Frances handed him a bottle of it with a grin.
He went to his room and opened the door to his sister laying in bed, large fearful eyes staring at him. She hadn’t gotten much chance to see him, especially not dressed up. He walked to her and put an arm around her and pulled her in. He whispered into her ear. “You’ll be safe, I promise. Drink this and sleep, sister,” he said, right hand sweaty on the paring knife. “You’re going to need the rest.”
When the young princess at last fell into a drugged asleep, Nicholas Snow bit his lip and made a present to send to King Terrence. She stirred and groaned but he completed the job on her left leg as gently as he could. Twelve hours later he was on a boat heading east. Prince Frances Dayne, he had decided, was now number one on his list of people who he planned on killing, in the slowest and most wretched way imaginable.
They passed through the gates, the seven of them, three men and four women, doing their best to remain calm as the party died around them. The moon was out, unfortunately, illuminating the road but also making them easier to see. And the last thing Meera Stark felt the need to be was seen. “When are we ditching the road?” she asked quietly, to the woman in charge. Ellaria Dayne looked back, the light dull on her dyed hair.
“The port’s about eight miles away. We couldn’t use the closest one because the fleet is there. We meet up with Nicholas at the fishing village, take a boat to Estermont, and then head to Pentos.” The girl sounded sure of herself, so Meera shrugged. She’d already gotten farther with them than she had on her own.
“Who is Nick? And…well, why did he abandon us?” One of the men spoke back, now out of earshot of the castle area.
“Abandon? Hell, he went to go destroy Dayne’s ability to track us. Something about blood or fire or whatnot. Sorcerer talk,” he said with a bit of a shudder. My blood, she thought. The blood that betrayed her. The blood that could let the man allow her to get to Asshai and still not be safe from discovery.
“I see. Does he work for my father?” Ellaria arched an eyebrow. Meera wasn’t yet sure how she felt about her rescuers, but she couldn’t say she was a fan of the woman’s looks at her. She was hardly an idiot.
“In a manner of speaking. He’s, well, your brother. Your natural brother, of course.” That explained the looks, she supposed. His hair and eyes must have come from his mother.
“I didn’t know my father had natural sons.” She went to say more when the castle exploded with sound. A fight was clearly on. Riders were pouring out the gates, and the seven left the road, heading west along the coastline. Far ahead, around a sharp bend in the rocky fjords of the Stormlands, she could see the village, fires burning across the moonlit sea.
“Frances,” Isabel cursed, her new friend hissing the word. Her hands wrapped tightly around the spear they’d stolen for her. Even the strange men shuddered at that.
“We knew he’d be coming sooner or later,” Ellaria said. “Though it’d be nice having more swords to greet him with. Our other diversion should be enough to let us get to the ship.” As she spoke, an arrow shot through the air.
“Or not,” the Dornish woman said drily. “Better speed up.” Two of the men turned their horses about, then dismounted and took cover on a ridge. They had two crossbows each, and swords and a shield.
“Why are they getting off the horses?” Meera said. “They’ll die!” The third girl, the silent one, spoke up.
“Because they came in expecting to die, I think.” Meera looked disturbed at that, but the red haired girl was nocking an arrow and aiming carefully. A sudden thrum and a man screamed in pain. Meera couldn’t even see him. Even better than Robyn, she realized. Heavy crossbows clicked and more screams were heard. Then the noise was all pounding of hooves and screaming of wheels.
“Can I have a crossbow?” she suddenly asked, inspired. “And a short sword?” The items were handed over by the last man. “I’m not going back,” she vowed. ”I’ll die before Frances gets a hand on me.” Certainly better than dying after he does, she cursed herself for the thoughts. She reached out for something, anything, a bear, a wolf…a deer, but the animals had been scared by the noise, and she couldn’t bring her mind to focus.
Long minutes passed, and the port was about a mile away. A sudden jolt hit, and the wheel of the wagon came off, and the group tumbled from the cart onto the ground. A crossbow went off, the bolt flying into the sky in front of her face, and Meera felt a burning pain across her side and legs and arms as she bounced off rock after rock after branch until coming to a stop.
A dozen men were there, suddenly. Too many, she realized. The one closest to her had a spear and grinned evilly, teeth shining in the light. She fell back and hit the release on her crossbow, watching with sick fascination as the heavy bolt tore through his shoulder, near separating his arm. He cried out and fell down, squirming. She drew her short sword, and without thinking she plunged the steel into him. It was easier than she’d thought, the blade passing through stomach like it was made of butter. She rose her head to see two more men charging her, but then, improbably, Isabel was there, her spear striking cat-quick at the lead man, jamming hard into his eye. The second swung, but the woman shifted away from it quickly, then slammed her knee into his groin. She was nearly as fast as Benjen, she thought,as a dagger sprouted from the man’s mouth. Isabel turned tosay something, but then a flash of light came and an arrow struck her shoulder. She fell forward as the last male rescuer caught her. “Run!” he called out. FUCKING RUN!”
Adrenaline and a goal had Meera’s feet pounding on the ground. She heard Ellaria and the other girl firing arrow after arrow, and hearing steel hit flesh more often than not. Isabel panted as she tried running. The five moved swiftly through the woods, and as they cleared the forest, Meera’s hope soared.
And died, immediately. Twenty men stood waiting at the entrance to the village. In their center was Frances, the Bastard of Starfall. Ellaria panted and gasped, and the knight grinned handsomely at them. “That was fun, my ladies,” he said, “but Father isn’t here to save you all now.” The men advanced in a steady line, when from behind them more bolts lanced out. Strange foreign voices called out as men poured into the street, attacking the Dornishmen.
The five withstood the first few men who came upon them, Isabel and the nameless man holding their own, but then Frances was there. He was faster than anyone, Isabel, anyone Meera could think of, his serrated spear slashing the Lady Uller across the side. Ellaria fired an arrow at him, but missed wide, and he grinned more as he dodged, ignoring his adversary, trying to kill his sister. The archer woman drew a sword and got in his way, but suffered only a heavy mailed foot to her stomach for her efforts. Nothing could stop the rampaging knight as he cut through to his sister, and Meera saw more troops coming from Storm’s End. We need to get to the boat, she realized. She looked at her useless short sword and threw it at Frances. It actually hit him, albeit pommel first, but he did stumble with surprise enough for the man to face him again. He waved the others away as men came from behind them, and Meera saw the strange allies they had acquired break through the original group. The four sprinted towards them as mounted troops hoofprints thundered behind her. The foreigners had longbows and fired at the line, and sounds were heard but she couldn’t look back. The nameless man screamed as only the dying do, and Meera saw the foreigners retreating to the ship, arrows covering their way. She kicked in the last of her speed to reach them…
And then it all went wrong. Something heavy smashed into her back, and the small princess fell forward, feeling her face bounce painfully off the packed earth. Ellaris turned back to grab her with panic in her eyes, but Meera heard the footsteps behind her. No time…no time…she waved her off. “RUN!” she screamed in a breathless desperate yell. An arrow buzzed by Ellaria’s head, and she turned and ran back as the first man reached Meera. His boot landed right between her shoulder blades, and she felt a sharp crack as a rib broke.
“Kill the others,” Frances said offhandedly. “Board the ship and bring me their heads. I guess you can spare my sweet sister. Kinslaying is an abominable act, after all.” He pulled the princess’s head up by her hair and smiled down at her. “It is rather fortunate we aren’t kin, isn’t it?” Meera saw no point in responding, but hot tears spilled down from sheer pain. “Not even remotely kin.” He waved the other man off her back. Meera went to stand but got kicked back down. “Wolves stay on all fours, don’t they?” As he gloated, a man rushed to him.
“My lord….your father! There were assassins! This was a diversion!” Frances looked shocked, then down at the princess.
“Gods damn it! Disguise a damned assassination as a rescue…” he looked down at her thoughtfully. “Guess your dear family didn’t think you were that important after all,” he said, grinning his handsome grin as his men got ready to put her on his horse. He waved them, amused. “No, no, lads, she doesn’t get a saddle. Not for killing my men. She walks back. See to it, Garen. I hear you get along with the Starks so well, maybe you can entertain her with stories while she comes home.” The knight nodded and leered at her. “But it’s time to return. If the northmen killed Father, they shall be scourged until they wish the Others had returned instead of me.” Meera watched as the ship sailed off, arrows uselessly flying after it. Without another word the knight mounted his horse and began the ride back to Storm’s End.
///
The last bits of the blood vanished down the cesspit, and Nicholas Snow breathed a long sigh of relief. Bryce Dayne’s ability to find them had just been severely compromised. He looked to the woman who he had met in the keep, some strange assassin. He couldn’t remember her name, not that it was important. Even Dayne wasn’t so arrogant as to throw away his own magical resources. He idly wondered if she worked for Terrence Stark, too, some sort of insurance policy. Make sure the bastard does what he’s supposed to. That would figure.
She was quick, he’d not begrudge her that. Failure at talking, maybe, but there really wasn’t a great excuse to be here so late. It wasn’t until she’d spilled the beans on the escape attempt he realized he had misjudged her, and badly. Not North, for sure. Maybe one of Malryas’s rogues, or Reach…or Faith. He swallowed his rage at her excuse, but the guards had left Bryce Dayne largely alone, and since he was here…well, fuck it. He hated wizards. He WAS a damned wizard and he hated wizards. Kill him, move on to the rest of the plan. Simple…
Ten minutes later it wasn’t quite so simple. The damned woman was dead, but she had shot the sorcerer through the chest with her poison crossbow. He had killed three men to give her time to finish him, but now it was time for evasion. Doors, window, halls, guards…his eyes flicked back and forth. Got to find the sister, got to get on the boat, got to get to Pentos…a crossbow bolt shook him from his frenetic thinking. He needed to move. He ditched his bulky sword and smashed through the window, falling fifteen feet to the ground, rolling as best he could. He needed space for the shadows to work. He got up and sprinted behind a stable, then touched one of his cuts and concentrated. As his pursuers searched, he leaned back, just part of the wall, nothing but a black spot behind that big war horse. A solitary guard’s over-curious search later, he had himself a new disguise. Starfall can have two bastards, now. He probably looked like a fool holding a spear. Nicholas had never bothered learning how to really use one, but faking it couldn’t be that hard.
Frances and his ilk were gone. Unfortunate. No horse, no cover, just him and a spear he was terrible with, and a dagger, and an alert camp filled with people who wanted him dead, if they knew who he was. Maybe Frances guessed wrong, he prayed, maybe he went north, towards the real harbor. He doubted it, though. The man could hunt better than a dozen of his father’s best bloodhounds. Going north was too obvious, too well protected.
As he snuck into a tent, he ditched the guard outfit and went for warm clothes, and a sword borrowed from some passed out Stormlands knight. He could keep the woman he was with, though. He had some standards, after all. Best not think on that one too hard. Moving on was going to be tough enough without thinking of what he was missing…
The ship would be long gone by the time he reached the village, Nick knew. Even at a fast pace it was over an hours’ run away, and he was hardly in the proper attire for that. He walked quickly and quietly, staying thirty yards off the road, eyes open for danger. Miles passed, and after about an hour he heard hoofprints galloping. Two dozen men or so stampeded on, the bastard in front. No prisoners, he breathed in relief. Not that that meant they weren’t dead, but Frances liked his trophies. He hid as they passed by and waited another ten minutes. Silence reigned as he began to trot down the road.
Solitude suited him well, but on this night, with so much going on, it was his enemy. The fear of failure brings out the worst in men, the insecurities dormant during action appearing like mythical beasts during reflection or anticipation. And even his strongest supporters, or lovers, would cheerfully admit Nick Snow had made his share of poor decisions.
As he approached a bend he heard men’s voices, with the overly familiar tones of taunting. Mockery was a tone he knew perfectly, in any language. The strong preying on the weak. Perhaps it was the way the world worked, but it was not the way it worked when he was around, not if he could help it. Some peasant getting spat on by a Dornish knight…well, that was something he could rally behind. Action kept his thoughts away, of people he shouldn’t be thinking about.
He scampered behind the trees and waited. The air was chilly in the early spring, and a slight rain had started. It turned into one of the storms these lands were famous for, finding shelter soon would be essential. Wet and cold were like kindling for fevers, and if he caught a fever Frances would find him. Even at his best he doubted his chances against the spearman. Frances was bigger and stronger than he was, and although Nick found it difficult to believe it was possible he was even faster. Definitely a poor recipe for success.
The men he saw with the prisoner made his blood boil. Twenty of them, dragging a woman with a collar around her neck down the wet road, giggling and poking and slapping and tugging the poor lady. The Hunter’s dogs, Ser Garen the biggest mutt. He remembered the man from Eddard’s Rest; the charm, the arrogance, the ice cold blood running through his veins. A poor man’s Frances, really.
Meera. Gods damn it. Her shirt had been ripped open and he saw mud and maybe blood on her face. Regulating his breathing grew more and more difficult as he saw them torment his sister. Quell the rage, he told himself, wait for that perfect moment, twenty is too many, going to have to wait. They won’t kill her they won’t kill her they won’t kill her…Frances is going to kill her.
Twenty was far too many to attempt anything against, and Nick watched and followed silently as they marched the broken princess another mile, before at last she passed out, and the knight dragged her onto his saddle and rode through the assembled army, and into the grey and grim castle.
///
Awareness came slowly, her breath forced out of aching and bruised lungs, every inhale sending pain through her broken rib. Her eyes blurred with pain as they slowly focused on the upside-down face of the grinning man standing above her. No, no no no no. She struggled instinctively, her arms trying to flail, but they were splayed out and tied underneath the table she lay on, not with rope but some kind of wire, so the more movement, the more they cut into flesh. Apparently the days of being a valuable hostage had ended. Her shirt had been removed and her bared upper body shivered with cold and fear.
Frances Dayne smiled at her. “So happy to see you awake. Your friends were so quick to run off, I thought perhaps you’d just given up and died of shame.” He ran a finger around her chin from his position above her head. “But I am glad you’re here so we can get to know each other better. I think we got off on the wrong foot.” He frowned at something on her face, licked his finger, and wiped it off. “I hate dirt. Why are you so filthy?” He sounded disgusted, and a second later a pail of cold water was dumped on her. She kicked her feet, which had gone untied for some reason, the cold suffocating in its intensity. Frances wiped her down with a towel, not making any effort to spare her ribs or back. “Better. Now, then, we got off on the wrong foot. You probably thought I was a lap dog, right? A whipped little cur. But I am rather more than that, I’m…” He leaned in to her face, and Meera couldn’t help herself. I’m dead anyway. She bit him on the nose as hard as she could.
Frances screamed like a baby, she thought with satisfaction. She knew he was a coward at heart. He grabbed a knife and she felt the end coming, but the blade slammed into the table next to her at the very last moment, and he exhaled sharply. “No, no,” he said, more to himself. “You don’t get to die so easily. No, no,” he wiggled a finger in the air, pondering, “this calls for an old favorite. Did you know I studied to be a master?” he said, his voice a bit funny from his nose being messed up. Meera had to smirk a bit at seeing how ridiculous his now-nasally tone was. “I did. I should have been your maester, up North.” He had a little chisel, then, and a small hammer. Meera felt her bladder threaten to empty. She had talked to Arania about Frances’s…hobbies. “I have had a lot of experience with dentistry, in particular. And I find you Starks have such lovely teeth…”
She squirmed and squirmed and kicked her legs but he just grinned, his confidence restored. “But not this tooth,” he said with a frown. “This tooth looks unhealthy. Fortunately, I can remove it for you.” The chisel went in with one hand. “This is fun, usually I have to use poison to stop people from moving, but no poison here. No movement to help, and,” he looked about. “No damned Valyrian sword to save you.” A crack sounded as the hammer came down, hard but not brutally so, and Meera fainted as her left bottom canine came out.
As she came to, she felt hands running up and down her bare skin. A woman with dark eyes smiled at her, as her mouth pounded in pain. “Frances has made you hurt. How tragic,” she said, rolling a nipple between her fingers, trailing down to the tie on her pants between her legs. Meera stared at her in confusion. “Do you need some dreamwine? It will ease the pain.” Meera nodded slowly through the haze. The lady pulled out the bottle and then had her take a spoonful. To her surprise, it was some sort of spice, and her mouth burned and she sweated like a pig in heat as the fiery liquid went down her throat. The woman covered her mouth with a hand as she struggled to spit it out, then covered her nostrils until she had no choice but to swallow. “No, no, my dear, not yet. If you don’t stop kicking I’m going to cut your lady parts out and serve them to my betrothed on a plate.” She stared at the strange woman, who was smiling much like Frances did.
“Why..?” she couldn’t get her mouth to make words properly. The woman had a knife out, now, and as Meera tried to protest, to say anything, the blade went gently around her stomach, up her chest, tracing the curve of her chin, then resting between her lips a long moment, and Meera was sure she was going to lose another tooth.
“Shhhh…” the woman said. “I’ve got work to do, and you want me to concentrate on it so I do a good job. But, if you must know, I’m Karissa Gevenna, soon to be the Queen of Westeros,” she said with a smile. “Isn’t that wonderful?” She was darker skinned and tall, with blonde hair and blue-grey eyes. “Now, if you are wondering why I’m torturing you, well, that requires rather more explanation. The short explanation is that I think you’re a lovely young woman, maybe lovelier than me with all your teeth and no wounds. I don’t like competition. Besides, it’s fun.”
Meera squirmed as she brushed her hair back and began chopping off chunks of her long tresses, but fell still finally as Karissa slapped her on the missing tooth cheek. “If you ever get a chance to really torture someone, you should try it.” She stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Perfect. No competition at all, now.” She set the knife on Meera’s chest and walked for a glass of wine. She gave the princess a sip of it and then finished the glass herself. “It is tiring work, really. You have the easy part, just lying there and complaining.” She untied her wrists and dabbed the wire cuts with liquor. “Don’t want those wounds going septic, now. Would be a shame to lose a present from my betrothed so soon after he gave you to me.” She hands Meera the liquor and a clean cloth. “Wipe yourself off, now.”
While Meera cleaned herself off, Karissa poured some more wine and sat on the bloody table, legs crossed demurely. The cuts stung and it took a monumental effort of will to ensure the bleeding was stanched and the cuts disinfected. When she had finished on her wrists, Karissa took the liquor and poured it down her body, soaking all her bruises and cuts in the burning liquid. A sopping cloth was applied to her face and more brandy forced into her mouth. “Better, she said, “Now clean the table. It is disgusting.”
As Meera wiped the table down, Karissa whistled and went to a drawer, pulling some other items out. The blood loss and exhaustion and brandy had made her head heavy, and the princess stumbled and caught herself falling. Karissa’s strong hands lifted her back onto the table and ignored her feeble resistance. Silk rope tied her hands back down and Karissa looked her over. “I hope you Starks are as strong as your reputation,” she said with a smile at the girl, “I think we could have a long and prosperous future ahead of us.” Then she picked up the knife again.
///
God damn it. Nick looked both ways down the hallway leading to Frances’s room he had been in just hours earlier. He has wasted two hours and plenty of his remaining magical focus searching the dungeons for his half sister and the bastard of Starfall, and his wounds and exhaustion were starting to mess with him. In the early morning there were no guards save near King Bryce’s doors; the men not wanting to cause a show of panic, he figured. Pools of blood still stained the floors. If Frances has Meera in his little torture chamber I’m killing him, he resolved. Escape was unthinkable now; the army on alert, his ship gone.
He heard a hollow and sickening crunching sound coming from up the stairs, followed by a scream that swiftly faded into silence. His palms felt sweaty as he gripped the hilt of his sword. Some guards came up the stairs and walked down the hallway, and Snow waited in the storeroom he was using. Broad daylight was coming, no shadows to use, nothing to gain. Every bone in his body screamed for him to run. No one knew him here, he could catch a ship, sail to Pentos, enter his uncle’s service and do whatever he wanted. The Starks had never had anything to do with him until he had kidnapped Joanna Lannister and they had sent assassins after him, after all. Pentos called, its women, its wine, the way he could blend in among the magisters and his bastard birth would be little impediment.
Joanna, Ellaria, they’d never forgive me, he thought. But really, I’d never forgive myself. He had been plenty of terrible things in life, but never one to simply let a sibling die. Even one he didn’t know from anyone else in the world.
Wait. Pentos. That’s it, he thought. There was no idea that appealed to a rogue like Nicholas Snow half so much as an idea that would enrage EVERYONE. And he had just thought of a perfect one. Or as close to perfect as an idea concocted on thirty six straight hours of sleep and punctuated by a straight up sword fight could be. A real desperation play. But perhaps Frances would go for it.
He slipped into the old Lord Baratheon’s quarters, hurrying as best he could. He ruffled through clothes until he found the finest ones he could fit into, and a fine scabbard besides. Hiding everything in a bag he used his guard uniform to head to the army tents. A half hour later he was shaven and dressed in a manner befitting his station overseas.
This time he strode into Storm’s End with an air of supreme confidence. He had enough gold left over to play off having run into a stroke of misfortune. He walked to the keep and spoke to the guards with the practiced condescension of a magister. “Callen ____, ambassador of the Free City of Pentos, here to see King Bryce Dayne,” he said, in the accented Westerosi of a foreign lord. The guards exchanged a look.
“His Grace is busy now, my lord,” one answered. Callen narrowed his eyes.
“What’s your name, then, guard? He will be furious when he hears his potential ally has been ruined by ser….” The man stammers.
“But, but, Ser Frances is available! Right upstairs! I’ll take you there myself!” Callen let his look last another long second, then nodded.
“Fine, you gross incompetent.” He swore in Pentoshi. ‘Take me to him.”The door guard hurried him up to the stairs he had been at the night prior.
“Prince Frances! An ambassador from Pentos is here for you!” Frances’s nasal tones shouted back.
“My prince,” Callen called out. “I have come with an alliance proposal between your great kingdom and our fair city. Please give me a moment of your time.” A he spoke, a woman’s voice called down.
“Oh, please, let him come up. He should see this,” she said. Callen went up the stairs and he saw her and for the first time that day he thanked the gods of whoever had sent him some fortune. The good fortune was not the half naked woman bleeding on the table, of course, but the woman who had spoken. He bowed. “Karissa Gevenna, how unexpected. It has been, what? Three years?” Karissa narrowed an eye at him and flicked the girl’s breast again, then tapped her mouth a few times to provoke a scream.
“Four, Callen. Four years since you came to Volantis on behalf of that….wonderful family of yours. They were such manically debauched people,” she said with a sudden grin. “Your uncle Cassadar especially. But you were such a booore. It’s like you’d never even SEEN a good orgy before.” Callen smiled through the aggravation. She patted Meera on the knee. “How about a spin with this one? She’s had some…dental work, and probably been passed around a bit, but she’ll be up for a roll soon enough.” It took Nick four full seconds to swallow the vomit that tried desperately to escape his throat at the thought. On the one hand, Karissa knew him as Callen, scion of the Second House of Pentos. On the other hand…she was Karissa Gevenna, resident nightmare of Volantis, daughter of the prime triarch. He shook his head.
“Not in public, Karissa. You know how shy I am. When not in an orgy, at least,” he allowed. “I’ve had to grow up, according to Uncle Iain. No more sleeping with all the female envoys and whatnot. But,” he allowed, after a moment of literally tasting the degradation of his soul in the back of his throat, “She isn’t bad looking. If you’re feeling generous you can send her to my room, which, speaking of, where IS my room? It’s like my uncle’s letters don’t even arrive here.” Karissa smiles and untied the princess. Her cut wrists ooze dark blood onto the floor and she lolls about, half conscious at best.
“Never say King Bryce isn’t generous,” she said. “Walk, bitch, and GUUUUARRRRDDDDSSS! Give this man a damned room! Now! Or be flayed!” Some hustled up. Callen put his cloak over Meera.
“Commoners don’t get to see a lord’s trophy,” he said, as Karissa chuckled.
“Take her to the third floor room where that dreadful Donder-however you say it was.” She told the guards. “Prince Frances will be thrilled to see you. His father is fallen ill and so we shall be your hosts for the time being.” Callen nodded.
“It is good to see true hospitality isn’t dead in this part of the world,” he said. As he spoke, he heard a man coming up the stairs as Meera was led out. The guards split, and Meera almost fell as Frances looked at the new arrival.
“Who is this? Ambassador from Pentos, my ass! We haven’t heard anything from them for nearly eight months!” Karissa looked to Callen with a sudden suspicion. Time to improvise. Even more.
“Old Merwyn was stealing the letters being shipped, he was in Braavos’s pocket,” Callen said. “We had to let him go. As apology, and a measure of the seriousness with which Pentos takes our friendship, the Magister’s Council has sent me to speak with you and your father in person. No confusion this time,” he said with his most diplomatic smile. Frances looked to Karissa.
“Sounds like bullshit to me. How do we know he’s even from Pentos?” The woman smiled.
“Oh, Frances, Callen and I have known each other since childhood. He’s Zenobia’s daughter. The witch, remember? He’s been busy in Norvos or Qohor or…” Callen smiled.
“Ibb, mostly, but Norvos and Lorath too.” As such would be a major demotion, he continued. “An indiscretion with a Targaryen princess,” he explained, then added, “and her cousin. Had to lay low until the incident and my uncle’s wrath cooled down. I’d rather have faced that green dragon’s flame,” Frances nodded finally as his betrothed giggled.
“Fine, then. What do you propose?” Callen smiled.
“Pentos, Volantis, and the Kingdom of Dorne will enter formal alliance. Our ships will clear the Stepstones and we will push south against Lys and Myr and Tyrosh into the Disputed Lands. Our position on the Narrow Sea will let us control the shipment of Braavosi goods into Westeros, allowing you to conquer King’s Landing and bring the Baratheons and Tyrells to heel. Once that is done, then we will send a fleet to their unguarded North and take White Harbor and Moat Cailin. Your father is crowned in the Great Sept or wherever, and you give us forty percent of the war spoils.” Frances scoffed.
“Fifteen.” Callen narrowed an eye.
“Thirty, then, though it pains my heart to see such a friendship be so tested.” Pentoshi diplomats, he knew, like politicians everywhere, had to be fluent in bullshit in any language. Frances smiled in triumph.
“Twenty five,” he said, like an overeager child who has just won his first fight. Clearly Bryce never let him speak to diplomats. Wise of him. Callen made a visible show of concern for a treaty he had made up less than an hour prior.
“Very well, twenty five percent, and not a copper less,” he warned. “The storms here ruined my ship. If you could lend me the use of one of your corsairs, it would greatly expedite our travel.” Frances nodded agreement.
He leaned in. “When you’re done with the woman, throw her overboard for the sharks…or better, do me a personal favor and skin her when you have grown tired of her noise. She is one of the King Wolf’s little pups, and his family vexes me greatly.” Callen pretended surprise, though the disgust was increasingly hard to conceal.
“A princess? Impressive, my prince. Truly your skills at striking at your foes is impressive and worthy of song,” he said. “You know how my uncle likes his harem. He pays premium for fallen royalty.” Frances raises an eyebrow at that.
“A premium, you say? How much for a princess? A real one, not this soiled drab you have.” Callen sat down and had some wine poured. May as well act interested.
“It entirely depends on her age, beauty, condition…the like. Like you Westerosi judge horses, I believe. No one wants a nag when you can have a…desert?” Frances chuckled.
“Destrier. And this princess is young, beautiful, and I want her gone. What could you offer?” Callen widened his eyes a bit. What the hell is he doing? He must know, he’s just letting this play out until he skins me alive.
“You must tell me more. If I came back with a princess with all her teeth and as beautiful as you say, why, I would become an heir to him. I could even make that wolf girl a pet and keep her on a leash around home with that much gold.” Frances smiled widely.
“Nina Martell. She is that old Nalya’s daughter, and,” he leans in conspiratorially, “she wishes to wed my father.” Callen nods.
“You fear she will have an heir over you, then?” Frances nods his head in agreement. Callen smiled, one of his first real smiles in a long time.
“Well, how about an exchange, then? You give me Nina and I’ll skin this Stark girl for you and mail pieces of her to her family, and as thanks for giving me a good lay on the boring boat ride home, I’ll give you your sister. We have it on good authority she is fled to my home city, and will arrive shortly.” He raises a glass. “A princess for a princess.” Frances grins ferally.
“Oh, one last thing. In Westeros, we seal every alliance by blood. Not shedding, mind, not usually, but by marriage. Well, we have no wedding suitors, so we must go the other way.” He hands Callen a paring knife. “After you fuck her this afternoon, as a sign of your friendship, I’d appreciate a present to send to King Terrence. A few inches is fine, for now.” Karissa grinned.
“Sealed by blood!” she giggled in a childlike way. “How adorable!” Callen took the paring knife, awkwardly, like a real squeamish diplomat might, but his blood ran cold. So much for ever going North again. He rose and bowed. “I’ll need dreamwine. I cannot abide screaming in bed,” he said. Frances handed him a bottle of it with a grin.
He went to his room and opened the door to his sister laying in bed, large fearful eyes staring at him. She hadn’t gotten much chance to see him, especially not dressed up. He walked to her and put an arm around her and pulled her in. He whispered into her ear. “You’ll be safe, I promise. Drink this and sleep, sister,” he said, right hand sweaty on the paring knife. “You’re going to need the rest.”
When the young princess at last fell into a drugged asleep, Nicholas Snow bit his lip and made a present to send to King Terrence. She stirred and groaned but he completed the job on her left leg as gently as he could. Twelve hours later he was on a boat heading east. Prince Frances Dayne, he had decided, was now number one on his list of people who he planned on killing, in the slowest and most wretched way imaginable.