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Chapter Text

Brienne of Tarth

Year Three in the Reign of Bran the Broken

   There was a time when Lady Brienne would have said the most precious coin in any land, the most beautiful jewel in any crown, was loyalty. Nothing shone like it, and its impermeability was better than gold. How many times had she bent a knee offering hers? How many times had that loyalty been repaid with treason or cowardice? If you asked her today, instead of loyalty, she would grudgingly offer hindsight and perspective as greater in value, greater even than loyalty.

   They rode low in the water, the Ruby weighed down with ballast of white and pink marble, her sails as full as pregnant women. So low in the water, the drag was considerable, though the trusty ship was stalwart and dependable. It had been her father’s favorite ship, unassuming and workaday in appearance. He’d said that in battle she often went unnoticed, which was ever to one’s advantage. From her deck, deeper in color than any blued steel, the sea was vast and timeless, a pale cloudless sky above. Two other ships rode aft, equally low in the water.

   A year had passed since the first unseasonably cool nights had come to Tarth, and Lady Brienne had set several plans into motion. The first, a buildings project in partnership with Tyroshi masons and architects. The price had been a decade of exclusivity in trade deals between Tarth’s now-nearly complete new port and Essos. The state of Westeros was known to all at this point, and an anchor in both the nearest and one of the few ports to survive the war relatively unscathed, a port that would remain open during winter, such a deal was a monumental boon to Tyrosh. The deal provided security for Tarth of one kind, but it was unwise to have all of one’s eggs in one basket, and greedy men are never without their aspirations, so the second plan was the singular caveat she’d argued for the deal, a wedge against monopoly, the mother of tyranny. With the mines open again, there was more than just stone for King’s Landing and the port. Tarth had provided the fabled gleaming marble of the Eyrie in ages past, and the rolling hills and mountains of the Sapphire Isle still contained vast stony treasures. The valley of her beloved waterfall was strewn with huge white and red marble boulders. There were more seams of the gleaming stone to either side of the valley. To the east of Tarth, Tyrosh would provide one leg of security, and to the south, in the Summer Isles, she would seek another. She would parley a deal to trade marble, or at least that was the plan. The goods to be had in the Summer Isles would be of value in the days to come. Though Tyrioshi trade routes were to the north and interior of Essos, they shrewdly bargained for another five years of exclusivity, permitting the exception of trade with the Summer Isles, granting harbor to their Swanships, assuming the Evenstar could secure such a deal. They’d been smug, sure she would fail, but Lady Brienne meant to establish Tarth’s position in the newly unified realms as a central port of trade and commerce. A woman could have her aspirations too. Winter was not going to be a period of stagnation and waiting behind walls at Evenfall Hall. House Tarth and the Sapphire Isle would make use of the time as a boon, as a time to recuperate from the wars and the prior ascension of house after house to positions of control and dominance. Tarth had been a kingdom unto itself at one time, and though Lady Brienne’s allegiance to the throne was absolute, she would not wait to see what was handed her from the meager remains of a wartorn country. She would make it herself, to the benefit of all, and to the stability of her castle and lands. Tarth would rise, and its rise would not be dependent on the fragile peace in Westeros, a peace that was more an armistice - a pause to face the implacable foe of the long winter.

  The weather warmed noticeably when the waters of the Summer Sea went from dark green to deepest blue and then on to lighter shades. Sure sign they were nearing their destination. She imagined how it must have been for those first men who crossed the Narrow Sea from Essos, braving open waters with no idea what lay on the other side, if anything. They would have seen the waters change like this as they approached the Sapphire Isle. Why else name it so? She knew where she was going, those men had not.

   What had driven them? she wondered.

   Though quarters were cramped, she busied the few men who weren’t regular crew with training, trading them every so often from one ship to the next to keep them from getting on one another’s nerves, and out of the way of the ship crews who would soon help her trade with the Summer Islanders for grains, spices, and gemstones that could then be traded on for other, more perishable goods from Westeros and Essos. With the expansion of the port, she’d widened and revamped the area off of the quay to make it attractive for merchants to set up business. She took only a modest rent in hopes of encouraging their concerns, which would in turn serve the island as a whole. The spaces had filled rapidly and the quay was now constantly abuzz with the sound of spirited haggling and striking of deals. The vibrancy of the port area was auspicious and gave birth to a small makeshift village where the merchants resided. She provided aid to make the area clean, orderly, and law-abiding. The merchants knew a good thing when they saw it and became quite self-policing, intolerant of disorder or anything that might spell Lady Brienne’s disfavor or curtailment of her generosity and the protection of Evenfall Hall. 

  She had chosen to personally accompany this venture to the Summer Isles in order to establish her presence, and frankly, to show her face to the Summer Islanders. She wanted them to know that the Lady of Evenfall Hall was interested in establishing solid, long-term, direct trade with them. She was also admittedly curious to see their fabled lands where trees grew like castles and unknown, fantastic birds and beasts made their homes. The few times she had dealt with them face to face, she found them to be refreshingly direct, open, and completely indifferent to the fact that she was a woman. They dealt with her with the same respect as any lord would expect, and that sat well with her. She wished to return the sentiment. The holds of the Ruby, the Summer Sun, and the Prancing Mule held as much of Tarth’s finest white marble as they could carry. Two of Tarth’s best stonemasons and an apprentice, enticed by the prospect of plying their trade in a foreign land, joined the venture eagerly. They would stay for a year and return when the ships brought the next cargo of marble, assuming all went well. 

  Ser Podrick and Ser Randel respectively rode the Summer Sun and the Prancing Mule as her eyes, ears, hands, and voice while she lead in the Ruby. She kept Timor Buckler with her on the Ruby, not out of prudishness - she was no fool as regards the needs of men when there was no other outlet - but from a sense of protectiveness. Other than Ser Randel and Ser Podrick, the men with whom he trained and fought and who thought of him as a brother. She wanted to spare him and Podrick the need to navigate their relationship in tight quarters. Better to keep them separate and focused on their duties. To their credit, they seemed to understand her intent and resolved to take the separation unquestioningly, as a matter of course and propriety. 

  “Land ho!” the cry came from the Prancing Mule. 

  She saw nothing, but then a shimmering blur danced on the horizon. A seabird slipped out from behind a cloud and circled overhead on long, thin white wings tipped with black. 

  Timmor came up from belowdecks. She watched him scan the horizon, confusion followed by disappointment settling unto his brow.

  “It will be some time,” she said. “Then we will skirt the coast.”

   “How did they even see it?” Timmor asked.

   “You will have to ask the sailor in the crow’s nest. They have eyes as sharp as eagles and they know the sea the way another man would know the lay of the land. Every swell and current is like a hill or a river to them.” Her father had told her many stories of the sailors who made port when she was a child. He had pointed out the different ships, where they’d come from, and the kinds of men who sailed them. Some of the description she had believed to be tales of fancy. Some of them had turned out to be true.

  The captain joined them. “Winds are strong from the west, m’lady. We’ll tack westward, then come in from the south ‘round Last Lament. The current will be with us once we round the the bend, but we’ll be a day or two.”

  Timmor’s lip squirreled up in further disappointment. Lady Brienne grimaced her amusement. The young were so impatient. “Drop the sail and let the other ships advance and come alongside. I wish to speak to all the men.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  As heavy as the ships were with marble, it was a delicate operation bringing the three alongside one another, but the captains of each ship were disciplined, skilled men, as were their crews. 

  Ser Podrick, Ser Randel, and the captains of the Summer Sun and the Prancing Mule crossed over on the singular pirogue held by the Ruby.  It was a clumsy affair boarding a ship this way, but at sea, it was the only way. Once aboard, they met with Lady Brienne on the quarter deck. Timmor was still Ser Podrick’s squire, but on this voyage he had shifted his roll to Lady Brienne, and he remained at her side, though the furtive glances between him and Podrick were clear to anyone looking for them. The captains agreed with the path to follow, as unified of mind as if they had spoken prior. In truth, the winds were calling the shots and the captains abiding their whim. She left them to their business, assured by their efficiency and matter of fact manner.

  Ser Randel and Podrick were given orders to check the holds, assure that any shifting of the cargo had not damaged it - they were to confer with the stonemasons on this matter - and then to assure that the men had their uniforms in good order and as presentable as possible after weeks at sea with only the occasional rain shower under which to bathe. She meant for House Tarth to present a solid, dignified impression upon landing.

  The ships parted and tacked their way west.

Chapter Text

Ser Podrick Payne

   Belowdecks was sweltering. On deck wasn’t much better, but at least the air moved under a slight breeze, the sails fwupping and popping. After rounding Last Lament, which was seen only from a distance, the ships hugged the coast where the waters were as clear and turquoise as those of Tarth. It wasn’t until they were well south of the bend that the scents and smells of dry land came to them, heavy with perfume of loam and deep, deep green. The ships were followed by great, blunt-nosed porpoises riding their wakes, their bodies slick as glass, in grey and black. Other creatures Podrick had never seen, looking like glossy dogs with large black flippers for legs, played in amongst the porpoises. They chased each other through the rolling crest of foam that curled off either side of the ship. They cleared the crest of the wake, leaping as high as they could, turning their heads to the ship, trying to get a look at its inhabitants, occasionally barking a low guttural greeting. The intelligence in their eyes was uncanny.

   The marble in the holds had been well secured and the trip had been without incident of foul weather; hence, there were no issues that the stonemason could see with the goods, lovingly passing his hands over the rough white surface of the slabs, streaks of red and pink running through them like blood. For the hundredth time, Podrick remembered the day at the waterfall when he was later knighted and came so close to losing Timmor. The marble had become a symbol of his love. The white was Timmor’s purity and innocence. The red was, by turns, the flame of his hair, the blood he had seen at Timmor’s throat when Toryen had dared to harm him, the fury and the fear that had burned in his heart at the thought of losing him.

   Alren and Luras were on deck watching the coast drift by keeping themselves well away and out from under the feet of the deckhands.

   Alren peeled a withered apple with a small, blunt knife. “There are things in them trees ain’t got no name,” he said.

   “They have names, just not in our language,” replied Luras in his silky Dornish accent.

   “I hear different,” Alren retorted.

   “From your many years spent in the Summer Sea, I take it?” Luras shot back. “Or perhaps it was your childhood on the Summer Isles? Yes, that must be it. Anyone can tell by just looking at your fish-belly ass that you hail from southern climes. Where is your great goldenheart bow? Don’t tell me you left it at home. What a shame that would be.”

   “We’ll learn their names soon enough, I should think. Like those water dogs swimming with the porpoises.” Podrick pointed out their supple bodies in the wake of the ship.

   “Those are sea lions, Ser Podrick,” answered Luras. “We have them on the southern coasts of Dorn. They cover the beaches by the hundreds, their smell finds you long before the sight of them. These here are quite small and sleek. I must say they swim with considerable grace. I have seen ones that are huge, rippling their bodies across the beach, with great blubbery noses that fall into their mouths when they swing their heads back, roaring if you approach, but they are made to swim and lack the limbs to chase a man. Still, they are to be respected. The size of ten of you, Ser Podrick. The males, the big ones, fight amongst themselves for the females, leaving one another bloody and torn.”

   “They’ve nothing to fear from me,” said Alren. “I’m wary of dogs with proper legs, never mind dogs with whatever they have.”

   “And if they have any sense, they’ll be just as wary of you, but they’re not dogs, lions. Sea lions,” corrected Luras.

   “I’ve seen lions, and those don’t look like lions. They look like dogs. I hope the Summer Islanders are better at naming their animals than you Dornish. That bird flying overhead, what do you lot call them? Goat-chickens? No, too thin to be a goat-chicken, maybe a pig-dove?”

   Their rivalry was famous at Evenfall Hall. Alren the commoner from the fields, Luras the worldly Dornishman. As different as night and day, and the best of friends. The story went that Alren had planted a narrow field near the castle, hoping to impress Lord Selwyn. The field hadn’t taken, so he tried again the next season and the season after that. The soil near the castle was too thin and stony, but Lord Selwyn had taken the man in on account of his tenacity. Luras had arrived with a Dornish caravan that had left him behind while he busied himself ruining several marriages in good standing. He’d been called out more than once to answer for his deeds and defended himself admirably. Lord Selwyn had taken him in as well, adding a good sword to the castle and removing a pesky problem from the port families. Podrick had always liked them greatly, but since the events of Bronzegate and Toryen, they’d become more than that. It had been they who had entered the farmhouse where Timmor was captive, taking out Toryen’s men, they who had risked life and limb at close quarter. Since that time they had formed an unspoken bond with Timmor, quietly teaching him to squire properly so that he came to know things that Podrick had never shown him, like when fittings could no longer be cleaned of rust and instead had to be replaced without Podrick ever asking him to get it done. Alren had remade the grips of one of the shields to better fit Timmor’s hand and arm. Luras kept Timmor's equipment with his own, all the men knowing that Luras guarded his gear jealously. They had made a little brother of Timmor and Podrick did not begrudge them. Timmor would never sit alone at meals or lack for companionship or conversation, even when Podrick was needed elsewhere. To know that hands other than his own would reach for steel in Timmor’s defense gave him peace of mind.

   Lotus Point, their destination, was at the head of a long, narrow, deepwater bay. Mountains rose to either side, violently green. Flocks of large, noisy, colorful birds lifted from part of the canopy to settle in another. Captain Desmor pointed out ships from Lys and Tyrosh and even an Ibbanese whaler, though what it was doing this far south was a mystery. There were also the slim, fast boats of the local Summer Islanders with their crescent sails of vibrant colors. They preferred those narrow little darts - outriggers, they were called, the ones with twin hulls, one larger and the other small, bound together by long poles - for local travel. Some were larger with evenly-sized hulls and a platform between the two for light cargo. Those had a different name – catamaran. Given the heat, this arrangement made better sense than a stifling hold. The captain was fascinated by these vessels, waxing on about their speed and handling, and how, instead of jousting tourneys, the islanders proved their prowess by racing them across the bay, the first to touch sand taking the prize. There was a glitter in the man’s eyes - he longed to be down there plowing the waters with the Islanders.

   Towering over all these were the swan ships, their masts like forests, sails like clouds, each with a great figurehead in the shape of a swan's head, no two of them alike

   “Look at that,” said the captain, pointing at one of the boats with two hulls. The small boat sliced through the water at speed with barely a ripple, three bare-chested men plying large, leaf-shaped oars in perfect synchronicity. Podrick had seen dark men before, but none so dark as these, and never had he seen men - of any color - so powerfully built. Not nearly as large as the Mountain had been, but where he had been freakish huge, these men looked carved from solid basalt.

   “If you keep staring, I think you will make Timmor jealous,” said Luras, having slipped silently to his side.

   “What?” said Podrick, as much surprised by the statement as by Luras’s sudden presence. Podrick flushed but said nothing, waving him off.

   Luras’s chest shook with silent laughter. “Lucky for me, the women are even more beautiful,” he said. “It is said they speak to the creatures of the jungle who lend them their beauty.”

   “Do you ever think of anything else?” Podrick asked.

   “There is nothing else, Ser Podrick. Your secret is safe with me, but do not pretend those men did not catch your eye. In the end, everything we do is just to have someone beautiful to hold at night. You already have your Timmor, so it doesn’t occur to you how the gods have blessed you,” Luras stated with an air of having proclaimed one of the great truths of life.

   Perhaps he was right.

   “My lady does not think this way,” replied Podrick. And she certainly did not. She treated such matters as distractions to be overcome in the pursuit of honor. Her heart had only ever belonged to one man and he was now gone. Podrick never understood how the kingslayer had bewitched his lady so. He was not half the noble she was, despite his history and name.

   “Our lady is a lady unlike any other. She does not collect lovers, but children.” Again, he spoke as though reading from an ancient tome.

   “Don’t be imprudent, Luras," Podrick warned. He tolerated Luras’ sense of humor to a point and his lady sat on the other side of said point.

   Luras raised his hands in surrender. “No imprudence meant, Ser Podrick. I am happy to count myself amongst her children. Look what she does. At home, the port continues under Lord Davos’ eyes, and we are here to trade so that our house may prosper. She creates opportunities for the folk of Tarth so that they too may prosper. Daenerys Stormborn was the mother of dragons; Lady Brienne of Tarth is the mother of lost children.”

   He said it without cheek. Perhaps it was true as well. Podrick justly carried the name of House Payne, but until meeting Brienne, it had meant little. It saved him from the noose once, yes, but other than that, all it meant was a life of serving those who saw him as disposable. No, that wasn’t fair. Tyrion Lannister had been good to him. He’d been a foul-mouthed drunk, often bitter, but always good to him. And he was a dwarf, despised by his entire family, save for his brother Jaime.

   Was honor only to be found amongst those thrown onto the rubbish heap?

Chapter Text

Timmor Buckler

   The town of Lotus Point was something out of a fantasy.

   Everywhere there was color in jewel tones fit for a king or queen. The stalls along the quay had wide awnings of rich cloth to shade the buyers and vendors alike. Some had writing, but most had images dyed or painted onto the fabric, advertising their wears and services directly to the ships slowly docked alongside the quay. One had golden sheaves of wheat painted on the awning, another had fruit. There were an ax and chisel, perhaps indicating woodwork. Some images were indecipherable to Timmor - the writing was certainly opaque - but it only made him more curious to know what could be had therein.

   When the ship was secured and the gangplank lowered, Lady Brienne and Timmor were the first to debark. His lady left the Ruby’s cargo in the capable hands of her captain. As the Summer Sun and the Prancing Mule tied off, she left the guarding of their cargo to Ser Podrick and Ser Randel. Timmor remained silently at Lady Brienne’s side, but Podrick gave him a wink when he turned back up the gangplank of the Summer Sun. If Lady Brienne saw, she made no comment.

   Timmor knew not one word of the Summer Tongue, but he imagined to himself the conversations between the tall, elegant people. Here, an older woman was haggling for a better price on some fish. I can get fresher at a better price elsewhere. There, some children traded what looked like sweets, making known their favorites. I’ll trade you these red ones for your yellow ones. Many men and women carried woven baskets on their heads, their contents unknown. They strolled with an ease and self-possessed manner that was rarely seen back home. Luras of Dorne was as pale as any northman by comparison.

  Workmen carried great bags filled with what was probably grain, and wooden boxes filled with packing straw to protect other items from far-flung ports. There were animals for sale. Small swine in patchwork colors, geese, and chickens with extravagant plumage. There was another animal, like a pig, but bigger and with toes rather than cloven hooves, and a face and ears more like a tiny horse. They had long flexible snouts and the babies were striped and dappled like fawns, though the adults were an even dark brown in color. There were creatures that looked like goats or sheep, with a goat’s beard, but with great curving horns that arched up and back past their shoulders. And there were cows unlike any he’d seen with horns almost as grand as the strange goats, and with tremendous hunched backs that were so wide, Timmor doubted he could straddle such a creature. 

   A young couple walked hand in hand down the quay. The young woman eschewed the colors everyone else wore, instead dressed in purest white, her hair a cascade of glossy plaits flowing back from a wide, white head cloth. She was stunning, as was the young man, tall and willowy. The glances they passed one another were universal. Young love. New love. For them, no one existed in the whole world other than themselves. They passed and smiled at Timmor, acknowledging the world around them for just a moment. Timmor blushed at how beautiful they were.

   Lady Brienne cleared her throat. He looked up to find her watching him.

   “You’re gawping, Timmor.”

   “My lady, it’s so…”

   “Yes, it is, Timmor. Now come with me. We must find someone to serve as interpreter.”

   They walked the long procession of stalls and spoke with several people until a woman selling fruits pointed down the quay repeating talíb, talíb. When the words proved opaque to Lady Brienne, the woman left her stall in the hands of a younger woman and waved for them to follow. Talíb turned out to be an older man who worked leather. They were introduced and the man stepped out from behind a workbench.

   “Welcome, welcome!” he said. “How can I serve you, Westerosi?”

   “I am Brienne of Tarth. I have come to trade marble. Those three ships there are in my company. Surely there are merchants interested in such things? With whom should I speak?”

   “Of Tarth? The Sapphire Isle?” the man asked.

   “You know of it?” Mild surprise in Lady Brienne’s voice.

   “Of course! We are both islanders, no? I am afraid I do not know your lord’s name, though. Much has changed since the wars in your lands.”

   News traveled fast between one port and the next. The whole world must know of the sorry state of the six kingdoms by now. It often worried Lady Brienne, and had been a large part of her drive to partner with the Tyrosh. One always had to be wary of friends, but better friends than strangers, she would say. 

   “Yes, indeed. Much has changed. I am Lady of Evenfall Hall," she said standing a bit taller.

   “You are the Evenstar?”

   She paused, an odd expression on her face. “I don’t usually refer to myself as such, but… yes.”

   “You cannot be served by any who are here in the market, my lady. It would not be right.” The man touched his forehead and gave a rough bow. “The prince will wish to attend you directly.” Talíb called to a young boy who came over quickly. He spoke words to him, of which only the word Evenstar was recognizable, and the boy looked up at Lady Brienne with wide eyes. Talíb shooed him brusquely and the boy ran off down the quay.

   Talíb knew everyone. While they waited, word spread and soon they were being offered chilled fruit juices, spicy meats, and aromatic rice. When Lady Brienne tried to pay, Talíb waved away her coin, looking distraught.

   “You must let me pay, Talíb,” she insisted.

   “Tell the prince Talíb has been of service to you. That is worth more than coin, my lady. The boy will return shortly with the prince’s advisors in tow. I am sure of it.”

   She smiled her assent.

   Rations had been abundant on the ship, but Timmor was sick of the taste of salt-pork and fish. The spicy meats were mouthwatering, tender and flavorful. The cold juices were sweet and refreshing, so different from wine or ale with food. The rice was perfumed with jasmine and other spices new to his palate. It was the best meal Timmor had ever tasted. When he was finished he perused the items in Talíb’s stall. Excellent satchels in leather as soft as cotton. Vests trimmed with feathers. Belts and buckles of heavy, hard leather and steel with intricate patterns worked into both. Beautiful sandals of braided leather with rope soles.

   “Do you make all these things yourself?” Timmor asked, one of the sandals still in hand.

   “Yes, I make all these things. Here, those are too small for you.” He got up and took the sandal from Timmor, replacing it with a larger, more robust pair, equally beautiful and finely crafted in blue and green.

   “Try them on.”

   When Timmor hesitated, Talíb silently insisted, sitting him down, making him take his boots off. The first had been too small, but these were too large, according to Talíb, and he brought another pair. They laced all the way up to just below the knee and Talíb showed him how to lace them so that they didn’t chafe or bind. After weeks of boots aboard a hot ship, they felt like freedom.

   “These are wonderful,” Timmor said.

   A huge smile made of perfect teeth lit Talíb’s face. He put his hand to his chest and said, “You are very kind. When you return to Tarth you will tell everyone these are Talíb’s sandals, and they will come to me.”

   “But…” Timmor reached for his purse.

   “No, no.” Talíb refused again. It occurred to Timmor that their stay was costing the man in both money and favors. He thanked him profusely for the sandals but did not dare look at or touch anything else, lest Talíb give away his whole stall.

   Presently, two women and a man arrived with the boy whom Talíb had sent. They addressed Lady Brienne in the common tongue, conspicuously ignoring Talíb.

   One woman was in a flowing lilac dress of rippling diaphanous fabric, the other in a complex orange and yellow garment that wrapped around her and became a train at the small of her back. The man was shirtless, with vibrant green trousers and a beaded collar that draped the upper part of his chest and back. His hair had been transformed into a perfect iridescent cap of blue feathers.

   “Lady Brienne,” said the women in the lilac dress. “The prince offers you his hospitality and hopes you will do him the honor of being his guest in the palace. Accommodations are being readied as we speak for you and your men. Will there be many?”

   “The honor will be mine,” responded Brienne with just a hint of a bow. “I do have some men with me and cargo to trade. Three ships. The sailors have made arrangements in town. I have seven men in my personal company, along with masons who have come with the cargo. Marble from Tarth.”

   The woman in orange and yellow said, “Yes, the prince has sent me to see your cargo. We know of the Eyrie and how its brilliant facades are thanks to the legendary mines of Tarth. But those stories are as old as time. The mines of Tarth are in operation again?

   “Yes,” Lady Brienne answered. “There is much to mend in Westeros, both its structures and its people.”

   The woman in lilac added, “King’s Landing. We have heard. It is a tragedy, the story of the Mad Queens. The Age of Heroes is filled with such tragedies, as well as heroism. Perhaps this is a such an age reborn, for here is the Warrior Maiden of Westeros. How like the stories you are.”

   “I am nothing. Just a woman trying to keep her house afloat.”

   “That is not nothing,” replied the woman in orange. “I would very much like to see the marble you’ve brought.”

   The man who had accompanied them remained silent and only gestured down the quay, back toward the ships.

   The woman in orange and yellow, whose name was Issa, inspected the cargo within the hold of the Summer Sun, the last of the ships, with a careful eye. The man, whose name was not yet known, held a small slab that had been worked and polished into the sigil of House Tarth. Since raw marble holds back most of its glory, the sigil was meant as a worked example of the stone itself and of the workmanship of the stonemasons that were to remain with the cargo.

   “There is iron in your hills,” she remarked at first glance, then pulled a lens out from somewhere in her dress and closely inspected the polished example held by her male companion. “Yes, when marble shows streaks of pink and red, iron is sure to be nearby. And such fine grain, and how the colors swirl. Beautiful.”

   Timmor watched all of this in dutiful silence, taking it in. His father would have had him hide away, invisible to this goings-on, but Lady Brienne wanted him to see, to know, to understand. The privilege was not lost on him.

   Issa inspected every inch that was visible.

   “This marble is very fine, my Lady of Tarth. The color and grain - exquisite.” She had spoken with the stonemasons on the Ruby, who had been surprised when she engaged them in their own arcane terms, clearly well-versed in the qualities of stone and the art of working it. They pressed her with ever-more esoteric conversation, but at no point did Issa lose her footing. She had refrained from making any pronouncement on the cargo until now, alone with Lady Brienne and Timmor. “My prince will want to do business with you. To claim the same beauty as the ancient Eyrie in the frozen north, this would be no small boast among the other princes.”

   She said something in the Summer Tongue to the silent man who tipped his head at the two women and departed with the marble sigil in hand, the woman in lilac trailing behind the man.

   “They will inform the prince that the goods are agreeable and worthy of consideration. Men from the palace will come to guard the ships. It is customary. Please do not be alarmed at their presence. It is a busy port and what you offer is unique. There will be curiosity. The guards will neither interfere nor board the ships, but remain on the quay. It will be the prince’s choice, of course, but I do not foresee a refusal here, but rather good cause for a discussion of terms, which, again, are for my prince to decide. That is not my place. Mine is to remain and escort you and your men, as is fitting for someone of your status. If that is agreeable, I will remain outside as it is very hot in here.”

   “It is very agreeable,” responded Lady Brienne, “And yes, quite warm indeed. Timmor, inform the other ships of the arrangement and have the men ready themselves. Half an hour, and no more. I expect to find everyone ready and presentable on the quay, yourself included. Run along. Time’s wasting.”

   He was lightheaded on his way to tell Podrick of their royal destination.

Chapter Text

Odé Qaxar

   Odé Qaxar did not yet know who had arrived, but someone had. She had only to glance at the passageways and busy-work to know that the prince had spoken. His words had become a silent web of motion, spreading from the center of the palace where he had his quarters, servants scurrying past her like ants. A line of ants only looks disorderly at a glance or from afar. When you stop to pay attention, you see that they move with a purpose, each knows where she is going as she carries her bit of leaf or twig. Each knows exactly what she is doing. They even stop now and then to touch their antennae and then move on, some unknown information or greeting having been exchanged. She stayed out of the servants’ way, as much to keep from being underfoot as to avoid being asked to help. She would only make a mess of things. The prince had a love of precision and presentation and Odé had precision to offer, but hers was of another kind. Quotidian affairs were not her strength, her own room typically in disarray.

   She made her way through shaded pathways between courtyards, across lawns rarely traversed, save by her and the occasional lemur, surprised by her approach, squawking their disapproval. They bounced away on their long legs, thickly striped tails held high, their round orange eyes reproving behind a black mask. Women in white dresses and white headscarves, men in white trousers and white beads - the palace servants - eyed her as she cut through the paths that linked the different areas of the complex. They said nothing, knowing Odé was given a certain license to do as she pleased. They were infinitely more a part of palace life than she was. Just like forest ants, they barely spoke, passing one another tasks in the form of linens and flagons and other items whose needs spoke for themselves. It was like watching a well rehearsed dance. 

   This much fuss meant it was a group, not just an individual, Odé thought to herself.

   Interesting.

   She headed back toward the guest huts to see how many were being attended. Seven in all, included the large one reserved for important visitors.

   More and more interesting.

   The buttresses of the grand ceiba tree near the prince’s quarters hid her for a moment within their great walls. Where was Marco? she wondered. At this time of day, probably in the training court, where else? If not there, then the river where the young people bathed in coy approximation of what happened in the temples. She pressed her left hand to the fat spines on the wall of the buttress root in front of her. Bright, sharp pain making a pattern of stars in her flesh. Blood for the little sisters, and a silent prayer for protection.

   Out from the shelter of the ceiba, through the wall of Dornish agave that was both decorative and dangerous. Not a blade touched her. Women carried baskets of bed linens in a procession followed by men with large clay pots meant for morning ablutions. Behind the prince’s own personal quarters, unseen, unheard in the shadows. Out to the western side of the complex where she would find Marco Hara.

   “Odé.” The voice was as deep as dark water, and just as smooth.

   She did her best to hide her shock and disappointment at being caught slinking through the back ways.

   “My prince.” She touched her forehead and bowed deeply. He had come from nowhere, but who was she to question his comings and going? Perhaps he had been watching her. He did sometimes. It made her feel like a pet.

   “You take such joy in shaming my guards with your antics. Do I punish them or you?” he said, his face set into a grimace of annoyance. They often complained to him that Odé was likely a witch, able to materialize from nothing. They weren’t bad guards. Just not as good as her.

   “Neither, my prince. They offer a fine challenge. They are the strop and I am the blade. They keep me sharp.” She was careful to hold any tone of cheek from her voice.

    Still, the prince chuckled. “You want to know who has come. The Lady of Tarth - Brienne. She comes to trade.”

   “I would have thought the Westerosi were hiding in their castles now, waiting for winter to end.” Now she was very curious. Lady Brienne was known to her. The warrior lady of Westeros. Many stories had filtered their way through merchant ships. They said she slayed a king and was taller than any man.

   “Tarth is not quite as far south as Dorn, Odé, but far enough. Her island is still warm and the lady wishes to make the best use of her advantage.”

   “As my prince says.” How would he know? Better to take his word for now and ask Brienne herself.

   “Try and behave while they are here, Odé. Remember your courtesies and where you are.” He gestured vaguely with both hands, taking in the palace complex.

   “Of course, my prince.” Fair enough, she thought.

   “Where are you going?”

   “I seek Marco Hara, my prince. I am restless and in need of a workout.”

   He turned and made a slight gesture with one hand, giving her leave to go. She bowed again and made for the regular path.

   It was a strange game, one she’d known since childhood. She knew equally well how dangerous it was. You tease the big cat in the trees at your own risk. But she knew his signals as well. When he would pounce rather than sit on the limb, flicking his tail, pretending indifference, watching you the whole time.

   Brienne of Tarth. Odé imagined how she would look, how she would sound. Wild and gleaming in steel, wielding death in generous amounts. She caught herself in the fantasy of this barbarian woman, muscled like a man, enormous breast encased in steel armor, blade bigger than anything a person could truly carry.

   Why enormous breasts?

   She laughed at her own silliness. She would wait to see who this woman truly was. Fact is always much more interesting than fiction, and whatever facts had led to her legend crossing the Summer Sea to Odé’s ear must surely be something to hear, and much better than the fantasy.

   Marco was in the training court, as expected. Sweaty and shirtless, as ever. Bronze skin, eyes that went from blue at the edges to green, and then gold at the center. His hair, jet black and lank, currently sweat-soaked. He had arrived when she was a younger woman and entertained the prince with his unique skills. The prince had taken a shine to his extravagant mannerisms and exuberant displays of punctilio, and Marco became a part of the palace menagerie.

   He would be gorgeous if he weren’t so vain.

   His initial advances toward Odé years ago had been met with heartfelt humor on her part. He told stories of the Titan of Braavos, how it was really a fort and there were murder holes beneath its great armored skirt to fend off unwelcome guests. But the murder holes were the least of the Titan’s wonders, he’d bragged. No, the greatest threat to any man entering Braavos without the courage of his convictions was the sight of the Titan’s colossal cock hanging beneath. It was accurately representative, or so he’d assured her. Men and their cocks, like princes with their palaces or captains with their Swan Ships. Bigger was always better in their eyes, though she doubted any of them had ever bothered to ask the objects of their affections if that was the real measure of things. She eventually took pity, sure he had never heard the word no in such matters, which he later confirmed was true. Women, men, whomever he wanted, he had only to suggest the idea and they were in his bed.

   “Men?” She’d asked, pretending scandal.

   “Of course,” he’d answered. “Not often, but when the mood strikes and he is handsome and has good hands, then yes.”

   It never ended with him. Every conversation eventually found its way under the sheets. He was giving her his typical line of assurances and bravado, extolling his rehearsed attributes one day, when she stopped him and said, “Marco, I have no interest in that,” pointing at the area of his manhood. “But if it is my company you seek, then that does interest me.”

   It was the slim length of a sword at his waist to which she had pointed.

   They say to have a care when making wishes, for they may come true. And this one did. She’d watched him more than once in the sparring arena where he was incandescent, one of the prince’s favorite baubles because he always put on a good show for spectators. Some of the guards wished to learn the way of water dancing, but they were big square men made of big square muscles. They did not have the grace or speed or reflexes for it, Marco flipping over and around them like a mongoose twisting bonelessly in the air. They quickly tired of his antics and went back to practice with their goldenheart bows, licking the wounds of their injured egos by piercing targets with arrows.

   When she finally joined him, he told her that despite what many a man might say, the best water dancers were women because grace was their core attribute, though Odé came to believe that she must be an aberration because the grace he expected from her had not been remotely innate.

   But stubbornness and tenacity, those she had large supply. The first weeks had been discouraging. The following weeks were less so. Within six months she was besting him often enough to want more. Six months more and she was joining him in the arena when her prince wished to entertain. Marco and Odé were the talk of the town for a while, rumors and assumptions breathing life into everything she’d done to dissuade Marco.

   “There will always be talk about those such as ourselves,” he’d advised her sagely. “You fended me off admirably. Gossip is nothing. Pay it no mind unless you enjoy the attention.”

   And she did enjoy it. 

Chapter Text

Ser Podrick Payne

   They were shown into the palace. There were guards with great bows at small, open turrets evenly spaced around the top of the wall. It was clear why so many of the people here had such impressive upper musculature, even the woman. It must take great strength to pull back a bow such as those. Podrick imagined any arrow loosed by such a thing would hardly slow down at all as it passed clean through its target.

   The woman in the lilac dress mentioned to Lady Brienne that she would show the party to their accommodations, while the other woman and man took Lady Brienne and Ser Randel to meet with the prince. Podrick was to see that all the men were situated and to keep an eye on them. Lady Brienne noticed that the men had drawn some attention, much of it from women, and her men were equally captivated in return.

   “Keep them in line, Ser Podrick,” she said loudly enough for all to hear. In a lower voice, just for him, “We are guests here and much depends on this. I want no incidents.”

   Podrick nodded and gave the men his best glare, which he knew was nothing compared to Lady Brienne’s most casual glance.

   When Lady Brienne took her leave with Ser Randel, he gestured for them to gather around.

   “Don’t make me pay for your stupidity, understand? I’m not going to treat you like children, so do me the kindness of behaving like men in the service of House Tarth. I am sure once we are settled, there will be amusement enough for all.”

   “You can rely on our discretion and honor, Ser Podrick.” Luras made a theatric bow, to the soft laughter of the rest of the men, but Podrick saw him glance at Timmor, feeling uncomfortable at the implication.

   Podrick turned to their escort and said, “I apologize, but I did not get your name.”

   She tipped her head ever so slightly and said, “I am Mara, Ser Podrick.” She glanced at the men, then said, “There is refreshment waiting in your rooms, but if there are other needs…?” She left the obvious unsaid.

   Podrick stammered at the blunt acknowledgement, “No. Thank you.” His face flamed with embarrassment. “My lady has asked that the men rest, and… well… that will be for her to say.”

   Mara tipped her head again, but there was a twinkle in her eye that said she found Podrick’s embarrassment amusing. She indicated the huts that had been prepared and Podrick assigned one to each of the men, including one for Timmor, which provoked a look of disappointment from him. Luras had assured him that the Summer Islanders found Westerosi prudery to be at best quaint, at worst rather sad. Still, he did not wish be the cause of his lady’s dishonor or embarrassment, no matter how he longed for Timmor. It had been weeks aboard the ships, where Lady Brienne had carefully and obviously kept them separated. Aboard the Summer Sun, there had been the occasional liaison between the men, in the ship’s hold, where it was understood that such meetings were nothing more than a needful release of certain urges, though it was clear within the first week that one of the deckhands, a young man of blond hair and unusually attractive aspect, was the favored partner. He didn’t seem to mind and the other men occasionally gave him favors for his attentions.

   Podrick had not partaken. No matter how strong the urge had been. No matter that he could hear the grunts and sighs on the other side of the bulkhead tormenting him. He would not do such a thing to Timmor. The blond lad was indeed pretty, but Timmor was his whole life. One day, far from now, Evenfall Hall would be his domain, but it would be nothing but cold stones upon a cliff if Timmor weren’t there to share it with him.

   “Someone has taken you to Asshai, Ser Podrick,” said Luras, bringing Podrick back to himself.

   “What? No. I was just…” He didn’t know how to finish the thought.

   “Yes, you were,” Luras said cheekily. “The men will be fine. Go and rest.” His tone was more sober now, more respectful. For all his jocularity and cheek, he knew when to be himself and when to be his lady’s man.

   The door to the hut was a beautifully crafted panel that slid smoothly in a track. The interior of the hut was done in rich red wood of many shades. The floor was darkest, the walls lighter. The posts of the bed were carved to resemble heavy flowering vines, arching up and inward to a point where they met and a ring held gauzy lengths of cloth that shrouded the bed itself. The walls ended before they reached the join with the incredibly high-pitched roof and the same gauze-like cloth made for windows that air could pass through. Outside of the room, the eaves of the roof dipped just below these strange windows, protecting them from rain. As warm as it was in this place, the room was cool and comfortable, the bed looked inviting and private with its shroud. 

   Someone slid the door panel open.

   “Luras said you wanted to see me.” It was Timmor.

   “I…” Podrick stopped before saying that wasn’t true, quickly deducing what Luras had done.

   Podrick strode to the sliding paneled door, closing it silently. Timmor looked alarmed for a moment. Podrick quelled Timmor’s concern, pushing him towards the bed.

   It had been too long, and his need was too great. Honor be damned. Clothing flew to the floor without either saying another word. Podrick was painfully hard, and as soon as Timmor’s trousers came away it was apparent he was in a similar state. Timmor took a second to find an entry through the gauze curtains around the bed and crawled in, a smile stretching across his face.

   He was so beautiful. The blond boy on the ship didn’t hold a candle to him, his Timmor the Red.

  Timmor pulled him down onto him, seeking his kiss, wrapping his legs around Podrick. The heat of his body, the sense of breathing him in, as slight as he was, as prefect as he was, he was always eager to please, to drown in Podrick’s kisses, to weave his fingers through Podrick’s hair, to pull him tighter to him. He always wanted more, deeper, harder. Podrick sometimes lost himself in Timmor’s permissive eagerness, worrying it had been too much, but it was never the case. They’d fall asleep and in the wee hours Podrick would waken to the heat of Timmor's mouth taking in his manhood. Who could complain over such things?

   They had nothing at hand to make the moment easier, but Podrick was leaking copiously enough not to need additional lubrication. Timmor’s head tipped back, his mouth slack, his eyes rolling upward.

   “The god’s save me,” Timmor whispered, clutching Podrick’s buttocks, pulling him in.

   There was no lasting this fury. Podrick came almost immediately, and Timmor followed within seconds, the volume of seed arcing from his cock, hitting his chest and stomach, was startling. He must have gone the entire voyage without once touching himself. It was the only explanation.

   Podrick made to withdraw, but Timmor held him in place with his legs.

   “Tell me you love me,” he said.

   “Always,” replied Podrick.

   Timmor gave him a reproachful look.

   “All right, all right. I love you."

   Podrick kissed him, slow and deep, settling into a crouch, knowing that Timmor loved nothing more than for Podrick to remain fully sheathed within him for as long as he could. With the explosive need to fuck now tended to, Podrick took the opportunity, time, and care to make love to Timmor, to kiss him in all the places he loved to be kissed, to hold him tightly and gently rock against him, still inside of him, Timmor purring like a cat.

   Timmor gently pushed him up, but not off. He said he loved looking at Podrick, naked and with him in this most intimate way. He had said that Podrick was beautiful, that he loved his eyes and his smile and his belly, and after months of saying thank you, but not really believing it was true, one night it sank in that maybe it was true, for Timmor, that he really was beautiful to him. Podrick had cried that night and Timmor had held him, saying nothing but I love you, over and over again. After that night, Podrick enjoyed Timmor’s gaze upon him. He struck comic poses, flexing muscles, pulling faces, rubbing his round belly, all to Timmor’s delight.

   Podrick thrust gently against Timmor, his cock having found new life in just minutes.

   “Yes, yes. Please, yes,” Timmor sighed.

   It lasted longer this time, eased by having already spent within him. Podrick pulled him up so that Timmor straddled him, clumsily getting his legs out from under himself so that Timmor could ride him completely. He let him take control of the pace, lifting slowly, almost completely, sinking down again as deeply as he could. When the moment came, it was harder, sharper, and deeper than the first orgasm. It made the room spin, or maybe he was just breathing too hard. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it was Timmor’s beautiful smile looking down on him, his auburn curls that had lightened to a fiery red on the voyage wet against his forehead, that skin, so perfect and alabaster, made all the more beautiful by the shower of freckles along his shoulders.

   “You didn’t come this time,” Podrick noted with concern.

   “The first one had me seeing stars, Podrick. This one was for you. I felt your need was not finished.” He chuckled and Podrick felt it through his body, around his cock.

   To feel someone’s laugh from the inside. What a thing.

Chapter Text

Timmor Buckler

    Lady Brienne sent for Podrick some time after they had settled into the comfortable embrace of the bed. Timmor was loathe to let him go, Podrick’s breath against the nape of his neck only just having shifted to the slow, regular rhythm of sleep. But Lady Brienne’s summons was not to be ignored. Podrick dressed quickly, giving Timmor a last, deep kiss before sliding the panel to the room open and slipping out. Timmor lazed in the bed, one outstretched arm reaching to the spot where Podrick had lain just minutes before, still warm, smelling of him. He tried to doze, but sleep would not come. Instead, he dressed and set out to explore this place of such wonderful colors, smells, and sounds.

   Luras was outside the hut speaking with a young woman. She was amused with him, though it seemed they did not speak the same language. Or perhaps they did, but it wasn’t a language made of words. Luras was making his intentions clear enough, and truth be told, she was equally clear in her polite refusal. 

   Timmor approached and when Luras looked his way, the young woman took the opportunity to disengage herself from his attentions with a comic eye-roll aimed at Timmor. He could not help but laugh in return. She joined another group of people walking past and was out of reach and surrounded by friends before Luras could turn back and salvage the moment.

   “You are a cruel boy, Timmor.” Luras pretended annoyance with aplomb. “Did you not see her? A goddess!” 

   “Yes, she was very pretty. If it’s meant to be, you’ll see her again, but I think she was saying no rather clearly,” he said dryly.

   “Easy for you to say. I go out of my way so you and Podrick can spend time together and you laugh when my true love abandons me.” Luras was unequaled for dramatic flair. 

   “And how long had you been trying to make your intentions known to her?” Timmor asked with cheek.

   “Three whole minutes! A man does not need longer.”

   “Three minutes sounds pathetic.” Timmor hadn’t meant the double entendre and only heard it as the words left his mouth. Luras barked a laugh and they were both quickly in tears, unable to breathe.

   When he had recovered his breath, Timmor said, “I want to see the rest of the palace. Do you think that would be all right?”

   “I will accompany you. Let us see what sights are in store!”

   It wasn’t a castle at all. It was like a walled village. The palace was divided into separate buildings with open lawns connected by wide paths swept clean and lined with tall palms and flowering bushes. Their delicate, sweet scent perfumed every breeze. Above, immense trees stretched their great limbs from either side, dappling the path in gold coins of sunlight. From one tree to the next, large blue birds with white and yellow streaks on their wings soared. They looked like tiny dragons with heavy curved beaks, squawking loudly. It was as much an open park as a palace and all of it beautifully manicured. After a walk through the area where they were staying, past the front gates and around to the other side, Timmor saw how it was arranged, like a starfish within a wall. The paths were the arms and the spaces between were the lawns. Where the paths intersected in the middle, the prince’s quarters were shaded beneath a huge tree, the trunk of which was covered in thick, wicked-looking thorns. Where the arms met the outer perimeter, other buildings and formal spaces clustered. 

   “Do you think Lady Brienne will strike a good deal with the prince?” Timmor asked as they strolled a shaded path.

   “Can you imagine any other outcome?”

   “My lady is a warrior, not a merchant.”

   “Lady Brienne is a woman of many talents, Timmor. Never doubt it. High-born women are not warriors, but she became one. And ladies are not merchants, but I think she intends to cross that line as well. She was almost a kingsgaurd, you know this, yes?”

   “Ser Podrick too,” he added.

   “Yes, Ser Podrick too,” Luras agreed. “Imagine you are the first woman in all of history to be offered such a post and you refuse it, instead telling your king you must return to protect the land that is part of his realm.”

   “And then asking for Podrick to be her successor.”

   “Such bravado! Our lady is whatever she sets her mind to being.”

   Floating on the breeze came the unmistakable sound of sparring. They looked at one another, each raising an interested eyebrow. They followed the sound to a stone archway that gave onto a large round yard paved in slate.

   She was tall. So tall. Her skin was midnight. Her opponent was dark of skin as well, but he was not nearly as dark as she, more like Luras with his olive skin. Swords like none Timmor had ever seen. Thin, long, wicked needles. And they were real, not wooden.

   They were like shadow cats circling one another. She leapt and thrust. He ducked and spun out of the way. She came again, circling around with impossible grace. Their thin swords met with a high, shimmering ring and they both laughed at the near hit and the last-second parry. She leapt again, feet pointed, every muscle distinct and defined, and ran. The man gave chase around the circle of the sparring arena and Timmor would swear by the names of the Seven that she took several steps up the sheer vertical face of the outside wall, flipped, spun, and landed next to the man. He leaned away, but she anticipated his move and hit him squarely in the chest with the flat of her blade.

   “Tesha!” she cried triumphantly.

   The man breathed heavily, sweat pouring off him. He looked their way. “We have an audience, Odé.” The man had a Braavosi accent.

   The woman turned, sword at the ready, then relaxed. She eyed them both, taking in the situation.

   “The Westerosi from Tarth.” Her accent was almost impenetrable.

   “Timmor, my lady,” he responded, over-pronouncing his name.

   She laughed deeply, showing beautiful white teeth. “I am no one’s lady, Tima of Westeros. Odé. Just Odé.” She gestured to the man. “This is Marco of Braavos.” 

   In perfect sync they each brought their respective swords to their faces in a kind of salute that ended in a downward flourish of blades and an elegant bow.

   Timmor was at a loss and simply bowed in returned.

   Marco of Braavos laughed softly. “Odé, you have bewitched the poor boy.”

   She rolled her eyes at him and walked to a rack against the far wall where she carefully cleaned and placed her weapon with a number of others.

   “I have never seen sword practice like that,” said Timmor. “It was beautiful.”

   “It is the water dance, fire boy.” Marco smiled at Timmor, looking at his hair. 

   “How do you move like that?”

   “Ah, Tima, it is work and practice and dedication,” Odé walked back. She looked so powerful, like she could jump to the top of the surrounding wall in a single silent pounce. She lifted one of his arms, strolled around him, prodded and squeezed dispassionately. He remembered his lady doing the same once. “You are small, but your body is strong, Tima of green eyes and red hair. Lady Brienne trains her men well.”

   “Ser Podrick. Lady Brienne trains with the men, as does the man at arms, but Ser Podrick is my partner.” 

   “Your sheré?” she said.

   “What does that mean, sheré?”

   “Sheré is…”

   But Marco cut her off with a few gentle, opaque words in the Islander language.

   “Ah, yes,” she said. “Westerosi are strange about this.”

   Timmor was confused, unsure of what had just transpired, what had been said. 

   “You can spar with Westerosi swords?” Odé asked.

   “Yes,” he answered, still feeling at a disadvantage. 

   “Maybe you would like to dance with us tomorrow?” Marco asked. 

   “If my lady permits, I should love to.” In truth, what he loved was the look of them. Exotic, brash, confident, and sophisticated in a way that made him deeply envious. To look like them would be ideal. To spar like them would be legendary.

   “Tomorrow, then, fire boy. If your lady is kind, we start early,” Marco said. He and Odé left the large space where they had been sparring, walking back down the sun-dappled path, speaking to one another in the sonorously rich speech of the Summer Islanders. 

   Excitement welled within him and a deep desire to find Podrick. To tell him of his strange encounter with these two remarkable people.

   “Do you think Lady Brienne will permit it?” he asked Luras. 

   It was only then that he realized Luras hadn’t spoken a word in the entire exchange. He had been too taken with the pair to even notice Luras’s slack-jawed silence.

   “I will do everything in my power to assure that you can come and train with them tomorrow, Timmor. You and I both.” His voice was far away, his eyes still following Marco and Odé as they shrank down the path. 

   "Do you ever stop?" Timmor asked.

   Luras regarded him with unexpected sobriety. "Tonight, when you are in Podrick's arms, ask yourself, if you did not have him, would you stop?"

    Later in the day, they had an early dinner in an open pavilion adjacent to where they were sleeping. Lady Brienne assured the men that things had gone well with the prince today and that tomorrow there would be a feast, though the food that was brought to the pavilion looked like feast enough to Timmor.

   “You should have seen her, Podrick. So tall! They were sparring with these thin swords and it was nothing like what we do or how we train.” He’d been gushing over their dinner for ten minutes, repeating himself without realizing it.

   “You say the man was Braavosi?” Lady Brienne asked.

   “Yes, my lady. Odé introduced him as such. His name is Marco,” he replied.

   “Water dancing,” she said with confidence. “It’s traditional in Braavos. I’ve seen Arya Stark fight that way. Ser Podrick saw her too. For someone lithe and fine of bone, it’s a very effective style. Arya impressed me greatly.” She pulled apart a roast bird and set to cleaning every bone.

   “If it please my lady, I was invited to join them tomorrow to spar. I would very much like to.”

   “Of course. Perhaps Ser Podrick will accompany you.”

   Podrick lifted his brows in agreement, his mouth full of his own roast bird.

   “Thank you, my lady. Have you really seen Arya fight that way, Podrick?”

   He wiped his mouth and swallowed. “I have, more than once. Arya Stark is not someone you want pointing a sword at you.”

   “No, she is not,” added Lady Brienne. She and Podrick shared a glance. 

   Timmor noticed Luras watching the exchange. He looked a bit pitiful. It had happened faster than he had expected and Timmor could see him trying to think of a way to include himself that did not seem inappropriate.

   “My lady, if it please, Luras was also asked to join.” Timmor tried his best to make it sound casual.

   “Then he shall accompany you instead. Ser Podrick, you and Ser Randel will accompany me tomorrow. Prince Abioye and I have come to a tentative agreement, but the particulars and future arrangements must still be finessed. He should come to know you better, Podrick.”

   Podrick went red. Timmor understood what his lady meant. He knew of the inheritance Lady Brienne had secured for him. The entire subject made Podrick uncomfortable. He didn’t know how to engage it. Timmor left it alone. Podrick would find a way eventually to accept who he had become. Timmor caught himself watching Podrick, when Podrick glanced at him. He broke it off and turned back to Luras.

   “Are you still game, Luras?”

   “I am at your service, Timmor, and ever grateful for my lady’s generosity.” He winked at Timmor and said nothing more.

Chapter Text

Prince Abioye

   Prince Abioye entered the meeting chamber to find Lady Brienne and her two men, each down on one knee, their heads bowed. No prince in the Summer Isles would do such a thing, but it was easier to let the Westerosi show respect in their own way than to explain why this custom was strange and discomforting to him. Theirs was a culture of dominance and servitude, of war and death. To bow before a prince was to debase oneself and it implied trust that no ill would befall them in this vulnerable position. He knew this, but still it unnerved him.

   She was so ugly, this woman with her yellow hair and a face that not even a man could wear and call handsome. To his understanding, the women of Westeros were valued for their appearance and the alliances to be made by judicious marriages. The tales of women who led armies into battle were tales from Essos, not the snowy realms Westeros. And they were a people who cared deeply about form and tradition. How had this woman invented herself? That intrigued Abioye. The things she must have done, must be capable of doing, to hold a position such as hers, to have these two strong men at her side who deferred to her in all things as more lord than lady.

   His advisor Mosi was already sat next to the prince’s place on the dais. The old man was eyeing Lady Brienne with a lost expression on his face, impossible to know what was turning there behind his eyes.

   Abioye cleared his throat, breaking Mosi’s trance. Lady Brienne and her men did not flinch. 

   “My lady, please sit. Be at ease,” he said.

   Chairs of woven rattan were quickly brought forward and the three sat. Abioye noticed a furtive glance between Lady Brienne and the younger of her two men. Podrick, his name was. He remembered the young man’s notable silence and solemn eyes from yesterday.

   “Prince Abioye, have you had an opportunity to consider my proposal?” Lady Brienne asked.

   “I have,” he replied. She wasted no time on pleasantries, which in truth was to his preference. “When do you think you could bring a second shipment of the same amount?”

   “By this same time next year. But it could be more. At least another ship’s worth. Perhaps two. As I made mention yesterday, Prince Abioye, this first expedition was… conservative. My hope remains that we can establish an agreement that is more long-term. The mines of Tarth still hold many riches.” She was metering out her words, holding on to what she hoped was an advantage.

   He eyed her carefully, waiting to see if her composure slipped. If anything, her brow set into a near scowl. As ugly as she was, he could not deny that he liked her greatly. Westerosi ships were nothing new at Lotus Point, nor their gruff, hairy traders. But a lady of the realms of snow, to come herself to treat with him directly, this was exceptional. And the Warrior Maiden, no less. It spoke not only of respect, but of need on her part as well. Either winter had made her desperate; else, she had larger, more ambitious plans in mind. Either way, he could ply the arrangement to his advantage, and that sat well with him.

   He held his hand out to Mosi, who passed him a large sheet of papyrus paper. A small table was placed before Lady Brienne. Abioye spread the papyrus on the table, beckoning Brienne to inspect what was shown. She came forward, curious and looked.

   The papyrus showed a three-tiered sketch of a temple.

   “Prince Abioye, marble of this kind is not structural…” she began.

   “Yes, yes. It would be impractical and take longer than I wish to wait. The temple you see here nears completion. It lies north of the palace and will be the monument to my reign. I imagine using your marble to line this chamber and this chamber.” He indicated the two large sections of the temple. “And also here, to create a dome. For this purpose, I think your marble would be exceptional, no?”

   “I should think so, yes.” One side of her mouth drew up into a near grin. “What do I get in return?”

   “Your ships will return with as much grain, spices, and other items as they can hold. We have root vegetables of which you may not be aware, very nutritious and which keep well over long periods. With winter come to Westeros, such things will be of value, I think. When you return with the next shipment, those ships will be loaded to capacity and a Swan Ship will accompany them, also filled with cargo. The holds of my ships are very large. I would extend that bonus now, but just as you say, for now, I must be conservative. I will have new fields planted and ready for your return, else strip food from the tables of my people. This first trade will take some time to gather. Perhaps a month. In future, it will go more efficiently. If these terms are agreeable to you, you and your men will be my honored guests here in the palace while the arrangements are made.”

   She flashed her blue eyes up at him, the only part of her that could be regarded as attractive. Her nostrils were slightly flared, showing her emotion. He was offering a good deal and she knew it. Somewhere behind those eyes he could sense she was calculating the reason for the generosity. Her eyes narrowed when she saw that he had seen. She was a canny woman, yes.

   “A friend in Westeros. A foot in the door, so to speak. We can be of service to you now, and when summer comes, you can be of service to me. Westeros is a vast land and has many riches. Who knows what opportunities will come to light after the thaw.” He spread his hands to gesture that this was all there was to it.

   “You play the long game,” she said. Not a question, but a statement.

   “As do you. Why else come in person?” he responded. “We do not raid. We do not steal. We do not make war in the sense that you know it, Lady Brienne. I think you came to Lotus Point to find friends and allies, and you came in good faith, with something to offer. It is clear that you understand honor. Accept my friendship. It will be of benefit to us both.”

   He gave her the time she needed to think, to put her words carefully together, which he knew mattered to her greatly.

   She put out her large, calloused hand, as any man would, to seal the agreement. Abioye took it heartily, returning her strong grip to show her that he took her exactly as she was, and nothing less.

   “If it please, and in the spirit of a long friendship, I would have you know my heir.” She turned her head nodding to the quiet man who had not said so much as a word to this point. Abioye gestured for him to approach. The young man gave a furtive glance to the older man who accompanied Lady Brienne, who redirected the younger man’s attention back to Abioye.

   “Ser Podrick,” Lady Brienne encouraged him forward.

   He approached slowly, but found his courage somewhere between seat and dais. He straightened noticeably and then bowed somewhat stiffly.

   “My prince,” he said, unsure what other formality to give.

   “Ser Podrick.” Abioye released Lady Brienne’s hand and took the young man’s. He glanced between the two. Heir? The age difference, or lack thereof, and the complete lack of resemblance said there was a story here. Time enough to learn it later. Better to make use of the awkward situation. “You have large shoes to fill, Ser Podrick, but I am sure you will be up to the task.”

   Mosi took the opportunity to interject. “Perhaps Ser Podrick would be interested in working with me and Issa?”

   Abioye added, “Mosi and Issa will be collecting, accounting for, and ensuring the harvest of the goods for which your lady has traded.”

   Just when Lady Brienne looked ready to speak on his behalf, Ser Podrick said, “However I may be of service to you and to my lady, I would be honored, Prince Abioye.” That seemed to satisfy Lady Brienne, whose continence relaxed some.

   With the matter settled, Abioye gestured for food and refreshment to be brought in. Musicians entered and the air filled with the gentle tremble of harps.

   The older man in Lady Brienne’s company said, “Prince Abioye, you said that you don’t make war? There are guards with impressive bows on the palace walls.”

   “Slavers do not technically make war either, yet they are of no small concern to us,” Abioye dropped flatly.

   “Many of Daenery's warriors were slaves that she freed in Essos,” said Ser Podrick.

   “And some have returned home to us,” said Abioye. “Their stories are tragic and serve to strengthen our resolve to remain apart from the peoples of Westeros and Essos.”

   Lady Brienne’s brow knit into confusion. “And yet…”

   “Yes. And yet.” Abioye shrugged. “You impress me, Lady Brienne. You are not what I expected. The warrior maiden of Westeros is a legend even here, so far from your lands. How you tamed the kingslayer, and are perhaps one yourself.”

   “I am no kingslayer, Prince Abioye. Renly Baratheon fell at the hands of his brother, Stannis, who was kinslayer and kingslayer and coward to boot. Renly was killed through dark magic, a shadow sent to do the deed Stannis had not the honor to do himself, if any honor could be had from such a deed.” She took a long draught from her glass. “But if you thought this about me, if you thought I was a kingslayer, though I am not, I remain at a loss as to why you chose to see me, to hear me out.”

   “What a people want is not necessarily what a person wants. Can a man not be curious? Can he not learn to see differently when exposed to a new truth?”

   “I suppose,” she conceded begrudgingly. “One of my men was invited to train with a woman here in the palace. A woman who is a water-dancer. Another indulged curiosity?”

   Abioye laughed. “Yes, you could say that. I enjoy having interesting people in the palace. So you have met Odé?”

   Again her expression relaxed. She seemed prone to this cycle of tension and release. Abioye could only imagine what she had gone through to make her this way, and what she was trying to achieve to make her continue on when others would have retired.

   “Not in person, no,” she said. “But she made quite an impression on Ser Podrick’s squire, Timmor. He is the one training with her today.”

   “Then he will return to you in exhaustion, I fear. Odé is ruthless. Tell your man not to fall in love with her beauty. It will do him no good.”

   “Little chance of that,” said Ser Podrick, blushing deeply.

   Aha, this little family was stranger and more intriguing than Abioye had imagined. No wonder they set sail for such distant shores. Abioye took advantage of his position to brook an impertinence.

   “He is yours, then?" Abioye asked directly to Ser Podrick. "Odé has been known to turn the heads of even the most devoted sheré."

   “What is that?” the young knight asked.

   “Sheré is a husband where there is no wife, but another husband.”

   Lady Brienne nearly rose, a leopard prepared to pounce. A mother leopard, according to her own words, though this was clearly not her offspring. The older knight edged forward in his seat.

   “Yes,” said the young man before anything else could transpire, his solemn eyes gone suddenly hard as dark pearls. “And I am sure Lady Odé has charms to spare, but Timmor is not the kind of sheré to be led astray.” He pronounced the word poorly, but Abioye was impressed nonetheless. The quiet ones always surprise.

   “Your man has heart,” Abioye said to Brienne, her face sliding from concern to surprise. “I begin to see more clearly.” His focus back on Ser Podrick, he said, “Sheré is not an ugly word, Ser Podrick, though I think in your own language the only words for such a thing may be ungenerous. No insult was meant.”

   That a prince would apologize to a common man was not lost on Lady Brienne. Her eyes went wide and she nodded for him to give a reply. The young knight looked to her for guidance, but it seemed she wished to see if her cub could stand on his own.

   “I am not offended, Prince Abioye. Things are different where we live, where we come from. You are correct that the only words that come to mind in the common tongue are not kind words, but my lady has taught me that truth is the only coin a man should carry in his pocket.”

   The boy says nothing for almost two days and then speaks like a philosopher. No, they were nothing like Abioye had expected. Nothing at all.

Chapter Text

Odé Qaxar

   He was there waiting when Odé arrived. The enthusiasm of the young and the uninitiated. She remembered when she too had that crack-of-dawn drive to train. It was still there, but tempered by experience and knowledge. The ignorance of the novitiate was replaced with the determination that she would one day be better than Marco.

   We’ll see how long it lasts.

   He would need different clothing. The heavy layers and leather outer garments he wore would surely roast him if they were at it for too long. She endeavored to take him to the port and get him something more appropriate.

   Marco was not up yet. He would likely not arrive for at least another hour or so, but she hoped he didn’t take as long as that. The other man, the Dornishman, was going to be a handful and she wanted to spare both him and herself the hassle of directing his attention elsewhere. Perhaps Marco would do her the kindness of scaring him off or, conversely, flirting with him and maybe luring him to bed. Either way was fine with her, so long as she didn’t have to deal with him.

   “I did not expect two students,” she said eyeing the Dornishman from the corner of her eye.

   “I was asked to accompany young Timmor,” the man replied. “For his protection. I will remain out of your way, I promise.”

   “For his protection? We are in my prince’s palace. He has nothing to fear here.” Odé stepped to the man, imposing on his personal space. He took a small step back.

   One point for me, she thought.

   “Nonetheless.” He bowed dramatically. The Dornish were consummate actors. She would have fun watching him and Marco try to upstage one another.

   She turned to the redheaded young man. Tima, the name of a pale nocturnal gecko with the green and gold eyes that hid behind vases and paintings, waiting to pounce. The tima is small, but to a moth, it is a dragon. She had decided on the name as soon as she heard his introduction. Perhaps he would live up to it, perhaps not.

   “Come,” she said to him, waving for him to follow. She took down one of the sparring blades and gave it to him.

   “It feels like nothing,” he said, waving it about.

   “That is why you will use this for now,” she replied, handing him a practice dowel and taking the sword.

   His face immediately set into a childish look of disappointment.

   “You know how to use a Westerosi cleaver.” She put up her hand to stay his objection then placed the real sword back on the rack. “Compared to these, it’s a cleaver, a brutish tool, but at least you know its weight, its presence. A waterdancer’s sword will slice and pierce just as well, or better, but like you say, it feels like nothing in your hand. Before I let you wave one around me, you must learn to accept its feel as something, not nothing. Take off your sandals and leave them here.” She took up another dowel and turned from him without waiting to let her words sink in and walked to the far end of the sparring arena. When she turned back around, to his credit, he was sitting quietly removing his sandals. Odé had complained to Marco when he told her to remove her footwear on her first day. The young man piled the long laces of the sandals with care so as not to touch the ground, clean as it was. She understood. No one had to tell her who had made those sandals.

   “See the raised line of stones?” She gestured to the smooth run of stones that were higher than the rest by about an inch. “Stand there.”

   He froze, seemingly unsure what to do.

   “Like this. Back foot pointed to the side, front foot forward.” She took her position on the stone strip. “Now you. Bend your legs. Good. More weight on the back leg.”

   “This feels sideways,” he said, with his brow drawn. She saw a thought pass across his face and then he said, “No shield.” It was a statement, a realization, not a question.

   “No shield. We are not rams in the field running at one another, nor are we bulls. You have learned to batter your opponent into submission. Is that what you saw yesterday, when Marco was here?”

   “No,” he said. “You looked like shadowcats.”

   “And cats always land on their feet, no?”

   “Yes,” he replied.

   She came towards him, her dowel forward. He immediately fell to the side, off the stones, nearly stumbling.

   “Dead,” Odé said flatly. “Watch my feet. When I come to you, first one foot then the other, backward, quickly. You try.”

   “This is not what you were doing yesterday,” he said.

   Deep laughter welled from within her. She had said those exact same words to Marco, so she gave him the same reply she had received. “Just as running is not walking and walking is not crawling, no it is not.”

   “He does know how to walk,” said the Dornishman, looking for an entry into the conversation, thinking himself clever to play off the metaphor.

   She turned a hard eye on him. “Tima may walk the length and breadth of Westeros, but here he is a baby at the tit. If he has the discipline and the will, perhaps I can show him to walk. Now, we learn to crawl.”

   “I have much to learn, my lady. I pray you will have patience with me,” said Timmor.

   “Tima has manners,” she said, still eyeing the Dornishman. He bowed his head with an embarrassed smile, raising a hand in concession.

   “More than you did, Odé.” Marco entered the sparring arena squeezing the bridge of his nose. It must have been a long night of drinking. He looked pallid and bedraggled.

   “Marco, you live,” she said.

   “Live is a strong word, Odé. Let us say I am not dead.” He placed fingertips delicately to one temple.

   “Perhaps today is not a day for sparring, Marco. A soak in the river might soothe your head.”

   “No, I am fine,” he lied.

   “If you hadn’t tried to outdrink the prince last night, you would be fine, but you did, so you’re not.”

   She flashed her eyes at him, then flicked them over to the Dornishman. It took Marco a second to put the message together.

   “Dornishman, join me. I promise the river is more inviting than the heat of the arena or the edge of Odé’s tongue,” said Marco.

   “My lady asked me to accompany Timmor today.” There was dismay and disappointment in his voice.

   “There is no safer place in all of Lotus Point than beneath Odé’s wing, I assure you.” Marco gestured to the man to follow, giving him a face of understood commiseration.

   “I will be fine, Luras. Another time, perhaps,” Timmor said. Odé was grateful for his cooperation.

   The Dornishman left reluctantly, Marco assuring him there would be beautiful sights at the river, his tone leaving no doubt as to the nature of those sights.

   When they were well gone, Timmor said, “I apologize for my friend if he made you uncomfortable.”

   “Men are men, Tima. They are what they are.” She sighed.

   His face betrayed an insult taken. “Luras is a good man. He’s just lonely.”

   “Is he a man you would trust with your life?” she asked, expecting that to be the end of it.

   “I owe him my life. He saved me from my brother’s hands.”

   “Your brother?”

   “It’s a long story, but yes. He saved me and befriended me when others would not. Again, I apologize if he made you uncomfortable. I promised him I would find a way for him to come today, and I did. If anyone is to blame, it’s me.”

   Timmor bowed slightly and held it. He was waiting for her forgiveness.

   “There is no one to blame, Tima. And perhaps not all men are the same,” she conceded, but was not speaking of Luras. “Now come. Take your stance again. You still wish to train?”

   “Of course, my lady.”

   “Good, now come towards me as you saw me do earlier, but slowly. Pay attention to your feet and stay on the stones.”

   His stamina lasted much longer than she expected, and he was a quick and obedient study. His eyes were ever on her, her legs, her feet, her arms, her shoulders, but never in the way Luras had looked at her. Her student seemed blind to whatever charms she held for other men. For that, she was grateful.

   The sundial near the fountain in the arena showed nearly two hours past noon. She was far from exhausted but there is only so much the mind can take in, even when the body can continue. Form was everything in waterdancing, and he would need to repeat what she had shown him many times for it to become natural, for him to learn to know where his own body was, rather than the focus he had learned on the opponent’s sword. The Westerosi way of battle was not refined or elegant in the least, but it was clear that his teachers had been serious and demanding. Already his form was better than hers had been after a week in the arena with Marco. She had been much less disciplined in her first days, thinking Marco’s flair would come easily to her. How wrong she had been. Still, imitation was not the same as learning. Tomorrow would prove if what he had learned today would stay with him.

   “I am hungry,” she said to him, doubting he would admit to hunger himself. “Food, yes?”

   “Are we done for today?”

   “Yes,” she said returning the practice dowel to the rack. “You have done well.”

   His smile was huge and boyish.

   “For your first day,” she tempered, followed by a sideways smile of her own when he deflated.

   He sat on the floor to lace his sandals.

   “Those are nice,” she said. "At the market, we can find you better clothes for training in the heat. Something to match those sandals."

   “A man named Talíb gave them to me when we arrived.” He finished the last lace and stood. “He has many beautiful things.”

   “Yes,” she answered softly. “He does.”

   “Do you know him?”

   “Talíb is my father.”

Chapter Text

Ser Podrick Payne

   Mosi’s obsequiousness was discomforting, though there was nothing Podrick could say against him. Nothing. Mosi was perfectly punctilious. Podrick tried to put it out of his mind as his own failing, unaccustomed to this deference. He was a knight in his lady’s service and her heir. Mosi was just an advisor to the prince. No title to speak of. It did not seem they had titles other than their royals. Perhaps it was simply his due. For his lady’s sake, he tried to hold himself correct and accept it.

   They road a cart pulled by small stout horses out from the palace and into the forest. Mosi pointed out the spires of the temple the prince had shown them, just visible above the canopy, rising into hills in the northeast. They road southwest through the trees where Mosi made great show of his knowledge of flora and horticulture. He pointed out different flowers, bushes, vines and things he called bromeliads. Each had a use and a purpose. Podrick felt that he was being tested, and would likely fail since there was little chance he would remember much of Mosi’s observations. He tried to focus on the things that sounded like they could be of value for trade in the future.

   “Does it cloud the mind?” he asked when Mosi pointed out a heavy ribbonlike vine in the canopy, the sap of which was good for pain.

   “Indeed. Similar to your milk of the poppy. One must be judicious, though a weak version of it is brewed for temple celebrations. The people enjoy it greatly, but only on such occasions,” Mosi assured.

   “Understood,” replied Podrick.

   “And do not think to take it directly from the vine. It is deadly in its raw form.” Mosi eyed him queerly, as if his curiosity had meant something more.

   “I am not a man given to vice,” he said flatly.

   “No, no. I imagine not. But it would be my fault if some tragedy befell you if I failed to inform you of the nature of the plant.” The tone in Mosi’s voice still left the impression in Podrick’s own mind that he was being called out as a liar. 

   The trees thinned and they came to a clearing. Orderly rows of a low shrub with bright green, palm-shaped leaves filled the large clearing. A few men and woman worked the field, clearing away unwanted plants growing between the shrubs. 

   “What is this?” Podrick asked.

   Issa answered, “Sweet cassava. There are several kinds. It is the root that is of value. There is also a bitter cassava, but it must be processed before turning it into flour, else it is toxic, but the sweet root can be boiled and eaten like potato once peeled. We will show you how to handle it and cook it. The flour has many uses, from bread to sweets. This is just one of several crops we will see today, for which Lady Brienne has traded.”

   “I am no cook, to be sure,” said Podrick. “Perhaps there is someone in the prince’s service who might come back with us, someone who is skilled and can serve as a teacher.”

   Issa bowed her head. “That is a wise idea, Ser Podrick.”

   “There are many more fields to see,” said Mosi, seemingly impatient that the point of attention had shifted from him to Issa. 

   Issa ignored Mosi’s impatience, gesturing Podrick over to a tree. Two men were digging up the root of a vine that curled up the tree. It was much larger than he would have expected for a vine. He wrinkled his nose at the misshapen mass of dirt and clay.

   Issa smiled. “That is called ñame. The large part of the root is called the mother. You don’t eat that part. Underneath, if you dig carefully, you will find the part that is eaten.” 

   They watched the men excavate until they came to a single fat root growing from the larger mass. This was carefully separated and they reburied the upper portion. One of the men cleaned the root in a bucket of water and brought it for them to see.

   “If you are careful and kind with the mother, she will give this root time and time again,” she said.

   “Is this how the other plant grows too?” Podrick asked her, pointing back at the cassava.

   “No. The cassava is different. When it is time to harvest, the whole plant is taken up and there are several large roots to each one, thinner and longer than this ñame. There is no mother, but the stem can be cut, stripped, and replanted and another plant will grow. The cycle continues.”

   “How many times can you replant?” he asked.

   “Three, maybe four times. Then the soil must rest. The farmers plant manure and leaves from the forest instead, to feed the soil.” She waved him back to the cart where Mosi waited impatiently. 

   “Do you only grow roots?” Podrick asked.

   “Not at all. There are many different crops and some that cannot be cultivated but must be picked from the wild. But Lady Brienne wishes to take things that will store for a long time.” She paused. “Is the winter very cold in Tarth?”

   “Not yet, no,” he said. “You wouldn’t think it was winter at all, but I’ve seen and felt the cold. Westeros stretches far to the north. The lands just south of where the wall once stood are always cold, and north of that is frozen nearly all year ‘round.”

   “Is it true what they say, that the dead walk in Westeros?”

   “Not anymore. The Night King is destroyed. The dead are just dead now.”

   “Did you see them, the dead? Did you fight them?” asked Mosi, drawn into the story.

   “I did.” And the living, thought Podrick. There was no way to know which was worse. The wights had been monsters shambling from every direction, but they were thoughtless mindless animals. The living were people. Logically he knew the wights had once been people too, with families, but when you saw them, when they opened their rotted maws and reached for your with nothing but bone, it didn’t register. 

   “Is that how you came to be a knight?” she asked.

   As they wound their way from one field to the next, from one kind of crop to the next, Podrick told her of how he came to be in Lady Brienne’s company. He told her of his time with Tyrion Lannister, who he had assumed dead, only to appear as if by magic with Daenerys Stormborn come across the sea with her dragons and a vast army. He told it poorly, he was sure, but Issa listened and asked many questions. She made no assumptions or judgements, only ever seeking clarification. He told as much as he remembered and tried to be kind as well as truthful.

   Mosi informed that they would soon come to the ocean on the southern side of the island where he would collect fish for the palace kitchens.

   “Can you swim, Ser Podrick?” Issa asked.

   “I can,” he answered hesitantly.

   “The beach we approach is very pleasant. It is a favorite place to bathe. Will you join me? Mosi will be some time haggling with the fishmongers.” 

   Bathing in the ocean had never occurred to Podrick. As clear and blue as the waters around Tarth were, it was ice cold and the shore was a tumble of jagged boulders and rocks. It was for looking at and sailing on, not swimming in. Still, he nodded agreement. The look on Issa’s face of pleased anticipation was his only assurance that it would be different here. 

   It was indeed different. 

   The dirt path became a small road paved with stone as they approached the water. The iodine smell of the sea was heavy in the air but somehow different to how it smelled at home. It was richer here. Earthier. The path ended in sand.  Mosi stopped the cart just before the stones gave out, taking his leave down a trail through the trees. Issa and Podrick continued on. 

   It wasn’t as though Podrick had never seen a beach. He’d seen them, come ashore through them, but he’d never seen a beach like this. It stretched in both directions until it faded out in a hazy shimmer, and it was broad from the water to the tree line. Palms curved out from the edge of the forest, their crowns green and wide far overhead.

   The sand was as clean and clear as snow and soft as sugar. He took a handful and let it pour out through his fingers, fine and soothing. 

   Issa was removing her clothes. Podrick blanched. She showed not a shred of concern for her nakedness.

   “Come on,” she said. “You surely aren’t going to go in with all that on.” She nodded up and down, indicating his clothing, giving him a let's not be silly smile. 

   He sighed and got out of his boots, his leathers, his shirt, then finally his trousers. The sand was hot under his feet. Then it was very hot. He ran the last distance to the water more to escape the burning sand than for any shame of being naked here with this woman. Where the sand suddenly darkened and firmed from water, it also soothed with blessed coolness. But not cold. The water was barely cooler than his skin. Issa was in to her waist when she turned and beckoned him to follow. It was then Podrick noticed there were other bathers. A few men and women with their children. The children ran up and down the water’s edge playing simple children’s chasing games, bright with laughter. Podrick continued to wade out to where Issa was, her small high breasts just breaking the surface. Podrick could see his own feet perfectly, the water was so clear and clean.

   “Westerosi men are supposed to be small down there.” Issa flicked her eyes to what she meant, below the water yet quite visible. “It seems not all tales one hears are to be believed.”

   Even with the sun as fierce as it was, still he felt himself flame red in the cheeks. How did one respond to that? He stared at her realizing he could not determine her age. She could be his age, or ten years his senior. It was hard to say. She saved him the effort of responding.

   “I’m sorry, Ser Podrick. The tales we hear of knights from Westeros paint a certain image of what they are like, and you are not like that at all. I never thought to meet a shy knight.” She let her feet come away from the bottom and floated. “Tell me how you met Timmor. From what I know of your land, that must certainly be an interesting story, and now Mosi is not here to sneer.”

   “Sneer? The prince said such things don’t matter to your people.” Podrick felt immediately defensive.

   “Truly, it doesn’t, Ser Podrick. Mosi makes an art and a game of sneering. Trust me, I’ve known him my whole life. We’re cousins.” Her eyes looked up at him, endearing. 

   Podrick tipped under the water to wet his hair, the sudden silence gave him a second to think. He could see Issa next to him, her body as trim and hard as all the Islanders. Luras was right, they are a handsome people, he thought. He came up, pushing his hair back, feeling refreshed. She’d done the same, her short hair holding barely any water, unlike his own which weighed heavy and lank now.

   “How do you speak the common tongue so well?” Podrick asked, sputtering water from his face.

   “I was educated at the prince’s side. Prince Abioye is also my cousin. Mara as well. We are all family. If you don’t feel comfortable telling me about Timmor, that’s fine, Ser Podrick.”

   After a moment he said, “We were on our way home from King’s Landing. My lady had just discovered that her father had died at sea, killed in battle.” He told her all of it. Unlike before, this story seemed to want telling. It tumbled from him in more detail than he would ever have thought possible or probable from himself. How they had taken rest at Bronzegate and he had seen the little redhead with the pretty eyes hiding in the welcoming party. How he had come to share a room with him, and then a bed. How Lady Brienne had seen that the boy was lost there, and took him to foster, making him Podrick’s squire, sanctioning their love without judgment. He told her of endless days of training, watching Timmor grow strong and sure. He told her of the kidnapping at the hands of Timmor’s brother Toryen, of how the light had gone out of his life at the thought he would never see him again, of how his lady had risked life and limb, honor and name, to rescue him.

   Issa was grave and attentive. She said nothing this time, asked no questions. She just listened. The story spilled and spilled. When it was done they were both silent. There was nothing but the sound of waves hissing against the sand. 

   “The water has a way of freeing us,” she said.

   “Indeed,” replied Podrick with a quavering breath, unsure what to feel having told so much to someone who was, in fact, a stranger to him. 

   “I envy Timmor,” she admitted. “And you. To fight so hard and so long for the one you love, your sheré, and for your lady. None of you share blood, yet you are as much family as I am to the prince.”

   She reached and pressed a fingertip to Podrick’s shoulder. It left a pale oval mark in the otherwise reddened skin. 

   “We should go back and dress. You are burning, Ser Podrick, and neither Timmor nor Lady Brienne will thank me for returning you roasted by the sun. Thank you for entrusting me with your story. It was as interesting and heroic as I had hoped.”

   She swam back toward the shore. Podrick watched her dark form against the turquoise of the water, white sand in the distance, green forest behind, clear blue sky above. He had never told anyone that story. He had never had to. Everyone he now knew had either been there when it happened or could not be trusted. Telling her all of it, every detail, was freeing. He felt euphoric and also grounded. He wondered if she had contrived all of this, the water, the solitude, just to ask him that question. If so, he was grateful to her.

   Podrick began to wade back.

Chapter Text

Brienne of Tarth

   Timmor and Podrick returned to Brienne later in the day, the former talking an animated blue streak about his training with Odé, the latter with an alarming sunburn. Issa assured her that she had something to help with Podrick’s burn and that she would return shortly.

   She didn’t have the heart to stop Timmor’s ramblings, he was so keen and energetic. It was good to see the level of enthusiasm in him. In truth, he had been studious and dedicated in her efforts to train him with sword and shield, but she feared the boy’s slight size would always be his downfall. As a waterdancer, the shortcoming became a strength. She remembered Arya darting like a little spider, quick, nimble, flexing in ways that would surely have snapped anyone else’s spine in two. Weakness into strength, doubt into assurance. These concepts pleased Brienne greatly.

   Podrick, on the other hand, gave her worry. He seemed lost in thought and the redness of his forehead, nose, and neck spoke of an even worse burn to come. She hoped Issa would return with whatever she was bringing. Podrick shifted inside of his leathers, trying to shrink away from their weight. Timmor wore a light belted tunic he had acquired somewhere with Odé, along with the sandals Talíb had given him, otherwise barelegged. He had taken to Islander style with a quickness and it suited him.

   In a momentary lapse of Timmor’s endless soliloquy, she interrupted and said, “Podrick, perhaps we should find you something more like what Timmor is wearing. That burn looks uncomfortable. Something lighter would surely be better for the time being.”

   “Perhaps so, my lady. I doubt I will do it the same justice Timmor does, but it would be a relief.”

   “I will go, my lady,” said Timmor. “I have a purse full of coppers, three silvers, and a gold dragon. I will find him something splendid.” The look he gave Podrick was so tender and sweet that it gave her pause. Thinking on it, she had never seen Timmor more expressive, more alive than he was now.

   “Take Alren with you. He and Ser Podrick are nearly of a size. That should help. I wish to know what Ser Podrick saw today.” She waved Timmor away and pointed at Alren to accompany him, the latter nodding and took leave of the open complex where they had taken to congregating and sharing their meals.

   She turned back to Podrick. “You seem pensive. What do you have to report?”

   His attention snapped back to the present moment and he began to list off the crops they had seen, and the time it would take to bring the different harvests in. It all sounded very promising.

   “We traded for spices as well. No mention of that?” she asked.

   “Issa explained that most spices are not tended crops but are found in the wild. I will be joining her in the days to come to see how they are gathered and prepared,” he answered.

   “Good, good. I am pleased, Podrick.” She paused as his eyes went to the ground and his focus drifted. “Anything else?” she asked, her voice prodding.

   After a moment he said, “Issa asked me a good deal about us, about you, how we come to be in one another’s company. And about Timmor.”

   “Were you truthful?”

   “Always,” he said, and she noticed the way his eyes squinted, as though he had done some wrong.

   “Podrick,” she said, and then sighed through her nose. “We are in a different land with different customs and different ways. I ask that you always remember to honor our house and our name, but it seems there is an opportunity here for you to breathe a little more freely, more easily. Take your cues from our hosts, but be honest and true to yourself and Timmor. I think we have a great opportunity here to make friends and alliances, to improve the standing of Evenfall Hall. Honesty is not always a guaranty that you won’t be branded a liar, but lying surely carves it into stone.”

   “Issa was very kind today. She took me to the ocean where we bathed for a time in the water. That’s how I got so burned.” He touched his face gingerly.

   “The ocean?” she asked incredulously.

   “I know,” he said raising his hands to note his own disbelief. “It’s not like we have at home. It’s as warm as bathwater and clear and calm as glass. You can walk out for a great distance and it stays shallow. It was wonderful, really.”

   “Do you think you’ve made a friend today?” she asked.

   “I think so. I hope so.” He looked her squarely in the eye and she felt assured he had indeed made a friend.

   ”Excellent. Continue in that vein. See what you can learn. Perhaps there are other ways we can strengthen our alliance.”

   “I will, my lady.”

   Issa returned with a bundle of long, thick leaves that tapered to a point. She was accompanied by another woman, much taller than her.

   “Ser Podrick, Lady Brienne,” she greeted. “Ser Podrick, this is aloe. Break the leaves open and the clear substance inside can be applied to the skin. It is very soothing.” She took one and showed him how to split the plant to reveal a clear, almost gelatinous interior. He smiled his thanks to her.

   “Lady Brienne, this is Odé Qaxar. She wished to meet you and tell you of her day with your man Timmor.” Issa made a small bow and left.

   Brienne looked the tall woman up and down. She was indeed impressive.

   “Timmor has spent nearly an hour recounting his day with you, Odé.” Brienne stood and put out her hand. The other woman looked at it strangely then took it in a strong grip.

   “Lady Brienne of Tarth,” said Odé. “The warrior maid. I have looked forward to meeting you since hearing of your arrival. I hope I have not been too forward having Tima to spar today.” Her accent was much stronger than that of the other people she had met in the palace. Still, she was impressed at how well she spoke the common tongue.

   “Not at all. Idle hands are no man’s friend. He has gone to fetch some needed supplies, but to hear him speak, he is much taken with you. Did he do well?” she asked.

   “It is only the first day, but he has discipline and he is not afraid of a little pain. He learns fast. If it is his wish to continue, please know I will be happy to teach him.”

   That pleased Brienne greatly to hear. “I’m not sure how I can repay you. Fair work deserves fair pay.”

   Odé had a quizzical expression. “Lady Brienne, you are guests of the prince. It is my honor to extend the prince’s hospitality in any way I can.” She stepped close to Brienne and spoke in a more intimate volume. “Usually I am asked to entertain in ways that bore me to tears. If I can spend the day training your man, then you have done me a favor.”

   Brienne could not restrain the laugh that welled up at the woman’s candidness. She liked her instantly.

   “You don’t mind, do you, Ser Podrick?” Brienne asked him, realizing that perhaps she should have at least spoken with him first before being so free with his squire.

   “My lady, I do not think we could keep him from it,” said Podrick as he stood to properly greet the woman.

   “Ser Podrick,” she put out a hand and gripped wrists with him. “Tima spoke of you today. You have made my work easy. He is a good student.” She looked at his skin and said, “Westerosi burn easily. Do as Issa says with the aloe. I can show you where to pick it if you need more. Is your back burned as well?”

   Podrick nodded.

   “Tima can help you with that,” she smiled.

   Podrick cleared his throat nervously and said, “Would you join us?”

   “Yes, please, join us,” Brienne insisted.

   She sat and pulled a trencher to her filling it with quick handfuls of meat, bread and something that looked like potato but wasn’t.

   “Did you like the beach?” she asked Podrick.

   “Well enough, yes,” he answered.

   “I’m surprised Mosi went to the trouble. He hates the beach,” she noted.

   “He went to bargain for fish from the fishmongers,” Podrick replied.

   “He hates fish more than he hates the beach,” she countered through a mouthful of bread. She shrugged as if to say there was no explaining it.

   “Issa said that she and Mosi and Mara are all the prince’s cousins,” Podrick said equally to Brienne and to Odé.

   “They are. As is my father. You met him when you arrived. Talíb.” The way she said it left a question hanging in the air. “My father is the eldest of them. He was to be prince, but Abioye challenged him for the throne.”

   Brienne exchanged a glance with Podrick. He raised his eyebrows indicating he had also caught the intrigue but did not know how to ask further. She left it lay for now.

   Brienne shifted the discussion back to swordsmanship, to training, to Timmor, and thus to safer, friendlier ground.

Chapter Text

Timmor Buckler

   “I can’t believe you went swimming in the ocean. What were you thinking?” Timmor pried open one of the thick leaves Podrick had given him. The inside was translucent and gelatinous, slightly sticky and very slippery. He ran it across the length of Podrick’s upper back leaving a slick trail. The ocean was beautiful, but there was more than just fish in the great waters. Once, a great creature had washed ashore on the eastern beaches of Tarth. A huge thing with a mouth that could swallow a horse without a hoof touching its lips.

   “Gods, that feels good.” Podrick sighed.

   “I’m glad, but you haven’t answered my question.”

   “We weren’t alone. There were other people in the water too, children even.” He shifted and lifted an arm where the crease was redder than the rest. Timmor passed the leaf slowly over this area.

   “Your friend Odé made an impression on Lady Brienne,” said Podrick.

   “Did she?”

   “You know she did.” He turned to face Timmor. “I made a friend too today. Issa. She’s the one did this to me.”

   Timmor laughed.

   “You did it to yourself. You know better.” Timmor made to slap a deeply red shoulder and Podrick winced away, but it was only pretense. “I would never hurt you. Come here.” He split another of the leaves, the first one having gone dry across the wide expanse of Podrick’s back. The front of him was as burned as the back, to the top of his belly.

   “We don’t have to hide here, you know,” Podrick said.

   “What do you mean?” The leaf slid smoothly across Podrick’s wide, strong chest.

   “It’s not like at home. They’re different here. Issa asked me about you and I told her everything.”

   Timmor paused at that. Podrick’s hand rested against his, urging him to continue. Odé’s question flashed in his mind.

   “I didn’t tell you last night. I didn’t know how. When we met with the prince, he guessed and you know I have no face for lying.”

   “No, you certainly don’t.”

   “It just came out. He asked if you were my sheré, and I asked what that was. When he explained, Brienne nearly jumped from her chair and it was going to go badly, and it just came out.”

   “Odé used that word the day I met her. I didn’t know what it meant,” said Timmor.

   “You do now. It means this.” He gestured back and forth between them. “They don’t care.”

   “How can they not care?”

   “They just don’t. The prince seemed to think it was amusing that we cared at all.”

   Timmor continued passing the leaf across Podrick’s skin. He nodded for him to continue.

   “Issa and I were in the water, and it was wonderful. She asked, and I started talking and I couldn’t stop - until it was done, until I was done.” His voice quavered and there was a shimmer in his eyes.

   “So, you were asked twice in two days?”

   “Don’t ask me to explain it. If Odé used that word in front of you then maybe you were asked too and you didn’t know it.”

   He thought about that for a moment. “Fair enough,” he said. “Funny that we didn’t know this about them already.”

   “Not exactly campfire talk, now is it,” Podrick responded flatly.

   “No, I guess not,” Timmor admitted.

   Timmor snapped a smaller piece from another leaf to pass over Podrick’s face.

   “You had a good day, it seems.” Podrick was trying to change the subject and Timmor was glad of the opportunity.

   “I did.” He passed the bit of leaf over Podrick’s cheek, forcing him to close his eye. “I’ll be training with Odé regularly. You should come.”

   “I don’t think it’s for me, Timmor.” He heard both meanings in Podrick’s voice. “And I’ll be with Issa and Mosi for most of the time. Now that Lady Brienne feels secure in the goods we are getting, we’ll begin unloading the ships tomorrow.”

   “I can help with that,” Timmor offered.

   “You should stay with Odé and train. When will you get another opportunity to train with a waterdancer?”

   “That’s true.” He was done with the aloe leaves and Podrick was thoroughly covered. “Does it feel better?”

   “Yes. The tightness is gone for now.” Podrick smiled. His cheeks red and glossy from the aloe.

   Timmor leaned in and kissed him. Podrick accepted it willingly and fully, taking Timmor’s head into his hands, but then gently pushed him away.

   “I’m all sticky, and uncomfortable,” he said.

   “I just wanted to kiss you,” Timmor lied, and the stiffness he felt in Podrick’s trousers said the desire was there as well. “We’re expected at the feast, anyway. Let your skin dry some and try on the tunic I got you. I’ll be outside.”

   Podrick took his wrist. “I swear to you, we’re fine. Lady Brienne was there with the prince. She knows. Ask her.”

   It did worry him, he couldn’t lie, but that wasn’t the reason for wanting to leave. He desired Podrick too much to remain. Within the fear of Podrick’s story there was also excitement, inexplicable and profound. He kissed Podrick again, to reassure him and left the hut. He headed immediately to the area behind the hut to let the stirring in his loins subside.

   The voices of Luras and Alren passed and he trotted out to intercept them.

   “What were you doing hiding there?” asked Alren when he came out from between the huts.

   “Having a piss,” he said. “Are you heading to the pavilion now?”

   “Where else?” said Luras. “My future wife will surely be in attendance.”

   Timmor shook his head in disbelief. “You may have to look elsewhere for a wife, Luras.”

   “You will put in a good word for me, surely.” Luras slung a brotherly arm around Timmor’s shoulder, pulling him in so tight he almost tripped.

   “I did that already, Luras. It looks bleak,” Timmor said hesitantly.

   “Bleak, he says,” said Alren. “See, you’re right where you started. Nothing lost.”

   Luras ignored him. “What did she say?” he asked.

   “Not really anything. She’s just rather focused on what she’s doing. I don’t think she’s looking for distraction,” Timmor answered truthfully.

   “Distraction? I don’t offer distraction. I offer worship and obedience.” Luras was in full swing now.

   “You spent the day with Marco. What did he say?” Timmor asked.

   Luras sighed a stage sigh and slumped. “Much the same.”

   “You try too hard,” said Alren, this time with less cheek.

   The pavilion was well lit with many torches and additional tables had been brought. There were garlands of bright flowers strung everywhere and guests were already arriving. The pavilion itself had been rearranged for the prince and his retinue. Timmor continued on with Luras and Alren to one of the lower tables, but Lady Brienne waved him over when she saw him.

   “Where is Ser Podrick?” she asked.

   “He will be along shortly, my lady. I was tending to his sunburn,” he said.

   “Alren, go make sure he’s on his way. Timmor, come with me. I wish to introduce you to the prince.” She turned without waiting, and Timmor followed without question.

   The prince sat at the highest table, to the back of the pavilion. With him were Mara and Issa, and an older man he assumed to be Mosi. A fourth chair remained empty directly to his left. Lady Brienne approached the raised table and bowed.

   “Prince Abioye, if it please, I would present to you my ward Timmor Buckler, squire to Ser Podrick Payne.” She remained bowed until he acknowledged her request.

   “Bring the boy forward.” The prince gestured for him to approach.

   Lady Brienne stood aside so that Timmor could pass. Mara wore a green dress that left her shoulders bare. A wide collar necklace in silver and jade draped her chest and shoulders. Iridescent green plumes were arranged to imitate a tiara across her elaborately braided hair. Issa wore a lavender confection with a single huge amethyst at her neck. A fine net of silver and gold adorned her short hair. The prince was most resplendent of all. He was bare-chested save for a collar necklace similar to Mara’s, but much wider and made of gold with a rainbow of different stones glinting in the torchlight. Timmor had already seen men with their hair set with feathers, but none so beautifully as the prince’s. Green, red, blue, and yellow feathers were arranged with exquisite artistry, giving the impression of wings rising at each side of the prince’s head.

   Timmor felt like a pauper in his simple tunic of embroidered cotton that had seemed so fine to him just minutes ago.

   Gods above, I’m gawping again, he thought and quickly bowed.

   The prince’s laughter was a rich baritone. “So you are the boy with flaming hair Odé has taken under her wing.”

   “Yes, Prince Abioye,” he replied, straightening from his bow.

   “You lasted the day, I understand. Few last more than an hour. Odé enjoys showing everyone how superfluous my guards are.” The prince waved a lazy hand to the guards posted around the pavilion.

   “Thank you, my prince.” Timmor cringed at the upswing in his voice that made it sound like a question.

   The prince laughed again. “A compliment, indeed, Timmor Buckler of House Tarth. It speaks to the discipline your lady instills in her men.” The prince’s attention had shifted to Lady Brienne who nodded a silent thank you.

   “What is it like, where you are from?” the prince asked, his attention back on Timmor.

   “We also come from an island, my prince, but it is made of rolling fields and sharp mountains. There are woods and forest, to be sure, but nothing like the jungles of your realm.”

   “And your lady’s castle, does it compare to my palace?” The prince gestured broadly.

   Timmor felt pinched between the need to respect and praise the prince’s palace and the same need to respect his lady’s home. “They are very different, my prince. My lady’s castle is tall and proud upon the edge of a cliff looking over sapphire waters. Its halls and courts are beautiful and secure. My lady is kind and thoughtful of the people in her care, just as I see you are with your people, my prince, who are very fine to look upon. Your palace is open to the blue sky and the great trees are your towers, the lawns are your courts, the flowers and birds and fountains are your carvings and regalia. It is wonderful. Magical. Everything is so open and alive. I have never seen so many colors, and so bright. When we arrived, I was taken by the sight of your port. So many ships from so many places. My lady has recently made improvements to our own port. It has yet to become as bustling and filled with people and visitors as yours, but it only now nears completion and I know it is my lady’s hope that we too may share in such vital trade.”

   That seemed to please them all, save for the man he assumed to be Mosi, whose face remained impassive. Lady Brienne most of all swelled at the politesse he had shown.

   “Lady Brienne, Ser Podrick may be your heir, but here stands your future diplomat! The boy has a gilded tongue, of this there can be no question. He is wasted as a squire.” Everyone laughed politely. Timmor was certain his cheeks matched his hair just now.

   “You are too kind, my prince. The boy has many talents and he has certainly secured his future in my house.” She placed a hand into the small of his back.

   Timmor heard his dismissal in the tone of her voice. He bowed deeply and made to leave.

   “I will be interested to know how you fair in the coming days with Odé, young Timmor. Count on my presence.” The prince waved a formal dismissal. Timmor took two steps back then turned to leave the pavilion.

   He was lightheaded. It had gone well, he was sure. He spotted Luras at a table with several other men.  Jaran, the captain of the Ruby, Carden and Jeimes were engaged in animated pantomime intended to bridge the language barrier with Islanders who sat with them. The tones and looks on the faces of the Islanders said they found the men as amusing as the men found them. Timmor joined and a cup was placed before him and filled with something that smelled of sweet fruit and alcohol.

   “Where is Ser Randel?” he asked Luras.

   It was Carden who replied. “Little Lord Buckler, you must have missed him in the pavilion during your audience with His Grace.” Carden was drunk, which Timmor found alarming, especially as early as it was in the evening.

   “He and Ser Podrick will dine with what passes for lords and ladies in this realm, though I have not met anyone with a title other than the prince,” said Jeimes.

   “You don’t speak their language and, let us be honest, lords and ladies do not rank among your acquaintances at home either, Jeimes,” replied Luras.

   “What would you know, Dornishman?” Jeimes snipped back.

   “I know that Timmor here just had an audience with the prince and you did not, nor does any such audience look forthcoming,” said Luras from behind his cup, which he then tipped back and emptied.

   “The feast is only just started and you are all in your cups,” said Timmor reproachfully. "Lady Brienne will not like that."

   “And you haven’t had any drink at all. Drink, drink!” Carden slammed his hand on the table louder than he had intended, grimacing at the unexpectedly loud sound. “Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted. “But so am I. It’s meant to be a feast and you’re worse than Ser Podrick in your piety. Peas in a pod, you are, and I don’t mean between the sheets, though I guess I do mean that too.” He let out a bawdy loud laugh that was taken up by the rest. Timmor conceded and drank from his cup. It was fruity and sweet and very strong. He placed the cup on the table far to his right where a young woman was seated. He glanced at her, shaking his head minutely. She took in the situation, understanding clear on her face, took a sip from the cup and deftly emptied the remainder into the grass without anyone noticing before passing it back to him.

   Bless you, thought Timmor.

   She rolled her eyes dramatically. Men, she said without a word.

   Men indeed, expressed Timmor with his own comic face.

   Food came and went in several rounds. He did not know how to refuse, so took all that was offered him. Roast birds, fish, some kind of stew that was both spicy and sweet and so delicious Timmor passed his fingers over the trencher to get every drop.

   There was entertainment in the form of dancers and jugglers, and there was endless music. Trained monkeys came to the tables to request morsels of food and repaid the people with lewd gestures that had everyone in stitches. Toward the end of the evening acrobats with flaming swords did amazing feats of balance and tumbling, never once getting burned.

   Both Jeimes and Carden had found company for the evening, and when the acrobats finished their display, Timmor turned to find Luras wandering off with a girl dressed in green and white. At least he would not be lonely tonight.

   The feast thinned and people made their way to wherever they would sleep off the night’s intoxication. Timmor had kept his wits about him and had remained sober, but it was late and his limbs had grown heavy. The pretty girl who had been his accomplice in sobriety waved goodnight, a somewhat wistful look on her face. Timmor bowed a thank you but left before she could make a more direct overture. She had been kind and companionable, showing him which foods went together, and they had laughed together in delight at the night’s entertainment. He did not want to embarrass her with a complicated refusal in a language she did not speak.

   Passing the pavilion, Podrick caught his eye, giving him a wink, nodding him on.

   Laughter and the sounds of love play came from several of the huts he passed on the way to his own. He lit a candle from a torch outside to light the interior of the hut and he curled into the mattress.

   The bed shifted and woke him. Podrick was sat on the edge undoing the sash that held his tunic closed. He stood to slip it over his head and lay it on a nearby chair. The candle had burned down a quarter of its length, its light making a valley of the deep curve of Podrick’s lower back that swelled into the expanse of his shoulders, still quite red from the sunburn. The cleft of Podrick’s ass was dark and inviting. Timmor was instantly aroused and it provoked an odd need to stretch. He imagined it made him look like a cheeky cat in the soft ripples and folds of the bed.

   Podrick turned, the outline of his belly, broad chest, and the heavy weight of his partially erect cock silhouetted by the candlelight. He climbed into the bed, Timmor gathering him into his arms. He was rewarded with Podrick’s soft lips, his penetrating tongue, his hand gripping Timmor’s sex tightly. He smelled and tasted of the fermented fruit juice that had been poured from endless flagons this night.

   Timmor had fallen asleep quickly, but he was never too tired for this.

   Podrick kissed his way down Timmor’s chest and belly, plying his tongue deep into the flesh of his sides. It tickled, but in the best way, the muscles jumping and responding to his lover’s ministrations. Podrick’s mouth was a furnace; Timmor’s cock was the crucible within. Timmor gripped the sheets, Podrick lifting him physically to his mouth, taking him in fully. With his lips, he pinched and pulled Timmor’s foreskin. The tip of his tongue found the delicate slit at the head and gave it its due. He released Timmor’s cock and there was momentary disappointment until he lifted him higher, curling him over, his tongue finding the entry in the cleft of his ass. Timmor shuddered uncontrollably as Podrick fucked him with his tongue, plying ever deeper, readying him for what was to come. He could not contain the moan that rolled out of him. Why bother? This night was filled with the sound of lovers, and the Islanders were unrestrained.

   Podrick lowered Timmor’s pelvis and just looked at him for several seconds, the curve of his great cock pulsing in the air between his belly and Timmor’s own painfully erect member. He wanted nothing more than for Podrick to impale him, but he let him look. He filled his chest with air and flexed his muscles for Podrick. As much as Timmor loved the size and shape of Podrick, so too Podrick enjoyed seeing what he loved and lusted for. Timmor had long ago absolved himself of the sin of pride in these moments. It was what his lover wanted, it was for him, and so he gave it.

   Podrick’s nose flared wide at the sight and he pressed in against Timmor. The pain was sharp and sweet. They could make love a million times and still Podrick’s size would be a formidable hurdle. He breathed through it and Podrick was patient, as always, going slowly, bit by bit.

   The full length of Podrick’s cock was deep within him; the pressure was breathtaking. Timmor’s eyes rolled back and he gave himself to Podrick. He reached and took the softly furred globes of Podrick’s ass, pulling him in, pressing him home. Podrick’s kisses were Timmor’s source of breath, his arms held him in this world, his cock cleaved them into one. Podrick kneeled in, thrusting deeply, pulling out almost completely before sinking in to the hilt again and again.

   Timmor was lost. Podrick held his hips, driving in, the roar of his ecstasy filling the room. The sudden swelling of Podrick’s cock deep within in, the sharp pulsing, pushed Timmor over without ever touching his own cock. He imagined Podrick’s cock belonged to a god and it was lightning from the heavens that filled his body as Podrick came. That’s how it felt, how it always felt. He was breathless, Podrick slick and sweaty on top of him. He wondered if it was like this for other people, if they enjoyed it as much, if it took them so close to the brink of madness.

   Podrick tried to roll off of him. Timmor held him and said, “No, stay where you are.” He would let Podrick sleep buried within him if that were possible. He kept that thought to himself. Podrick obliged and kissed him gently, languorously. When his erection abated and there was no holding him inside any longer, he let Podrick curl him in to his chest, side by side, his strong arm holding him tightly.

   “Did you enjoy the feast?” Timmor asked.

   “I did, but perhaps not so much as you,” Podrick replied sleepily. “You know how Brienne is regarding manners.”

   Timmor laughed softly. “Can you come and see me train tomorrow?”

   “I would, Tim, but we ride east tomorrow to see other crops and the preparing of spices for Lady Brienne.” Podrick kissed his apologies into Timmor’s neck until he squirmed with a giggle.

   “I love you, Pod.” Timmor took his hand and placed a kiss into the palm.

   “And I, you” Podrick whispered into his ear.

Chapter Text

Ser Randel Penrose

   Ser Randel Penrose listened patiently to his lady explain her plans for the day, misliking the tale more and more. She had been convinced by Mosi to travel with Ser Podrick to see the fields in the east of the island for herself. The man had made insinuations of having been slighted, passed off to a lesser person. Who did the man think he was? What right did he have to demand the prince's own guest, his lady, dnace ti his wishes?

   “My lady, I implore you, take another man with you. Jeimes or Alren.” He was trying her patience, but he would rather that than feel he had failed to counsel her.

   “I will be perfectly fine, Ser Randel. Prince Abioye has been the soul of hospitality and Issa, Mosi, and Ser Podrick will be with me. Another man will look like I mistrust the prince.” The glance she gave him from the tail her eye said the topic was exhausted.

   Still, he had to speak his peace.

   “It’s that Mosi I don’t trust. He got you to mistrust Ser Podrick, and that sits poorly with me. Let me accompany you."

   She turned a look of exasperation on him. “Do you take me for a turnip, Ser Randel? I know the minds of men well enough. I certainly don’t mistrust Ser Podrick with the tallying of supplies. What I heard last night was a man telling me he felt slighted by my absence, and that man has the prince’s ear, so if I have to assuage his ego in order to maintain our prospects, so be it. And I need you here. The men must be minded."

   “My lady, I didn’t mean…”

   She cut him off. “I know, Ser Randel. I know. You have served me well and true, and my father before me. I know the man you are, and I am grateful to you. Trust me when I say I know who this Mosi is as well. You think I cannot spot a jealous sibling when I see one? I have treated with every house in the Stormlands and most of the houses beyond. I have seen more than one younger brother who wished he'd been first, and more than a few ready to remedy their plight."

   She clapped a hand to his shoulder and for a moment he saw the girl she had been before she left Evenfall Hall. More than one man who had dared to slight her in his presence had come to know the business end of his fist. She was her father in every way, to include her appearance, but that had hardly mattered to him when she’d taken up a sparring sword one day and demanded he fight her. She had been no more than nine years old at the time. He had laughed and pretended to fight her. When Lord Selwyn Tarth had come into the yard, to his surprise his lord had said nothing. Later, when they were alone, he had said, “Life is hard enough for pretty girls. Brienne may need to know a thing or two more than needlework and poetry.” He’d left it at that. Lord Selwyn had been a man of few words, like his daughter, and he valued tradition, but he valued pragmatism more.

   “Besides,” she said. “Other than you and myself, it seems only Ser Podrick and Timmor are remotely serviceable this morning.” That was meant as a reproach. Lady Brienne’s opinion of drunkenness was no secret. A feast was one thing, and she'd ordered him to show a light hand with the men unless a rougher hand was needed, but in the halls of her own castle only a fool would be openly intoxicated. To be caught brawling drunkenly in town was to find somewhere else to call home. On that count, her choice was known to all.

 “Your job today will be to round up the men, ensure no one’s gone missing, and then put them to work at the ships. I don’t care what they do, unload the cargo, mend lines, scrub the decks. Makes no matter to me. Just make sure they sweat, understand? I won't have them languishing about for our hosts to see."

   That would win him no friends today, and she knew it. This would be his punishment to bear.

   “Understood, my lady," he acquiesced.

   “Good. Go on, then. The day grows shorter, not longer.” She glanced past him to the open door, dismissing him.

   He took his leave and made his way to the pavilion where palace servants were finishing the last of the cleanup from the night before. None of Lady Brienne’s men were in evidence here. He headed to the back row of huts and began knocking on all the doors.

   “Fuck off,” came the response from behind the second door he tapped.

   “Are you quite sure that’s the answer you wish to give, Carden?” Ser Randel replied in his stoniest voice. "I'll be more than happy to pass that on to Lady Brienne."

   There was a shuffling from inside the room and the door slid open a few inches. Carden’s face, puffy eyed and pale peeked out.

   “Beg pardon, Ser Randel. Didn’t mean no disrespect.” The man's voice was thick and pasty.

   “Save your sorries and get dressed. Wake the other men and meet me in the pavilion.” Carden could listen to any further cheek in his stead. He went back to the pavilion to wait, hopefully not too long.

   Half an hour passed. Timmor was the first he saw make his way from the huts, though he knew well that Timmor was not on his list today.

   “Ser Randel, good morning," he greeted. He was in his newly acquired tunic and braided sandals. Ser Randel imagined him at home somewhere in Dorne, perhaps the marches where the men claimed Andel blood rather than Roynish. Bronzegate was near enough, surely. Always a polite lad. That was his charm and it made it impossible to dislike the boy.

   “Good morning, Timmor. On your way to train?” he asked.

   “Yes.” He sat with his fingers interlaced in front of him on the table.

   “Oh, this isn’t where you want to be today, lad,” counseled Ser Randel. He explained the matter and Timmor’s lips drew together in apprehension. “You should go on to your training. The men won’t appreciate you not being included in today's festivities."

   “No, I imagine not,” he replied, slipping back out of the bench.

   “Is Ser Podrick up?” Ser Randel asked.

   “He’s gone with Lady Brienne,” Timmor replied.

   “All right, then. You’d best be on your way.”

   Over the next half hour the men straggled in one by one. Lady Brienne would have been livid. Ser Randel himself was beginning to boil that they seemed to think it would be any less because it was only him. Any thought of leniency evaporated. They were finally all accounted for, each looking worse than the last.

   He walked them to the port, but the captains of the three respective ships were less than happy about their newfound volunteers. Desmor, captain of the Summer Sun, complained that they would just be in the way and refused to have them aid in the unloading of the cargo when he saw their sorry state. The other captains nodded unhappy agreement. Ser Randel bid them give the men the most menial work possible.

   Carden vomited twice within the first hour. When he begged off scrubbing the decks, Ser Randel played it for what it was worth, asking the regular crew of the ship if men ever had others to clean their sick.

   “Well of course, Ser Randel, you’ll find the silken clothes with the lady’s maids and the cooks down below,” came one answer, and then, “It’s never come up, Ser Randel. Sailors don’t get sick. Never heard such a thing,” and then, “Them what gets sick gets put ashore, permanent-like, Ser Randel,” followed by, “I ain’t got sick from drink since I was a boy with a bald cock. You sure those are our men, Ser Randel?” and finally, “We should trade them in, Ser Randel, and have some of these Islanders to come with us instead. Strong as oxen, they are, and they can handle a line and sail. We'd rule the Narrow Sea with Lady Brienne as our pirate queen! Need a strong belly for that. Stronger than what I see here."

   The shaming was enough and the men bent to the task.

   Ser Randel knew they had to be dehydrated and made certain they had water. Grog came later which seemed to push back the worst of the hangovers. He let them eat a couple of hours after midday and then figured they had had enough.

   Dragging themselves back to the palace, Ser Randel did not need to imagine the impression the guards at the gate must have had of them. It was clear on their faces.

   The evening meal came and a few of the men were missing. Ser Randel didn’t bother to look for them, assuming they were dead asleep. No one engaged him on conversation other than Timmor, who was as animated as ever, letting it be known that in his own peculiar way he was falling in love with the woman Odé, whom Ser Randel had met the night before at the feast. Hard to blame him. She was an impressive sight. Tall, muscular, self-possessed. In many ways very like Lady Brienne. He let the boy prattle on, actively questioning the different terms and techniques of which the boy spoke with an air of possessing arcane knowledge. It was good to see such zeal in him. It would be a shame to cut the boy’s training short when they left, and Ser Randel made a mental note to inquire about such training back at home.

   The afternoon passed into darkness and darkness into the late hours.

   Lady Brienne and Ser Podrick had not returned and the knot of worry that had been there all day twisted in Ser Randel’s chest. He felt bitter and angry and useless. He’d felt it, known it, that there was something odd in the way Mosi had plied and goaded Brienne. His lady was far from stupid, and usually a good judge of character, but the situation, the company, Mosi had used it to his advantage.

   When Timmor appeared at his hut, his face drawn and white with worry, Ser Randel was already dressed.

   “Go find Odé,” he told the boy, hating himself for being thankful that he wasn’t alone in his worry.

Chapter Text

Odé Qaxar

   Odé awoke from a confused dream. She was in a cave, or it was the forest, or both at once. Running and running, a bird cawing in staccato rhythm high above, vines grabbing and tripping her, yet somehow never falling.  She clawed up into the light and awoke to darkness.

   Someone knocked at her door.

   “Odé.” It was Timmor.  What time was it?

   She wrapped herself in a sheet and padded to the door.

   “Tima, what do you want?” Her voice was husky with sleep.

   “Lady Brienne and Ser Podrick have not returned.”

   She slid the door open, the boy looked drawn, his eyes hollow and dark.

   “What time is it?” she asked, still disconnected and foggy from sleep, the images from her dream starting to fade.

   “Well past midnight. Ser Randel asked me to get you.”

   “Stay there,” she said, sliding the door closed. She quickly got into a pair of breeches and a sleeveless shirt, the closest things at hand. Opening the door again, Timmor’s face was streaked with tears. The boy had been so resilient and untiring in the sparring arena, determined and refusing to allow his fatigue to show.  His appearance now caught her off guard; this wasn’t the young man she had come to know.

   “No tears yet, Tima. Come,” she said.

   They crossed the palace complex from where Odé had her hut near the servants. It was indeed late, or early, depending on which way one figured. The silent hour between the night creatures looking for a place to curl up and the day creatures uncurling. The nightbirds would soon begin their song high in the trees, being the first to see the light. There were no servants about at this time and the palace had the appearance of being abandoned, save for the torchlights set at intervals and the ones in the perimeter wall, which was always manned. She had done the task often enough before the sword caught her attention and she left the bow behind, forgotten. 

   She led him to Issa’s hut, which was separate as befitted her station, ornamented with gardens and paths and a pond wherein bright fish lazily swam. When there was no answer at the door, Odé entered slowly, calling her name. The hut was empty and immaculate, as Issa always kept it. She said nothing to Timmor, nodding only for him to follow.

   Mosi’s rooms were adjacent to the prince’s quarters. She made a point to approach directly, in plain sight of the guards.

   “Has Mosi returned?” she asked them.

   “What business have you with Mosi at this hour?” the guard replied, looking behind her, noting her companion.

   “What business have you questioning me? Is he here or not?” she demanded.

   “He is not,” the other guard answered.

   “Wake the prince. Mosi, Issa, and Lady Brienne are missing,” she ordered.

   “And Ser Podrick,” added Timmor. His voice was strained and it broke Odé’s heart a little to hear the boy lose his control.

   The guards glanced at one another, unsure.  The one to the left relented and went into the prince’s quarters.

   “Take me to Ser Randel,” she said to Timmor, gesturing him to lead.

   Ser Randel met them halfway to the guest huts. He was dressed in full livery, sword at his side, his face a brutal scowl. 

   “What do you know?” he growled, half question, half accusation.

   “Calm yourself. None of them have returned. I have awoken the prince so he may decide what to do.” She eyed the man. He wasn’t young, but neither was he an old done man and she was without a weapon. “I am here to help you, if it is needed. They may have simply been delayed and stopped at a village. We know nothing for the moment.”

   He calmed his breath and stood straighter. “We must search for them.” He walked past her, toward the prince’s quarters.

   “It is a mistake to approach the prince in anger,” she said over her shoulder.

   “What would you have me do? Nothing?” he yelled, returning to her.

   “Let the prince send a search party,” she said. “He will. Issa and Mosi are family to him.”

   “That Mosi is behind this, I’m sure.”

   “And if he is, it will come to light, but for now we know nothing.” She could not imagine how Mosi would be involved in anything like this. What would he gain from it? Lady Brienne was a foreigner. She had goods to trade, but no power here, no position, no influence.

   “What’s that? What are you thinking?” Ser Randel asked.

   “Nothing. I am only considering your words and suspicion,” she admitted. “I can find no sense in it.”

   In the distance, Mara approached. She was hastily wrapped in a shawl, her feet bare, a scarf covering her head.

   “The prince has sent five men to search,” she said. “He askes for you, Odé, and you, Ser Randel.”

   Ser Randel stomped off in the direction of the prince’s quarters, his boots crunching into the smooth surface of the path, leaving deep heel marks.

   Mara took Odé’s hand, uncharacteristically. She was not a woman given to worry, but she was very close with Issa, the two having grown up almost as sisters.

   Prince Abioye received them in his private front room. He was as disheveled and puffy from sleep as the rest. He assured everyone that there had to be a simple explanation, that jumping to conclusions was folly and only sure to get someone else hurt.

   Ser Randel was not easily swayed.

   “If my lady has come to harm, or Ser Podrick, there’ll be hell to pay.” It came from him cold as a mountain river.

   The prince, unaccustomed to being threatened, even so vaguely, shifted and became the leopard that always hid beneath the skin. “Ser Randel, if harm has come to Lady Brienne, I will be the first to exact vengeance. She is my guest and we respect guest right as much as you. What we don’t do, which would seem to be commonplace in your realm, is harm one another so easily, so carelessly. In that, Ser Randel, we are very different.”

   Ser Randel did not cow, but some of the hostility left him at the prince’s words. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

   “What I have already done. I have sent men to find them. When we learn what has happened, then we will decide what else, if anything, to do. Your sword hungers for an enemy, Ser Randel. Hunger for answers first.” The prince eyed him piercingly.

   “My apologies, Prince Abioye. It is hard to feel so useless.” He exhaled a long sigh through his nose.

   “I have every reason to believe that Lady Brienne would want you to attend to your men, to reassure them once they wake. That would be of great use. Your men have no knowledge of the land or the people, and if they were to take it upon themselves to search for her, then we would surely have misadventure. Imagine your lady returning to find such a thing. None of us would be thanked for that.” The prince gestured to himself to make it clear he did not wish to answer for such misfortune.

   The prince’s sensible words seemed to settle Ser Randel for the moment. He bowed and took his leave.

   The prince turned his attention to Odé.

   “Don’t think to leave the palace, Odé,” he said dryly.

   “Why would I leave, my prince?” she asked, hoping the disbelief in her voice came across as genuine.

   “Don’t take me for a fool, and don’t cause trouble. Now is not the time.” He dismissing her with the flick of his fingers.

   Timmor was sat outside on a bench, his face streaked with tears, his chest shaking.

   “You must be calm, Tima. Why are you so distraught?”

   He wiped his face. He made a show of collecting himself. His face was stoic though the tears still came. What had this boy gone through? What was behind this concerted shell of bravery when there was such emotional turmoil underneath?

   Later for that.

   “Come with me,” she said to him.

   “Where are we going?”

   “To cause trouble.”

Chapter Text

Issa

    Issa’s hands were numb. The vines tying them together behind her back had cut off the circulation. The sack over her head blocked the worst of the sun, but not the heat. She’d managed to work the neck open with her chin to get more air, but the effort had left the skin there raw.

   Ser Podrick was still next to her in the cart. Though her feet were bound, she was able to tap what she assumed to be his shin with her toes. He did not respond. It was hard to hear through the sack, and her hands were bound behind her. There was no other way for her to know if he was dead or unconscious. 

   Her throat was dry and it was hard to swallow, but she did not dare ask for water. Her shoulder still ached from the blow she’d received the last and only time she’d tried that.

   It could have been two days already but was probably only one. She’d been bound and her head covered, but she’d not been knocked unconscious. When she slept it was only sleep and she’d slept just the once. Yes, just one day.

   An hour into their journey southwest Mosi had suggested they stop to see a small clearing where pepper vines were prolific. Both Lady Brienne and Ser Podrick had never seen pepper in the wild. Ser Podrick had assumed the black peppercorns were the seeds of some other fruit or vegetable, not the fruit itself, dried and preserved. Green and red pepper berries in grape-like bunches were not expected.

   Neither were the men hiding in the trees.

   Ser Podrick and Lady Brienne had not faired well. When they were taken, they had fought, but it was a vain effort. Swords and muscle are no match for a blowdart from the bushes. Ser Podrick had taken one to the leg, and brushed it away, unaware of what it was. When he finally fell, his face was a mask of confusion.

   Lady Brienne had been hit in the neck and fell within seconds.

   Blowdarts were a dirty weapon. Cowardly. Slavers used them to take people down without injuring them or being injured in return. She’d been spared and still wasn’t sure why. It would have been easier to dart her, but other than bind her, they’d left her alone. It had happened very quickly, and quietly. The darts had come from the impenetrable green of the jungle.

   “My lady!” Ser Podrick had yelled, running for the trees, then suddenly falling slack as a pile of rope.

   The sack over Issa’ head had come from behind, along with a foot or maybe a knee into her back.

   “Stop that!” she had yelled.

   A sharp bite of steel at her ribs had made a promise, the honesty of which she was not about to question. She made no further fuss. She let her hands be tied, saying nothing when the rope bit into her wrists. She cooperated when she was led to the back of the cart, felt the wood under her buttocks, and was lifted into the back. Her feet were being bound when the cart shook with the weight of something or someone else thrown into the back. It wasn’t until later, when she’d worked the neck of the sack loose that she’d seen Ser Podrick’s boots.

   She did not know where Lady Brienne was, nor Mosi. She had no idea how many people had taken them, or where they were going, or how far they’d gone. Least of all, or perhaps most of all, she did not know why.

   And she had to urinate.

   As frightened as she was, the idea of urinating herself curdled her fear into a fury that boiled up in her chest.

   “I have to piss,” she said in what she hoped was a compliant tone.

   There was no response as the cart continued over the uneven ground.

   “Please, I beg you. Don’t leave me to piss myself.”

   There was no response, but the cart seemed to slow and then came to a definite stop. Unseen hands lifted her and undid the bindings of her feet, but not her hands. The sack over her head remained in place.

   “What, down my leg?”

   The hands hiked up her dress and a moment of dread overcame her. When nothing else happened, she realized it was just to allow her to squat. She did and made her water.

   She had hoped to learn something, to see something, but the opportunity failed to present itself until the hands were binding her feet again. From the small opening, she had worked in the sack she saw the hands. They were Mosi’s, beyond all doubt.

   That was a punch to the gut. It left her colder than she thought was possible, hollowing out the tiny spark of hope she held. He was free to move. He hadn’t spoken, not even a whisper. He wasn’t bound. What did it mean?

   Don’t cry. Don’t panic. What can you deduce?

   Likely not slavers. Slavers would be indiscriminate and take them all. Whatever Mosi’s involvement, slavers did not make deals or arrangements. They came, they took, they left.

   Not slavers. Put that out of your mind.

   But she couldn’t. Had it been Mosi who held the knife to her ribs?

   Her mind refused to settle into a logical train of thought. The unmoving presence of Podrick was frightening. The absence of Lady Brienne was terrifying. Who would dare? To lay hands on a visiting noble, to shame the prince to this degree, these were the actions of fools, of madmen.

   How do you deal or bargain with madmen?

   She stood and was roughly lifted back into the cart. She wanted to scream her anger and frustration. Why handle her so roughly? What had she done? What was expected of her? What did they want?

   Podrick moaned next to her. She exhaled her relief that he was still alive. His hands were tied behind his back, as were hers. As quietly as she could, she rolled away from him. Her slim hands found his much larger ones. They were slack, but when she passed her fingers between his, he flexed and gripped her awkwardly for a moment, just enough to communicate to her that he was aware of her presence.

   There were at least three men, not counting Mosi.

   Mosi, you bastard. I will pin your balls to the palace ceiba. I will tie your tongue to a bowstring and let the archer do as he wishes. What insanity vexes you that you would bring down the wrath of the Iron Throne upon us when they have only just finished their own wars, now free to look elsewhere for battle?

   Fool!

   The anger, frustration, and immeasurable fury curled tightly in her chest and shoulders, arms and back.

   Podrick’s fingers laced more tightly within hers and the sobbing in her chest subsided. He was conscious now, and she was no longer alone. He was a shy man, but their short time together yesterday on the beach, how he’d opened up to her, how she’d watched the man himself take a back seat to the story he was telling, and the trust she’d seen in his face, how he’d counted on her not to make fun or shame him, that was more than enough to instill a sense of camaraderie.

   Trust is a bird with two wings, and she needs both to fly, Podrick. You and I.

   She imagined that the thought had traveled down her arms, crossed their laced fingers and up into Podrick’s mind. She willed him to know her heart, pathetic as it was.

   The day burned on. The sun came to its highest point. Issa had been conscious of its movement across the sky, if only poorly through the burlap sack, and mostly by tracking where the heat came from. They had continued southwest, most likely along the very coast since there had been no hills and the canopy had been relatively open from what she could tell. One of the pony’s was favoring a leg. She could pick out the break in the rhythm as the horses clopped on.

   Against all rationale, she dozed.

   A slap to her buttock woke her.

   “What are you doing?!” she screamed. “What madness is this, Mosi?”

   There was disdainful laughter from several male voices, none of which was Mosi. Hands moved her to the bottom edge of the cart. Her wrists were unbound and rebound in front of her and the sack was removed from her head.

   Four men whom she did not recognize, and Mosi. They must have walked alongside the cart. Mosi was doing his level best to avoid her eye contact. Podrick still lay in the cart, his head covered by a sack similar to the one they’d pulled from her head, which now lay discarded on the ground.

   “Where is Lady Brienne?” she demanded.

   “That is none of your concern, Issa,” answered Mosi, a hard edge to his voice.

   He held a water skin before her. She wanted to spit it in his face, but she drank it greedily. She was dehydrated and there was no knowing when water would be offered again. She glared at Mosi who was unable to hold her eyes.

   You feel shame, as well you should.

   Mosi plugged the waterskin, but lay it in the bed of the cart. “Help him,” Mosi said, pointing at Ser Podrick.

   “He is your captive, not mine,” she retorted.

   Mosi smacked her so hard she fell over onto Ser Podrick’s limp form. She had never in her life been struck in such a fashion. It was deeply shocking that anyone would lay hands on her, let alone her own cousin.

   “Do as you’re told, Issa,” was Mosi’s resigned response.

   Shaken, she took the water skin and scooted back away from the edge of the cart. Her cheek burned where he’d struck her, but the burn sank down past her bones and into her soul.

   Oh, sweet cousin. You cannot afford what you are doing. I swear it to you. You can’t.

   Issa worked the burlap sack away from Ser Podrick’s head. He was soaked with sweat and the sunburn from the other day was in full effect. His skin was glossy and red. But this was nothing compared to the bloody mess that was the left side of his face. His left eye was swollen grossly shut.

   “Ser Podrick.” She prodded him until he moved slightly and groaned. “Ser Podrick, you must wake.”

   “I’m awake,” he said, his voice made of gravel and grit.

   “Your eye.” He looked awful, and there was too much blood for her to know how much damage had actually happened. “Is there more water?” she called out to their assailants.

   “There is not,” said Mosi. “Be judicious.”

   “I must clean his wounds,” she said. “Look at his face!”

   “He is a Westerosi knight. I am sure he has suffered worse.”

   Mosi grabbed her by the hair and yanked her toward where he stood next to the cart. She exclaimed at the rough treatment and Ser Podrick made a groggy attempt to come to her aid.

   “No, no,” Mosi said, the tip of his knife finding a spot at her ribs where Podrick could see. “Your wrists will be rebound in front of you. You will not fight or try to escape, else Issa will pay for your insubordination. Do you understand?”

   Ser Podrick’s one good eye took in the situation. “I understand.”

   Mosi tipped his head at one of the men who came and cut Podrick’s bindings. Issa felt Mosi shift the knife threateningly so that Podrick could see. For his part, Podrick rubbed his wrists vigorously where the rope had bit into his skin, then presented his wrists together so that they could be bound again. His right eye never left Issa. His movements were slow and methodical.

   When his hands were rebound, Mosi pointed with his chin at the waterskin then turned from them.

   “Drink,” she said to Podrick, holding the skin to his lips. She gave him as much as he could drink. Fair-skinned people were not made for the sun and the heat. She was exhausted and every inch of her ached from the hard planks of the cart, but Podrick’s appearance was alarming. They would have to get more water and soon.

   “What is happening?” Ser Podrick whispered.

   “I do not know,” she answered, which was certainly the truth. “Lady Brienne is not with us.”

   His head turned slowly, taking in the situation. Glancing up, he said, “It’s well past midday.”

   “Yes,” she said, then whispered, “We must stay together.”

   “I will not leave you. I swear it.” Through the soft slur from the dart poison, she could hear the deadly malice in his voice.

   Good, she thought. We are of one mind.

   Mosi confided with his men away from the cart. Issa and Podrick said nothing further. One of the men returned and took up a length of rope from the front of the cart. He tied one end around Issa’s neck, the other around Podrick’s.

   “There is no need for this, Mosi,” Issa complained.

   “Is she correct, Ser Podrick?” Mosi asked, smugness dripping from every word. “Your lady is elsewhere and while you are only half a man, bedding that boy, still it seems you have some sense of honor and duty, yes?”

   “What would you know of honor and duty?” Podrick asked. “You are no better than a drunkard hedge knight. Your prince, I cannot wait for you to stand before him. I will enjoy it greatly.”

   “And here I thought Lady Brienne had taught you to hold your tongue. Well, no matter.” Mosi pulled Issa from the cart and the short length of rope forced Podrick to follow. “Down to the water’s edge. There’s a catamaran we will take to a larger ship anchored offshore. It would be unfortunate if you fell into the water and dragged Issa with you, drowning her.”

   “No one will fall in,” Podrick replied.

   They left the path, down through trees and shrubs, toward the water.

Chapter Text

Ser Podrick Payne

   Podrick’s world was cut in half. He could see out of only one eye and only half his mind seemed to work. And his lady was nowhere to be seen. Issa was with him, though. For now, that was all that mattered.

   Mosi was a dead man, only the poor fool didn't know it yet. The thought would never have crossed his mind had Brienne been there or if Issa had been absent. There had to be a witness.

   They'd left him his boots, a key mistake.

   Mosi’s cohorts pushed him and Issa towards the water’s edge. He allowed it, allowed them to believe he was groggier than he was, or perhaps fooling himself that he was more clearheaded than he was.

   It didn’t matter. If they were taken to that ship, there was no knowing where it was headed, where they would be taken. Lady Brienne was on that ship. He was sure of it.

   Forgive me, my lady. I swore to protect and honor you, and I will keep my promise.

   They stood in the wet sand as the catamaran was readied. Two of the men transferred the few supplies and weapons they had to the boat. It was a beautiful craft. Podrick regretted that this would be his closest encounter with one. He let his head loll to one side, spittle dribbling from his lips. He hoped the ruse would be enough. He eyed Issa, praying she would look his way through force of will.

   She did. His one good eye gave up the lie the rest of his face was telling.

   Issa’s eyes flicked to the other men, then back to Podrick. She understood. Several thoughts made themselves known on her face before they were replaced with a fury Podrick was thankful he wasn’t on the wrong side of. Her head flicked in agreement, camouflaged by a hard sniff as she pretended to cry.

   Maybe she wasn’t pretending.

   Courage without fear is just stupidity, he heard his lady say to him a hundred times over the years. Had she been here, he would be looking to her for his cue. She was not, and Issa was looking to him.

   Podrick prayed courage would be enough because physically, he had seen better days.

   He let his legs buckle, knees hitting the sand, yanking Issa regrettably down with him. She cried out and the other two men came their way. He feigned an attempt to stand, reaching back to his boot, his hands still tied together in front him, finding the small knife that was hidden in the sidewall. It wasn’t a dagger. It was hardly a knife. Just a tool blade, not very sharp.

   But sharp enough.

   One of the men lifted him, and Podrick pretended to cooperate, nodding his head at Issa, asking for her to be helped first. They did not understand him. At the last second, Podrick jammed the blade deep into the side of the man’s neck, pushing the butt of the knife with his palm. When he pulled it free a great spout of blood shot in an arc, and again, and again until the man dropped. The other man stared in disbelief. Issa braced her bound hands in the sand, one leg sweeping around wide and knocked the man down.

   That man died the same as the first, his hot blood washing over Podrick’s hands.

   It had taken only seconds.

   The remaining two men tried to retrieve the long tubes they used to shoot those horrible darts. They dropped them in the water and Mosi yelled at them incoherently in the Islander language.

   “Give me the knife, Podrick,” said Issa.

   He passed it to her and she cut the bonds that held his hands. He pulled the knot loose from around his neck and splashed into the surf after the other men.

   Mosi’s eyes flashed wide at his approach. He ran toward the water, yelling words that made no sense but the meaning was obvious.

   Go! Go!

   That was all the confirmation Podrick needed. Lady Brienne was indeed on that ship. Podrick and Issa had been nothing more than additional loot and perhaps bargaining chips, but not worth Mosi losing his life. Lady Brienne was the real prize.

   There were two dead men on the sand as evidence that Podrick and Issa would not accept that fate easily.

   The small boat slipped quickly out to where the large swan ship was anchored, her sails partially raised for quick departure.

   I will come for you, my lady, or die in the attempt.

   He helped Issa remove the rope from her neck and cut her ropes.

   “Did I hurt you when I fell. I am so sorry. I could think of no other way to get their attention without suspicion.” He watched her rub her neck where a red welt was forming and a fresh wave of guilt washed over him.

   “Perhaps strained and bruised, but I owe you my life, Ser Podrick.” She kicked the man closest to her in the chest. His body shifted, but only as dead weight.

   Podrick’s vision narrowed and he fell to the sand in earnest this time.

   “You need water,” Issa said. “We must get off the beach and back to the cart.”

   He was surprised at how strong she was, small but wiry, like Timmor. She helped him up the beach, the sand shifting wildly beneath his feet. He crawled the last of the way up to the tree line.

   A great sob rolled up and out of his chest.

   “Not yet, Ser Podrick. Your lady has need of you,” said Issa.

   Yes, she had need of him, and he had need of her. This was not how Podrick saw the changing of the guard. He had imagined Lady Brienne old and gray, giving him final words of guidance and assurances that he would be a fine lord, that he must protect the people of the Saphire Isle because that was the purpose of a lord or a lady, that was the reason for the comfort and strong walls of a castle, in order to be there for the poor and the weak, the old and the frail. That was the trade that made it fair, else castles were inhabited by craven despots.

   Where the sand gave way to trees, Issa searched the ground under a stand of palms and collected several large green fruits. Podrick lay against a large sandy rock, catching his breath. Issa bashed one of the fruits against the edge of another large jagged rock nearby until the green part gave way. It wasn’t a fruit like any Podrick had ever seen. It was fibrous and inside there was a round wooden orb. When she had the orb clear of the fibers, she struck it once, with care, against the rock and then hurried over to Podrick. There was sweet, fresh water inside. Delicious. She insisted he drink it all. There were several more of the fruits and he drank the water of two more.

   The last one she used to wash his eye. She was gentle but firm. When the worst of the caked blood was gone, he was relieved to find that the wound was mainly to his brow and the outside edge of the orbit. His eye was intact and he could see from it if he used his fingers to lift the lid.

   “Good thing I was never very pretty,” he joked weakly.

   “I know someone who thinks very differently,” said Issa.

   At first, he thought she meant Timmor, but the sad glance from the corner of her eye said it was her.

   “In a different life, I would be very happy with someone as strong and pretty as you, but in this life, I am spoken for,” he said, knowing it was perhaps harsh, but this friendship could not be allowed to extinguish through misunderstanding.

   “I know, Ser Podrick. At least half of what I find attractive in you is your devotion to Timmor and Lady Brienne. I would never harm that. I just don’t want you thinking you’re ugly when you are not.” She placed a gentle hand on his cheek.

   “Why is this happening, Issa. What is Mosi doing?” he asked.

   “Being an idiot, a fool!” she spat. “He has no hope of challenging Abioye. There must be something else. And that ship… that ship is not from Lotus Point; it is not my prince’s ship.”

   “Things don’t seem as different here as I thought,” he replied.

   Her expression was noncommittal. “We must go back. I am sure the prince will have sent men to search for us. We must return to the palace as quickly as we can to warn the prince.”

   “Yes. We must warn him that I am going to kill Mosi. I know he is your family…”

   “No,” she said with a clipped chill that was utterly unlike her. “Family does not do this. A family does not beat you and leave you to piss yourself and yank your hair like a goat. Your family does not do this, does it?”

   “No, Issa. We don’t. My family shares no blood, but we all know what it is to be left to piss oneself. I have had my hair pulled and much, much worse, many times. That’s why we’re a family. No one else wanted us.”

   “You are wanted here, Ser Podrick, and can count me as a new sister if you will have me.” Her delicate chin jutted minutely in defiance.

   “A woman who can kick the way you dropped that man is a woman any man should be proud to call sister. Something tells me you have more talents than you make obvious.” He slid into the front of the cart. Mosi had clearly intended to just leave these ponies here tied to the cart to fend for themselves. A different flame lit in Podrick at the idea of such wasteful cruelty.

   “Be patient, Ser Podrick, and I promise to show you everything I know.”

   They had ridden for over an hour when the first of the prince’s men found them. Though Podrick understood nothing of the exchange between the man and Issa, anyone could see the man was deeply troubled. Issa had to resort to a more authoritative tone to get the man to take them back without continuing on to find Lady Brienne.

   “Tell him I will assure the prince that it would be a mistake, that they have a whole ship of men,” Podrick insisted.

   “I told him that,” she replied. “He was told not to come back without your lady.”

   Podrick turned to the man. “We must go to the prince. Abioye.” He thrust a finger in the direction from which the man had come. “Now!”

   Podrick got back into the cart; Issa followed him. She pointed to the back of the cart and the man got in, his expression still concerned and frightened.

   It was the first time Podrick had gotten to see one of the Islander bows up close. It was a mighty thing. Beautiful. From behind, the man who owned it had a back that was slightly lopsided. His right shoulder, arm, and back were larger than the left. Yes, such a bow would likely leave its mark on its owner.

   They picked up two more of the prince’s men on the way back. They were equally reticent to turn back, and Issa grew more frustrated with them until the last man took the full brunt of her anger. His eyes were huge in the face of her tongue-lashing.

   They rode hard until dark. They left the cart outside the palace gate in the care of the first man who had found them. Issa called for the other two men to come to help Podrick. At this point, neither the men nor Podrick had the slightest illusion that Issa’s words carried any less authority than the prince himself. Podrick’s vision was fading in and out and he was thankful for the help. The men were forces of nature, as solid as he had imagined when he first saw them from the railing of the ship. They shouldered under each of Podrick’s arms and helped him as though he were as small and light as Timmor.

   Where was Timmor? His heart ached to see him, to know he was unharmed.

   They were brought directly to the prince’s quarters. The prince met them outside.

   “Your eye, Ser Podrick,” the prince remarked, shaken.

   “My prince… Lady Brienne… Lady…” There was a dragon sitting on Podrick’s chest. He could not breathe, let alone have wind enough for words.

   “Ser Podrick, you must rest.” Prince Abioye gave swift orders. The healer was to be brought and, to the collective surprise of all, the prince refused for Podrick to be taken to his hut, instead giving Podrick his own bed.

   What came after was hard to remember.

   His mind was clouded and turned. Issa told the prince everything. She recounted every single thing that had been done to her and to Podrick. She was horrified by the events. It was unprecedented. She told of how Podrick had used the last of his strength to kill the two men, saving Issa, though Mosi and the other two managed to escape.

   She spared nothing with respect to Mosi. She told it vividly. Tears were streaming down her face and her voice was choked when she finished.

   The room faded back in, though Podrick never realized when it had faded out.

   Timmor was there. Sweet Timmor. So beautiful, his eyes huge and haunted. He stroked Podrick’s face, lovingly. Odé was there and the prince did not seem happy with her. Why? She had guarded his Timmor. He loved her for that. He would love her for all time. So like his lady. Yes, very much like Brienne. Ser Randel was there too, though Podrick could not say when he had arrived.

   The healer came. A tiny, wizened old woman made of wrinkles and a smile that had no teeth. She finished cleaning his face with cloths as white as snow, though they quickly browned with the dried blood. There was something in the water she used to wet the cloths. It was both cooling and burned at the same time. She mumbled words to him, meaningless, but a mother’s words all the same.

   There, there. I’ll fix you up. You’ll see.

   Had he understood her? No. But in a different way, yes.

   She produced a tiny blade made of shell, pearlescent and delicate. When she approached his eye, he flinched. She spoke in gestures, pantomiming that the eye was too swollen, that she had to let the blood out. He understood but had never had to undergo the procedure. She dabbed a finger into a pot of unguent and salved the area to the side of his eye. It quickly went numb. She brought the blade again and this time he let her do her work. He never felt the cut, but she brought a cloth to catch the flow. She gave him something bitter to drink and a soft euphoria spread up his neck, into his head, down his arms and legs. The relief was breathtaking.

   Abioye was tense. He argued with Odé demanding to know where she had been. She spoke to him as though he were just another man, not a prince. She argued back, said strange things that made no sense. She had taken Timmor somewhere, somewhere he wasn’t meant to go.

   Where did you take my Timmor?

   Very little made sense just now.

   “The sisters told me. Me and Tima,” she said stridently.

   “Timmor?” the prince said in disbelief. “Timmor is a man.”

   Yes, he is, thought Podrick.

   “And yet, my prince, look at his hand. He carries the mark.”

   Prince Abioye came to the bed where Podrick lay, where Timmor sat, and took his outstretched hand. The prince only stared at Timmor’s palm, perplexed. There were little red dots.

   Perhaps it was real or perhaps Podrick only dreamed it when Odé said, “I know where Lady Brienne is. I know why she was taken. We must prepare to fight, my prince.”

   “Finally, some sense!” yelled Ser Randel.

   Podrick could see now from both eyes, though the injured one was still blurry. He prayed it would not remain that way. Timmor’s gold-flecked green eyes and red curls were the last things he saw before the world faded out completely.

Chapter Text

Timmor Buckler

   “Where are we going?” Timmor had asked.

   “To cause trouble,” Odé had said, enigmatically.

   Ser Randel followed them out of the prince’s quarters. “You know something, Odé. I am coming with you.”

   “I know nothing, Ser Randel. But I hope to learn something, and that cannot happen if you come.” She placed a hand firmly to his chest. Ser Randel looked at the hand as though it were the first one he’d ever seen.

   “But Timmor…” Ser Randel sputtered.

   “If he were older, if he were the knight you are, Ser Randel, I would leave him too. I am praying that his youth and innocence will allow him to pass,” she said, looking at Timmor.

   “Pass? Pass what? Pass where?” Ser Randel demanded.

   “I cannot explain,” she said. “You must trust me. He will come to no harm, and perhaps he can be of help. Help is what we need, Ser Randel. Do as the prince says, as I know your lady would want, and be of help here. Say nothing to the prince. I am trusting you, Ser Randel. Please trust me in return.”

   “I trust her,” Timmor said, putting as much confidence into his voice as he could muster. He did trust Odé, but he was frightened and there was a hollow deep in his chest that he feared would never be filled again.

   Seconds passed.

   Ser Randel grunted and said, “You are a woman of the sword and I may be old, but I will make you prove it if he comes to harm. All your nightmares will have my face. ”

   “I believe it, Ser Randel. I do.” Odé said and turned to walk toward the guest quarters.

   Odé had Timmor return to his hut and change back into his usual clothing. She left him to change and returned a short time later, also dressed in clothing that looked more protective than her usual garb. Black leather breeches and a matching vest. She slipped into the hut so silently that Timmor was startled to find her there. She put fingers to his lips, to keep him from crying out.

   “You haven’t told me where we’re going,” he said in as hushed a voice as he could manage.

   “It is hard to explain, but there are others who may know things that we do not. We must speak with them.” Her eyes became distant. “Maybe you should stay.”

   “No. I’m not scared. I just want to know what we are doing. Why did we change clothes?” he asked.

   “Your beautiful sandals will be ruined where we are going. Would you want that?”

   He glanced at them where he’d piled them neatly on a stool. “Fine. Who are these people?”

   “It is easier to show than to tell.” She sat on the bed. “Tima, you must do what I say. If I say don’t touch, you don’t touch. If I say be silent, you must be silent. No questions, no arguments. I say - you do. Understand?”

   “Is this dangerous?”

   She nodded gravely. “But for Brienne and Podrick, you will be brave, yes?”

   Of course, he would. Lady Brienne was tutor and lady and mother. In her strict care, he had found not only a life worth living but a noble house he could claim with pride to anyone of any name. In Podrick he had found love, true love, the kind that doesn’t need constant, dramatic protestations. They could sit quietly in front of a fire, Podrick running his fingers gently through Timmor’s curls as Timmor read a book to him, the peace as much a blessed sensation as their passions in bed.

   “I will do my best,” he said.

   “As well as if Brienne were here?”

   “I am ever in my lady’s service, whether she is present or not," he said, mildly indignant.

   Odé seemed satisfied with the tone of his response.

   They slipped out of the hut and into the night.

   Odé was every bit the shadowcat he had imagined when he first saw her. She had a slippery smooth way of moving, of shifting her weight from one position to another. She seemed made of the very substance of night - the shadows were her kin. Timmor felt like a bumbling fool, all elbows and knees next to her, but they went unnoticed.

   The route they took was directly opposite to the palace gate. Behind the sparring arena, there was a small stand of trees that gave a green fruit, which he had eaten several times now. It was not sweet, but buttery and rich with a single large pit. Odé climbed the tree furthest to the back and gestured for Timmor to follow. She went slowly, which he imagined was for his benefit. He’d seen her move with much greater grace and swiftness. Wherever she stepped, he stepped. The branches she grasped, he grasped. They were quite high when she slipped out of the length of rope she had carried around her neck and under her arm. She looped the rope around a limb and tied a large knot at the other end.

   “Watch,” she said.

   She shifted the loose loop further along the branch then yanked it tight. She went hand over hand along the branch and gripped the rope. The branch bent far enough that her feet touched the top of the outside wall. They were dead center between two of the points where guards were stationed with bows along the wall.

   With a finger to her lips warning for silence, she beckoned him to follow. He went hand over hand, just as Odé had done. Vertigo almost overtook him when he reached for the rope. He tried again, closer to where it looped over the branch and was successful this time. He slipped down and reached the end of the rope, but his slight weight was not enough to bend the branch as much as it had with Odé. She grabbed him by the calves and lowered him the rest of the way.

   There was a wooden hatch in the floor at the top of the wall. Odé poured a small vial of oil onto the hinges and opened it slowly, urging Timmor to slip inside. When the hatch closed above, the darkness was absolute.

   Into his ear, Odé whispered, “One hand on my shoulder, one hand on the wall. Go slowly. Go quietly. There are thirty-seven stairs. Where we stand now is the first stair.”

   They descended into the dark, and though Timmor had counted very carefully, Odé warned him when they came to the end. Blind as Timmor was, the direction they turned at the bottom took them out from under the wall, out of the palace complex.

   “What is this place,” Timmor whispered.

   “A way for guards with bows to get behind slavers when they are foolish enough to come so close to the palace. It has not happened in a long time. Walk slowly, Tima. The ground is smooth, but it is easy to fall.”

   They continued on. Odé’s silhouette slowly coalesced out from the inky blackness. The floor became more treacherous and they had to climb up a spill of boulders and stones into the dark of tall tree trunks.

   “Are we here?” asked Timmor.

   “No. This was the first part. Now we go through the jungle. Stay close to me, Tima. There are shadowcats and worse.”

   As the trees grew larger and larger, the undergrowth grew thinner. Odé explained that the canopy overhead kept the sun from reaching the ground, thus smaller plants struggled here. When one of the great trees fell, there was a riot of growth as seeds and saplings made the best of a rare opportunity.

   They encountered no shadowcats or any other creatures of concern, though the trees were alive with rustling and sounds that gave no hint as to what kind of animal would have made them.

   Odé was tireless in her stride. He had to ask for a rest just as the sun was turning the sky from pale grey to blue.

   Timmor had only just caught his breath when Odé insisted they continue on.

   “The prince will send men when he knows we are gone. We must reach the tree, Tima.”

   The tree?

   It was past morning when he saw it. The same kind of tree that grew near the prince’s quarters, but many times bigger and taller. Immensely wide with roots that were walls taller than a man, rippling and rolling out from the barrel trunk. It had only eight or ten limbs, but each was the size of any of the giants surrounding it, which no longer looked so large by comparison. It was only somewhat taller than the rest, but massive, its limbs and roots forming a clearing around it.

   “This is Iya, the mother,” said Odé with a reverence that was unlike her usual self-possessed tone.

   “Mother to whom?” whispered Timmor.

   “Everything you see, Tima. Everything.” She turned to him. “Now more than ever, Tima, do what I say. Please, stay here.” A finger to her lips for silence.

   He nodded his understanding.

   She strode to the massive tree. The breeze made the branches whisper and hiss as she approached. She knelt and placed a hand to one of the great buttress roots.

   Nothing happened. Timmor sat to wait, closing his eyes, exhausted. He had not slept. The sweet music of songbirds filtered down from the canopy. He wondered what lived up there, in that separate world of leaves and boughs. Odé remained perfectly still, unmoving.

   Where are you, Podrick? Are you with my lady? Are you well?

   There was a songbird nearby, warbling a soft coo somewhere behind him. He looked. A dark shape slipped behind a tree. A spike of fear passed through him. Odé had said there were worse things than shadowcats in these trees. Had he been stalked by some predator?

   Odé had not moved, but something moved about her. More than one something. They crept out from the spaces between the great roots, tiny, as black as the staircase had been within the palace wall, save for emerald eyes that sparkled and glinted. There had been no songbirds. The whistling and cooing were from them. Skittish as cats, they approached Odé, who had extended her free hand, waiting for it to be taken.

   They gently touched Odé, passing tiny hands over her skin, through her hair. They looked back again and again to where Timmor sat, unnerved at his presence.

   A hand rested on Timmor’s arm, soft as a flower petal, black as jet. He could not help but flinch away. The creature backed up under a plant with large heart-shaped leaves, its eyes glinting in the shadows.

   It was a tiny person.

   “I’m sorry,” Timmor whispered. “You startled me.”

   The little head bobbed side to side like an owl. It had no hair, but leaves. It had no clothes, but vines. Tiny and wizened like an ancient child. Timmor extended his hand as he had seen Odé do. Little by little, inch by inch, it came out from the leaves, sometimes on all fours, sometimes on two. There was nothing about the creature to indicate sex, but Timmor had a distinct impression that it was a she. She cooed and clucked and chirped, hardly moving her mouth to do so.

   “We need help,” Timmor said.

   Her head cocked to one side, looked over to Odé and the others who had surrounded her, looked back to Timmor. She placed her hand into Timmor’s and a flurry of strange thoughts, green thoughts, earthy and wet, flashed through his mind.

   Had she spoken to him?

   “We need help,” he repeated and his own thoughts, so unlike hers, we’re inspected and perused. She pulled her head back, gave the impression of otherworldly understanding, and pulled gently on Timmor’s hand. She was pulling him toward Odé. He got up slowly and complied. She held his hand exactly as any child would. She cooed and chirped constantly as they approached the tree. The others initially zipped behind the roots, slipping out again slowly. Timmor’s companion chirped insistently. Odé turned and Timmor expected a rebuke, but she only lowered her head toward the little being holding Timmor’s hand. Another of the creatures exchanged complicated clicks and warbles with Timmor’s new friend and eyed him suspiciously. His companion seemed to make a choice, and gently guided Timmor between two root walls.

   Odé followed with the remainder of the dark creatures closing in behind. Timmor glanced at Odé needing reassurance. She only redirected his attention forward.

   The space between the roots should have narrowed, but instead, it widened. They went down into the ground and deep under the tree. As big as the tree was, the space inside paid no respect to the exterior proportions. It opened into a large cave, roots coming down from the ceiling high overhead. It was cool and damp and there was a faint pulse that was felt more than heard.

   Many of the roots wound their way down across the floor to a pool in the middle of the cave. There was light. It reflected off the pool in cool blues and greens and purples. His eyes had adjusted and though the light was dim, he could see well enough. Overhead, between the roots, large patches of something like moss or lichen glowed.

   “Are they children of the forest?” Timmor whispered when Odé was at his side.

   “They are the little sisters. Iya is their mother.”

   “You said Iya was the mother of everything.”

   “Yes, well… The little sisters are Iya’s first children. They were here long before us.”

   They slipped out from shadows and unfolded from lumps and knobs in the wood. Their soft cooing was continuous now and their attention was certainly on Timmor. Two of the creatures held large leaves, the same leaves under which Timmor’s guide had hidden. They made their way to the pool in the middle, cupped the leaves and gestured for Timmor and Odé to approach. Odé took Timmor’s hand and he was grateful for her resolute presence in this place where he understood nothing. She knelt at the edge of the pool and gently pulled Timmor down to kneel next to her.

   The little sisters brought the leaves to their mouths so that they could drink. Odé squeezed Timmor’s hand in reassurance and took the water that was offered. Timmor closed his eyes and did the same.

   The water tasted musty and green, the way Timmor imagined moss or fallen leaves would taste.

   The cooing and chirps became sibilant whispers and Timmor’s mind expanded in a direction that had no name.

   Whispers became words.

   “You bring a man to us,” said one of the sisters, her head cocked to one side.

   “And you allowed him in,” replied Odé.

   “Iya allowed him in,” the little creature corrected.

   Odé tipped her head in acknowledgment of the difference.

   “Are men not permitted?” asked Timmor, half expecting to sound like one of the little sisters had sounded before drinking the water, but the words that came to his mouth were only words, not clicks or whistles. “I can understand you now. Do you understand me?”

   “We always did,” chirped the little sister at his side. “Men are rarely worthy, so they do not come. Iya wants to know you, man of snow and fire. She has things for you.”

   “His people are in trouble,” said Odé. “We came for help, for guidance.”

   “He brought the trouble with him,” said another sister on the other side of the pool.

   Odé glanced at him, confused. Timmor had no answer for her. What could he have done? It had only been a few days and he hadn’t left the prince’s palace until now. His time had been spent with Odé or Podrick or Lady Brienne. How in the name of the Seven could he understand them? What was in the water he had drunk?

   “Do you have a name?” he asked his guide.

   She trilled high and sweet, ending in a soft click she made with her cheek. She smiled up at Timmor. Her teeth were obsidian.

   “I cannot make that sound,” Timmor replied.

   “Bug,” she said. “You may call me Bug. You must go into the water to speak to Iya.”

   A hard spike of adrenaline hit him. Into the water? Save for the patches of reflection from the glow above, it was as inky and black as the little sisters, and looked far too much like a great mouth within the floor. He looked to Odé for help.

   “I have been in the pool, Tima. Iya would never hurt you, but I did not expect you to come in with me. I was ready to go into the water myself, but it seems it must be you.” Her voice as she spoke of Iya was filled with hushed reverence.

   “You came for help, Tima,” said Bug. She gently tugged him towards the water’s edge and waded in up to her waist. “Like me,” she said, gesturing to her naked form and then to his clothed body. “Iya is life. Those things are dead; they must come away.”

   She was asking him to undress.

   He glanced back again to Odé. She gave him a compassionate smile and shrugged minutely.

   “Come, like me,” repeated Bug, placing her hands to her flat, child’s chest. Her innocence and the way she made it sound like her way was the better way, unencumbered by dead things, gave him the courage he needed. He sat to remove his boots and several of the little sisters came to look them over with great curiosity, inspecting the way the lacings wove into the leather. His shirt joined the boots and one of the sisters slipped it over her head and warbling laughter filled the cave. His trousers came away slowly. It was warm in the cave, and humid, but his nakedness in this strange place left him trembling.

   “Ser Podrick is a lucky man, Tima,” said Odé from behind him. His cheeks flamed hot at the compliment, he dared not look back, lest she see.

   Tiny black hands like feathers, like leaves, like flowers, brushed against him. The cave was dark. The sisters were dark. Odé was dark. Timmor was pale in the glow reflected from the water. They were careful to avoid his sex, but all else was touched. Bug shooed them away and took Timmor’s hand.

   “Slowly,” she said. “It grows deep in the middle. Very deep.”

   One foot in, then the other. A vibration hummed up his legs. Bug urged him on, her tiny form already up to her neck where Timmor was only waist deep. The water was as warm as the cave. The roots on the bottom were smooth and would have been treacherous had Bug not been guiding him, pacing him. She was as deep now as her little toes would allow and she flipped under the water, the splash oddly muted. She swam up again, wiping water from her face.

   “Swim down with me,” she said.

   “I will drown,” responded Timmor.

   “No, Iya will sustain you,” she responded.

   He turned once again to Odé for help.

   “Be strong, Tima. Iya will not harm you,” she said, then crouched down to sit. Several of the little sisters joined her in a group, all sitting, all waiting.

   To his chest, to his chin, and then the roots beneath his feet were gone. Bug’s hand was in his hand and she dipped under the water again taking Timmor with her.

   The water was not water. What had been dark was now light. Bug floated toward his face.

   “Breathe,” she said.

   He shook his head in panic. She tickled him under the ribs. He laughed and did not drown.

   “See?” said Bug. She swam deeper into the light, her legs together, arms at her sides, like a little worm wiggling through the earth.

   Timmor followed. Filaments of roots as fine as hairs caressed his skin, tingling, glowing. He jerked away at first, but Bug swam through them and they followed her body. She slowed and let them swirl around her arms and legs. They let her through and Timmor’s fear left him. The filaments grew thicker, wafting through water that was air. Bug gently settled to the floor where they grew heaviest, making a carpet like glowing grass shifting in an invisible breeze. He went to her and the silken threads embraced him and held him.

   Images flashed through his mind, memories that were not his. Trees growing and falling in a land devoid of voices and words. Again and again, the ancestors of Iya grew and fell. The last pod containing the last seed taking root and becoming the Iya. On the surface, leaves and roots and seeds spread out across the land. The tree in the palace was her child by seed. Here in this cave, the little sisters were her children by root. They were here when men were new. Bug was here, as sharp and giggling as a parrot. More memories, his memories of castle walls and dark passages, feasts in great halls where he never felt like feasting. Men and horses and swords taking oaths and swearing fealty before the specter of war. Frightening times of silence, knowing terrible things transpired in other, faraway places, things that would decide the fate of everyone, even sad little forgotten boys in empty castles. Then came hope limping into the castle yard in the form of a tall woman who spoke and acted like a man, a women whose sword was legend, and with her a man in red leather and an impossibly big smile, with soulful brown eyes, which, like his own, were lost, sad, wanting, needing.

   And there were other eyes, eyes of the same color and shape as Timmor’s, but as vicious and dangerous as wildfire. Eyes that had ridden off to war, burning with the expectation of heroism and grand stories and endless maidens to bed. Eyes that loathed Timmor, loathed him for being so alike and so utterly different.

   Timmor sobbed. He knew the answer before Bug spoke.

   “It came with you,” she said, her voice filled with heartbreak.

Chapter Text

Brienne of Tarth

   I am a turnip, I am a turnip, I am a turnip, Ser Randel, I am a turnip…

   The words rolled through Brienne’s sleeping mind, spoken to a ghostly imitation of Ser Randel as a cloud made of leather, steel, and pity who hovered above a canopy of trees. He’d been right. Mosi had lain a trap and she’d stepped into it with a hearty thank-you-very-much.

   In her dream, Ser Randel floated off to sea leaving Brienne with Mosi on an island, a sandbar barely big enough for them both to sit back to back, their toes on opposite shores. The island rocked and swayed beneath them, pitching the horizon up and down. The sand made creaking sounds and smelled of wood and mold.

   "Do you take me for a turnip?" she said silently to a bird flying over their tiny island. It screeched "you are a turnip" and dove into the water.

   It began to rain from a cloudless sky. Mosi mumbled incessantly at her back.

   She awoke to a stream of warm water hitting her face and neck, splashing into her hair and ear.

   Toryen Buckler stood over her, urinating. She cursed and turned her face away so that it would not roll into her mouth or nose. It was the third time he had woken her in this vile way in the hold of a swan ship. The stink had evolved and progressed from merely repulsive to acidic. Her skin burned, especially her scalp where it got into her hair. She was past anger, past hatred. There was no cause for this torture, nothing to be gained but for him to punish her.

   The first time Brienne had awoken, she’d assumed Toryen to be a fever dream, a memory from the past come to haunt her. Her eyes had felt like lead and they were so dry her lids seemed to stick to her eyeballs. The second time, she really was fevered and hot, but her mind was clear enough to accept his presence as real and note the slow rocking of the ship. They were still at anchor at that time. Mosi had been there with him, arguing. He was here again, sitting at the other end of the hold, allowing Toryen to indulge. The rocking of the ship was from fore to aft. They’d lifted anchor and were in motion. She’d been fed four times, but her stomach was drawn and sour. She had been at least two days in the hold of the ship. Probably more.

   Brienne had fought back the urge to interrogate him as to his presence. What was he doing here? Why had he followed? How he knew was of no importance. Not now. Not yet. And why - the why was obvious enough. He cradled his bruised ego as though it were a fatal wound. Toryen was the worst of men. A man who thought the world was his by dint of the sad little cock he flicked dry before tucking it back into his trousers. That he would be so willing to display how little he had still surprised her. She held her peace for now. That blade would be drawn when it could cut the deepest.

   He was practically inflating with the anticipation of the monologue that was sure to come yet again. Like all men of his ilk, he loved to hear the sound of his own thoughts, unchallenged, as if his words gave birth to reality. He was a hollow man, a cheap suit of armor festooned with ridiculous adornments and nothing inside. She’d known countless like him, met him a thousand different times with a thousand different faces and names. They were always the same. Predictable little men with predictably petty needs and petulance that said they never had to earn a thing in their lives.

   His self-indulgence was masturbatory and the complete opposite of discipline. He and his father had wanted to be rid of Timmor, yet it was Toryen who should have ended up in a burlap sack at the bottom of a river. She hated that he had Timmor’s eyes, his hair, and though Toryen was a much larger man, there was something in their build, the way they walked, that made it clear they were brothers.

   He started, as always, at the same beginning. He didn’t have the imagination to change the story or the questions save for those portions where he embellished with the skill of a minstrel, painting himself as the gallant knight laying waste to the enemy. Brienne had known exactly where he had been during the worst of the fighting, and exactly where he hadn’t been. She imagined that his sword must look newly forged, bright and without a single dent or chip to speak of battle, to speak of putting one’s life on the line, or the guilt of taking lives, which was always the worst, the dearest price.

   Toryen was a coward who thought himself a hero.

   It had come to the point where Brienne was no longer sure which was worse, the fact that she was bound like a hog, or how tediously rehearsed Toryen Buckler’s monologue sounded. The bindings had cut off any feeling to her lower legs and hands. She wished there was a way for them to have the same effect on her ears.

   “And that leaves me with a conundrum,” he said, walking to the back of the hold just so he could strut in return. “You killed Renly Baratheon, a renowned pillow-biter - infamous, I would say - and then turn around and take advantage of my brother’s depravity to service your man, Pod the Pig, who it turns out is also a pillow-biter.” He looked around and found a small chest upon which to sit and gloat. He dragged it over and continued. “I have to say I was never fond of the man and his pious deference towards you, the way he thought himself better than the rest of us, giving himself airs, but when I realized he was fucking my brother, I must admit, that one caught me by surprise.” He made a comic face of confusion that was anything but funny. “He’d had his share of maidens, fat as he is, and I thought, if nothing else, he would at least show Timmor the proper place to plant his cock. I guess you never can tell.” He leaned down into her face. “So, which is it, Lady Brienne, buggery yes, buggery no, or buggery when it serves your purpose? Perhaps it’s you! No teats to speak of and uglier than any men I’ve ever known. Maybe you made him that way, confusing him.” He waggled a hand at her to indicate it was her appearance he meant.

   “I didn’t kill Renly Baratheon.” If she had to listen to his ridiculous litany yet again, he may as well get his facts straight.

   “Oh, come off it. There’s no one left who cares, no one left to punish you for it. Why hold on to that lie? It’s one of the few things I actually like about you - you killed Renly Baratheon and saved me and my friends from his lewd glances, undressing me with his eyes. They don’t get any more depraved than Renly. I mean, he had Margaery Tyrell to bed, a legendary beauty, and instead it was Loras’ field he was plowing.”

   Brienne spat the lingering trace of urine from her lips before speaking, unable to avoid the bitter salt. “You answer your own question, Toryen. I agree. You’re right. There’s no one left to care if I did or didn’t kill him. No one with a mind to punish me for it. So I ask you the same question - why would I hold on to that particular lie if it were a lie? Serves no purpose. Makes more sense that it’s the truth, don’t you think?” In truth, sense was not something she attributed to Toryen, other than bad sense. “I knew perfectly well that Renly preferred the company of men. I wasn’t looking for a lover and I certainly wasn’t a woman scorned. I was looking for someone worthy of my sword. Stannis killed Renly. You can believe it or not. It’s the truth.”

   “Worthy,” he repeated sardonically. “Well, putting that fantasy aside for a moment, you let my brother and that pig carry on under your nose. You knew it. You condoned it. When you made him that pig’s squire-” His voice choked down and he balled his fist tightly, his arm shaking as though it were an independent creature he was restraining. “-you made a mockery of knighthood and you shamed my house in front of the whole of the Stormlands. Your little wedding was an affront to everything I care about.”

   “What do you know of knighthood? There is no Ser before your name.” She stopped. He was baiting her and she was taking it. Perhaps a different direction would stave off another round of this nonsense. His father was as bad as he was, but there had been a mother at one time and Timmor had spoken of her fondly, as a good woman. “Nothing I say to you will change your mind, Toryen. You do not have the eyes of a man who could understand that love is a gift.” A gift that had come in the most unexpected form. She’d been equally surprised when Podrick and Timmor had cleaved together. But the way they had looked at one another and spoken to one another when they thought no one was watching, it had been all she had needed to see. The gods had not granted her love in this life, not that kind, but perhaps they had given her something more important; they had made her into their guiding hand and given her the opportunity to feel a mother’s love, which is another thing entirely. “Ser Podrick and Timmor belong together. They are good for one another. I have done what I can to teach them about honor through example. When I am gone and Podrick is lord of Evenfall, I know that he and Timmor will be fair and just and good to their people. That is what it means to be a lord or lady in a castle. It is a responsibility, not a privilege. You see only what it’s supposed to mean for you, and that makes me pity the people under the shadow of Bronzegate.”

   Toryen stood and approached Brienne, his face as cold and flat as the Wall had been. She wiggled away from him.

   “Don’t flatter yourself, sow. Not when there are real maidens to be had.” Toryen shuddered dramatically. “The very idea is repugnant.”

   “And here I thought we would never agree on anything,” Brienne replied.

   “Yes, make japes. Go ahead. Half of your value to me is just entertainment. Your womanly words mean nothing to me. You would have me lean into your bosom, but there is none, is there, Brienne? Do not speak to me as a mother speaks of her children. They are not your children. They are the flotsam of life, as are you, destined to wash ashore on some remote beach.” His eyes widened at what she imagined he perceived as his own cleverness. “You came here to make friends and show your generosity. How very like a woman of such high birth as Brienne the Beauty to spread her smugness around. A sad end to a once-great house. I came to make alliances and to raise swords and bows. That is how one leads.”

   Yes, that is how one leads armies of innocents to their deaths as though they were nothing more than cattle. That is how men like you have led wars since the beginning of time. You have no ear for a mother’s sobs. You have no heart to know the loss felt by a father burying his sons and daughters. You have been supped on tales of swords of light and epic romances that leave out the cost.

   Brienne sighed at the weight of it. The tonnage of history refused to right itself no matter how hard she tried. There was no getting through to him as a mother. He would only hear what he wanted to hear.

   “The king told you this?” She began again, taking the steel path, the one lined with blood, the one he would understand. “I don’t remember him beckoning to you to take a knee. I don’t remember him asking you what you would have of him for your service to the crown. I don’t remember any houses pledging their allegiance to you.” No, not Bronzegate, little more than a freehold.  “Was there some other ceremony to which you were invited where the king draped you with accolades for your feats? What were those feats, Toryen? Can you recount them? Did you fight the dead? Did you brave the Knight King?” He had done none of that. He’d been inside. When it was over, she had dragged herself in past the gates with the other survivors. The castle yard had been carpeted in dead bodies, the ones who had fought. “Or were you drunk with the other pretty lads from noble houses with very clean, very new swords and immaculate uniforms?” Yes, she had seen those too. The dead lay dead for good, but some men, like Toryen, had been as clean and fresh as though they had only just arrived. They had hidden. “I saw many brave souls. I fought beside them and they fought beside me. They were dirty and ragtag and starving and cold in the freezing mud. And they fought. They fought to their dying breath. Women, men, children. Children with swords, Toryen. That is bravery, you vain, inglorious man.” She breathed hard through the anger that had risen within her. “And you are, above all things, a liar.”

   “How do you reckon, Beast Brienne?” He waved an insolent hand in her direction, but his voice had lost its confidence. Something she’d said had struck home. “How does the ugliest woman alive reckon that I am a liar?”

   “You say you loathe what exists between Ser Podrick and Timmor. You know that is not true.” She remembered Arya Stark, like a little spider jumping, spinning, twisting midair with her little Needle in hand. How nimble and deadly she’d been. Perhaps one could waterdance with words as well. “You never once cared what Timmor did or didn’t do. You loathe him because your brother, second son to a no-account petty lord, is ten times the man you are, and ten times the man his father is, and he is only just now truly a man grown. Imagine what he will be when he is your age, when he is your father’s age.” She imagined Timmor aging into each them. She knew he would be nothing like them. Toryen wore Timmor’s face, and so did his father to a lesser degree, but where Timmor was bright and charming, winning your love with his love, Toryen’s version was a mockery supported by pomp and stupidity. “You and your father will fade into nothing while your bodies are still warm. Timmor’s name and Podrick’s will live on.” She reached for a verbal blade he did not know she was hiding, one that would strike deep at his vanity. “Timmor had an audience with Prince Abioye at a grand feast in the palace and presented himself better than if he had been raised at court under the instruction of the finest maesters. I could not have been more proud. The prince praised him for all to hear and it was well-deserved.” Yes, his face was dropping its smug expression. That had struck deep. Brienne pulled a different blade now. “You have heard the song, Ser Podrick the Round and Timmor the Red, yes? They have a song.” If he knew of it, it would be his worst fear made real. The songs of minstrels live long and travel far. “Young maidens sing along and simper and sigh thinking of their love. What do you have? You come here and take advantage of these people to fight your fight because you haven’t the courage to fight it yourself. You know nothing of honor. That is why you loathe him. Timmor is better than you and by leagues, sir. By leagues.”

   Toryen kicked Brienne in the gut, his boot landing just below her ribs. The first kick was hard, the second was savage, uncontrolled. She refused to cry out, to give him the satisfaction. He kicked her again and again until she could hold back no longer and screamed. There was nothing in her stomach to vomit out, but it tried its best nonetheless. She coughed up bitter bile and continued to retch.

   Mosi was behind him.

   “Toryen, you must stop. She is no good to us dead,” Mosi said.

   Toryen seethed over her, his face a mask of spittle-beflecked rage. “You know nothing about me, cunt! You are the laughing stock of the seven kingdoms. You are no more a woman than your pig is a man!”

   She grunted through the pain in her stomach trying to calm the retching that threatened. “Ser Podrick Payne spared your life. He showed you mercy.” She spat out the stringy, slimy spittle that swamped her mouth from nausea. “He swore to you that if you set foot on Tarth you would be forfeit. I am sure he will extend his promise to you here rather than make you wait.”

   I let him spare you because I did not want your blood forever staining Podrick’s hands for Timmor to see. We are long past that now.

   He spat a great gob of phlegm on her face and left the hold.

   Mosi let him pass then slowly approached her, leaned down close to her.

   “I thought you were many things, Lady Brienne, but I did not think you stupid. Why anger a man struggling to find reasons to keep you alive?”

   She coughed through the pain of speaking to this wretched man. “Because I have lived and I have seen. I know what men are like, men like him, men like you. I have had my fill of such men. My legacy lives on through my children.”

   “You have none,” he countered.

   “I have two. They are strong men, good men. When the prince comes for you, I wonder if he will let Podrick gut you or enjoy the privilege himself.”

   “Toryen is correct. You know nothing. We are not savages like you.”

   “You attack from the trees with poison darts, tie me like an animal, let that sorry excuse of a man piss on me, but I’m the savage. Yes, my mistake.”

   “What makes you think Ser Podrick lives?” he asked snidely, thinking to frighten her.

   “He is not here. Neither is Issa.” She coughed so hard it ended in a gut-wrenching purge of bile. “If Toryen had Podrick’s dead body with which to torture me, he’d have done it. You’re clever, Mosi, but not that clever.”

   That was all the breath she could muster. Oblivion came like a blessing, rising granular and strange up her neck and head.

   “We shall see who is clever,” were the last words she heard Mosi say.

Chapter Text

Luras Sand

   “I need you to go get that boy out of there,” Ser Randel said as he approached, looking and sounding his grizzliest.

   Luras had been sitting with the other men, not sequestered, but corralled by Ser Randel in the pavilion, mindlessly pushing food around his trencher. They’d been on edge since yesterday, unsure whether this was a matter for the prince or for them, hoping for the former, but itching for the latter. Ser Randel’s attitude certainly made it clear where he stood on that question. At home, the familiarity of castle, lord, and land would have made things simple, the expected form known to all. Here, they were foreigners, guests of a foreign prince, unsure of who did what.

   “Ser Randel, who…” Luras began.

   The older man pegged him with a glance he’d either learned from Lady Brienne or taught her. It was identical to hers in every way.

   “Timmor,” he said. “He’s distraught and the prince is happy to leave him where he is, but I’m not.” He shoved aside Alren who sat across from Luras. Alren grumbled and moved his trencher further down the table. “He won’t listen to Odé and I’m not convinced she’s told everything she knows. I want to hear it from Timmor, and I think you’re the only one who can get him to come away without offending the prince." Ser Randel absently grabbed a piece of bread then dropped it, forgotten. His eyes looked everywhere and nowhere, untethered, lost. Of all the men, Ser Randel was the one who seemed most like a caged dog.

   Luras said, “I cannot just walk into the prince’s quarters and make demands. Luras Sand is no one.”

   “You got that right,” added Alren through a mouthful of food.

   “And if you’d been born a Martell, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. They’re waiting for you. You’ll be with me.” Ser Randel pushed away from the table. Alren snatched the bread he’d dropped.

   “I don’t know what I can do,” said Luras.

   “You care about the boy. He’s under your wing, you and him both,” he said gesturing at Alren. “Hardly a secret how the two of you made an apprentice of him. If I thought Alren had your silver tongue, I’d be sending him. He gives less lip than you do.” Ser Randel’s hand was on his arm. “Be on your best behavior, for the boy’s sake. He’s fragile. Don’t break him.”

   With indignation, Luras replied, “If the choice is between breaking him and leaving him, I will leave him, and that would have been my choice regardless, Ser Randel."

   "There's that lip he's talkin' about," Alren grumbled.

   "Shut it," Luras said as he pushed away from the table. Ser Randel stomped back to the prince’s quarters.

   The guards let them pass without a word. The interior was opulent, the walls intricately carved into murals of daily life in the Summer Isles. The front room was large and meant for reception. A throne carved from a single piece of dark red wood sat beneath a blazing sun very like the sigil of House Martell. It was the only portion of the wall carvings that was painted. All the rest were left in their natural wood tones, the light playing across the rippling grain in bewitching patterns that moved with the observer's eye. The waterdancer Odé and the women named Mala sat near the prince and several other men, all of them intimidatingly muscled soldiers, in hushed conversation. Odé nodded gravely at Luras who bowed to her and then realized he’d obtusely broken an obvious protocol.

   “My prince,” he said, bowing much more deeply, praying that the slight would go unnoticed. “Ser Randel has asked me to be of aid. I am at your service.”

   “Take him to the boy,” Prince Abioye said to Ser  "Be gentle. Issa will be watching."

   From the large reception room, Ser Randel and Luras were passed through several rooms, each with a different theme. One was carved into a forest, then a room depicting a busy market, then another lined with shelves and scrolls. The rooms wrapped around a private central courtyard where a hanging garden of exotic flowers draped the walls, each bloom more fantastic and improbable than the next. A fountain in the middle bubbled invitingly. Luras imagined it must be spring-fed. The room of scrolls was followed by another room where lovers entwined on the walls in every permutation one could imagine. The room of lovers led to an interior chamber where Ser Podrick lay in a massive bed. Timmor sat at his side, his back turned, his hand on Podrick’s chest, a chest that rose and fell more slowly than it should, even if the knight were asleep. Timmor looked more like a child than ever against the scale of the bed. The woman named Issa sat on a stool near Timmor. She rose and came to them as they entered, beckoning them to follow her back out.

   “Ser Randel, for pity’s sake, leave the boy alone,” she hissed outside the room.

   “Issa, I beg your forgiveness, but I have need of Timmor. He is under my guard and my command until Lady Brienne is returned.” That was Ser Randel’s voice of no compromise, and it was clear to both of them.

   Luras was still unsure of her rank and though the Islanders did not use such words, he said, “Lady Issa, the boy is close to my heart. If he does not come willingly, it will be as you say. I swear it.”

   Her expression remained sour, but she relented and nodded them to enter. Ser Randel remained outside, guarding the door.

   Luras approached quietly, unsure what to say. Perhaps if he embraced the boy’s concerns, he would be less defensive.

   “How is Ser Podrick?” he asked.

   Timmor turned at the sound of his voice. His fiery red hair was a deep auburn in the dim light, his skin as pale as cream, and the boy’s eyes were as hollow as Luras had ever seen them, dark bruises of lost sleep and shed tears. His ever-present charm was missing, replaced by the suspicion of a feral cat. Luras went to the other side of the bed where Ser Podrick’s free hand was draped across the empty sheets. Luras took the large calloused hand in his own. It was sweaty and much warmer than it should be. The man was burning through a fever.

   “Slaver darts,” whispered Luras.

   “Yes,” Timmor replied softly, his guard dropping a bit. “Odé said the poison is hard to shake off and takes time to work itself out of the body. Issa said he fought off two men under its effect. She said that’s very unusual.”

   “When has Ser Podrick ever been anything else?” remarked Luras with genuine warmth. Podrick's eye looked troubling, but it was evident someone had released the pressure of blood around the socket. It would make for a fearsome scar. Ser Podrick was an odd combination of traits. You could rely on his persistent need to do the right thing, which made him easy to like, but also sometimes a burdensome exterior conscience that did not always approve of Luras’ sense of fun. And yet, his love for Timmor was as strange and unexpected a thing as one could expect from a northman. Ser Podrick objected to that description. House Payne was from the Westerlands, vassals to the Lannisters, but to a Dornishman, that was more than north enough to be a northman. In Dorne, Podrick and Timmor would not have raised an eye, but where the weather grows cold in Westeros, men do not openly seek the company of other men, not in that way, not without paying a price. Perhaps he and Podrick were more alike than he would care to admit, and no matter the wild exploits Luras could certainly recount, what was before him here was a braver thing than he could likely muster. By turns, Podrick was a man’s man in every way, unafraid of a fight, ready to cut or be cut, but when he was with Timmor, there was a gentleness to him that belied his sometimes gruff exterior. Ser Podrick took Luras’ japes and innuendoes in stride, rarely angering. To see him like this, swollen, beaten, bruised, and poisoned was to appreciate a different man, one whose quiet way was the counterpoint to Timmor’s constant patter. He was a good man, better than most he’d met, better than himself if he was being honest. Timmor Buckler was a young man with a need to hear people speaking, surrounded by conversation, creating it when there was none. He had been a very lonely boy. Only a fool or a stranger would think they did not fit together, and his refusal to leave Podrick was part and parcel.

   “My brother is behind all this,” whispered Timmor.

   “Your brother?” That was news he had yet to hear. Not every man born to a noble house or wealth is up to the task, and Toryen certainly filled that description. Luras had long ago owned his own vanity, but it was of a different sort, decorative. He plied it with humor where Toryen curated his with deadly jealousy.

   “How do you know?” he asked.

   “A tree told me.” Their eyes met and Luras waited for the jape, the unexpected twist that would give life to the joke. It never came. Timmor’s eyes remained steadfast, demanding they be taken seriously. “There are Children of the Forest here, Luras. They call them Little Sisters, but they are the Children.”

   “The Children live far to the north,” replied Luras, unbelieving.

   “These are of another line. The weirwood is not their tree, but instead the ceiba, like the one growing right outside these rooms. Odé took me to the mother of them all, Iya, and she spoke to me.”

   Again, the boy held his eyes with a ferocity that burned. Whatever else was going on, the boy believed the words he uttered. Timmor spoke endlessly, but he never lied. He embellished and painted so that you would see it the way he did. In that, he had an undeniable gift, but it was still always the truth, the truth as he saw it.

   If he said Toryen was behind it, then he was. The fear was there in Timmor’s face, the kind that robs a man of his words. He’d met Toryen only the once before he’d tried to take Timmor. At Evenfall Hall, Toryen had strode into the great hall as if he owned it, eyeing every stone and cup and chair covetously. In the hovel where Toryen had made his stand against Lady Brienne, if it could be called such, Luras had pitied the man and the situation. Families, who’d be without them? Worse than the wild fury in Toryen’s eyes, Luras remembered the defeat in Timmor’s, a defeat that spoke of too many lost confrontations as a child, too much scorn, too much disdain. One can be treated like rubbish only so long before the message sinks beneath the skin and you accept that you are rubbish. What he’d seen in Timmor’s eyes had been a welcoming, an invitation to death’s cold hand. He’d seen all that in the split second it had taken Toryen to jump to the boy’s other side, to display the knife he held at Timmor’s throat, and it had broken Luras’ heart.

   “Do you remember the day we took you from Toryen’s hands?” he said softly, knowing it was dangerous territory. “It was Ser Podrick who came to me and Alren. It was him who told us to get you. He did not trust himself, did not trust that his fury would not get the better of him. I have never in my life seen a man so one-minded. He said, ‘You get him, Luras. You pull him out and let Alren take care of the men.’ It didn’t turn out that way, as you remember, but those were his words. He lives for you, my boy.”

   “And I for him,” replied Timmor with steel in his voice. “You are here to get me to leave his side.”

   “I am, yes,” he said with what he hoped was a tone of sincere honesty. “Ser Randel needs to know what you know. He needs to hear it from you. And you know him, he’s a man who sees with his eyes and hears with his ears. Anything he can’t see and hear and touch will be hard for him to understand.”

   “Odé already told him everything.”

   “He needs to hear it from you, Timmor. He knows that lying is a talent you do not possess.”

   Ser Podrick groaned and mumbled something incomprehensible.

   Timmor said, “The healer gave him something to sleep. It did not look like dream wine or milk of the poppy.”

   “Timmor, I won’t force you, but if you come now and talk to Ser Randel, tell him what he needs to know, he will let you be. If you refuse him, he will continue to pester you.”

   Timmor’s eyes dropped. He did not want to hear the sense of Luras’ words.

   “I will bring you back here myself,” added Luras.

   Timmor looked away. His chest shook with the tears he held back.

   “Have I ever lied to you, Timmor?”

   “No,” came the choked reply.

   “And may the gods take my stones, this certainly is not the moment I would pick to start.” Luras gently left the bed and came around the other side. Timmor crumpled into sobs. There was nothing for Luras to do but hold the young man, hold him and let him know he was not alone. He was glad it had not been Alren. He was a good man, but emotions were not his strength. Northerners pride themselves on their granite stoicism, but the Dornish, they understood that passions are to be felt and lived, both joyous and bitter. The boy clung to him and he only held him all the stronger.

   It lasted a few minutes, then Timmor forcibly collected himself. He sniffed back the tears and released Luras, his cheeks going red.

   “Never feel shame for loving him so truly, so deeply. And never with me, Timmor.” He tipped his chin up to look him in the eyes. “We have seen too much together for you to feel embarrassed, little brother. Come, let us go make Ser Randel as happy as we can and then you can return.”

   Timmor allowed Luras to guide him out. With his eyes, Luras directed Ser Randel to follow them out to the reception room. Issa followed, her face still exuding disapproval.

   In the reception room, all eyes were on Timmor. Suddenly it occurred to Luras that this was too much for the lad. Too many people, too many questions.

   He would never lie to Timmor, not knowingly, but a small white lie for his benefit presented itself.

   “My prince,” Luras bowed deeply. “May we request that just Your Grace and Ser Randel remain? And myself. I have promised the lad that I would stay and return him to Ser Podrick. I beg Your Grace allow me to be an honest man.”

   Prince Abioye nodded and flicked a hand to the rest of the people in the room. “Go,” he said, and they all quietly and dutifully departed. Odé eyed him piercingly as she left.

   When they were alone, Ser Randel said, “That friend of yours said something about a tree and some other nonsense about your brother, Toryen.”

   Timmor sighed and told it from the beginning, how they had escaped the palace - which set a scowl on the prince’s face - and how Odé had brought him to a huge tree, and the Little Sisters, and swimming in a pool in a cave beneath the tree.

   The prince stopped him at the mention of passing beneath the tree. “Timmor, you bear the mark on your hand so I know it is true, but you say you spoke to the Little Sisters. They do not speak to men, only women.”

   “They spoke to me, my prince. I drank from the pool and they spoke and I understood. They did not all seem happy that Iya had let me pass, but Bug, the one who befriended me, she was the one who took me into the pool. I cannot explain how, but Iya spoke to my mind, to my thoughts. She showed me the beginning when there were no people, no Little Sisters, just the trees.”

   “This is useless,” growled Ser Randel.

   “You fought the dead with your own two hands, Ser Randel,” said the prince. “You saw giants and the Others too, did you not? The white walkers, the Night King?”

   “I did, my prince,” Ser Randel answer gravely, aware where this was going.

   “That also seems like nonsense to me, but I believe you. I need only look at your face when you speak to know that it is true. Look at the boy’s face.” The prince gestured at Timmor. “Listen to his words. He speaks the truth, but even for me, it is a hard truth to accept. The Little Sisters do not show themselves unless you seek them out, and even then, it is they who decide who sees them and who doesn’t, and men, never. I know the tree called Iya. Everyone knows this tree. And I know of the pool. I have never heard a man speak of being given passage, and yet it seems Timmor has been where I myself have not been allowed.”

   “It is Toryen, Ser Randel. I saw it as plainly as I see you here,” said Timmor, turning to him. “This is his work, his evil, and I brought it with me.”

   “This is not your fault, Timmor,” replied Ser Randel.

   “If I had not come, he would not have followed, he would not be here. Podrick would not have been attacked and Lady Brienne…” The lad’s lip quivered and his breath came in huffs and spurts. Luras stood next to him where he sat and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

   “If what you say is true, Timmor, then you are right, at least in part.” Prince Abioye’s words took them all by surprise. “But only in part. Mosi is his man now, and he would not be his man if he had not already had plans of his own before you ever came.”

   Ser Randel was ready to explode, his face going red. The moment looked bad, but the prince held up a hand. “I see a boy, but it is a man who speaks. I hear Lady Brienne’s words in your heart, Timmor. You own your part in the world around you. If I tell you pretty lies to comfort you, to absolve you, I also rob you of the opportunity to make it right. I am no thief. You wish to make it right, do you not? You wish to avenge your lady and your sheré?”

   Timmor cleared his throat and the quiver was gone from his voice. “I do, my prince.”

   “Then you shall have it. I leave you with that fire in your heart. We may need it.” The prince turned to Ser Randel. “Are you satisfied with the boy’s recount? I believe him, Ser Randel. I believe him enough to stake lives on it, and I know one woman who I am sure is making preparations, as we speak, against my express orders.”

   Ser Randel grunted. “Odé.”

   “Odé,” confirmed the prince.

   “You mistrust her, Ser Randel,” said Timmor. “She braved the prince’s displeasure to help me, to help us.”

   “Trust is not leaves to be scattered to the wind, Timmor,” said Ser Randel authoritatively.

   “No, it is not,” replied Timmor. “I know as well as anyone. She could have gone by herself. The Little Sisters are no strangers to her. Neither is Iya. She trusted me with her secrets, and I trust her, Ser Randel.”

   “She put you in danger, boy,” the knight replied stiffly.

   “I was already in danger. She helped me and we learned something we did not know. You heard her; she is ready to fight. So am I. Are you?”

   That took Luras by surprise. Timmor was not given to sass or cheek. He was the very soul of his lady’s notion of respect and honor. To hear him challenge the older knight was shocking. Ser Randel looked as though the boy had smacked him across the face.

   “Do not think to shame me, boy,” Ser Randel sputtered.

   “You shame yourself.” He turned to the prince. “My prince, may I retire and return to Ser Podrick. I fear he will awake and find no one there.”

   “Go, Timmor Buckler,” said the prince. “Be with Ser Podrick. Ser Randel and I have much to discuss. Luras, please take him and then return to your men.”

   Luras went after Timmor, the latter not waiting to be guided. He was already returned to the bedchamber when Luras found Issa blocking the doorway, her determination daring him to try her.

   He gently raised hands to stave off whatever she intended to say. “The boy is where he belongs. Can you tell me where I will find Odé?”

Chapter Text

Toryen Buckler

   White-hot fury burned within Toryen Buckler’s chest, scorching away the breeze and ocean mist on deck as he climbed out of the hold. A world gone upside down felt less and less like a world worth rectifying with beastly women dressed like men lording over castles where debauchery and depravity were not only permitted, but celebrated. It was too much.

   The deck of the swan ship was filled with Islanders hauling lines to raise sails. Their unbridled brute muscularity was disturbing, their large eyes and dark faces were inscrutable. Their language, if one could call it such, was impenetrable. The strange spices they used on their meats poured from their sweat, the air redolent of it. Toryen had a hard time squaring the disciplined choreography of movement and task with what he felt were lesser men.

   He absently played with the loose end of a line hanging from a row of belaying pins in a pinrail. One of the sailors eyed him, then followed the line up to where it connected to a sail, the name of which Toryen did not know. The man was clearly concerned, yet did not have the words to voice it. Few of them spoke the common tongue. Toryen dropped the line and gave a wholly artificial smile. The man backed away.

   Better than me? Better than me? The nerve! The abject nerve of that beast making such claims. What did she know? What could a thing like her know about anything?

   He punched the bulwark in front of him, enjoying the sting to his abraded knuckles.

   Toryen paced the main deck like a nervous dog. The sailors conspicuously avoided him, making room for him to pass, as it should be. They were savages, mumbling their guttural lingo. He disliked the look of them. Their dark skin and wide noses were unseemly. But at least they understood order, and brutish and ugly as they were, they were strong men, and Toryen had need of strong men just now. Storm’s End wasn’t the only castle that echoed, emptied of swords, horses, and men by the war. He could not offer Bronzegate as a viable option, but he could offer himself and what he had taken. A castle does not make the man; the man makes the castle. He had Brienne, and would have Evenfall, and who knew, perhaps Storm’s End as well.

   But before any of that could happen, Brienne had to acquiesce. She had to submit. She had to say it where everyone could hear, that she was wrong, an aberration that had no place in anyone’s castle.

   He would make her concede, whatever it took.

   “Toryen, you cannot do that again,” said Mosi, having slipped silently up behind Toryen.

   Toryen turned, startled.

   I will do as I please, and when your value to me is exhausted, I’ll be less gentle with you.

   Instead, he said, “That is the warrior maiden of Westeros. I am sure she’s fine.”

   “We must discuss the change in plans. Issa will have reported back to the prince by now. Ser Podrick as well. Abioye will know my part in this,” said Mosi. He was agitated, nervous. Islanders did not go in for physical violence and Mosi was an old done man. He would like it even less.

   “It was never going to be a secret for long, Mosi. Nothing has changed.” Toryen insolently flipped the concern away with a hand.

   “They could be setting sail as we speak,” Mosi continued.

   “They likely are. Is your great swan ship not up to the task?” Toryen gesture up to the billowing sails. “Brienne’s largest ship is only a caravel. It should be no match.”

   “Her ships do not concern me. I doubt they will leave port. But those belonging to Prince Abioye are some of the finest on the water. His men are equally skilled. And what of your own people? Will they not eventually come to rescue Lady Brienne?” Toryen heard the implication in Mosi’s voice, questioning if the swords Toryen had promised would, in fact, arrive.

   Toryen deflected. “Would you? She’s an abomination! And to think you let the Pig escape.”

   “We have Brienne,” Mosi said churlishly.

   “Fool! Podrick will take Evenfall and sit Timmor at his side as his whore!” How could the man be so blind? He’d explained it a dozen times.

   “I understand that troubles you, Toryen…”

   “You understand nothing.” All these questions and doubts where infuriating. Who did this man think he was? “You build entire temples devoted to fucking. What could you understand of what it means to be a man in the six kingdoms? Podrick must fall. Without him, Timmor has no place from which to humiliate my name.” Toryen gazed out at the unchanging horizon. “Can this infernal ship not sail any faster?”

   Mosi was minutely cowed. “We take the long way back to Ebonhead, Toryen, as we discussed. Abioye will assume we hide amongst the smaller islands and keys. He will not think we head for open water. We must tack our way around The Singing Stones and The Exiles. Prince Olamíde will have ships waiting to escort us into the harbor.”

   “You had better be right. If I see sails crest the horizon behind us, I’ll put your head on that mast as a lookout. Only your head.”

   He left Mosi without so much as a word of dismissal and climbed to the quarter-deck, and then on to the poop deck, wanting more than anything to be away from these miserable people. Walano had long ago faded into a smudge on the horizon indistinguishable from where the clouds met the water in the immeasurable distance. The back of the ship was high above the waves and Toryen imagined dropping his enemies one by one into the roiling water that curled behind the ship in whirlpools that broke off and traveled back into the distance.

   He gave each a name.

   The small one being eaten by a larger one, that one was Timmor. The foam and bubbles were the lace and frills Timmor loved so much and that should belong to no man. His blight on House Buckler would be swallowed by the leviathan Toryen imagined himself to be. If Timmor would not obey sense and form, then he would be eaten by fate. He had tried with Timmor, when he was young, tried to make him into a man, but it was not in him. Tapestries, books, and his mother’s side were all he cared about. There was no making a man from those materials.

   That one, the poorly formed spiral of water, that was Brienne. Down into the abyss she swirled, shapeless and deformed, her history, her central position in the wars, her close personal ties to the Starks, to the crippled king, even to Queen Sansa on her icy throne in Winterfell, all slipping into darkness. Let the abyss take her hideous face.

   And the big one there could be none other than the Pig himself. Toryen hated him the most. He was no knight, no matter the expense of his armor or that Brienne had employed the full and complete ritual with vigil and anointing as though he were being made a kingsguard. Is that what she thought? Did she see herself as a king appointing her retinue? For the millionth time, the image of Timmor and the Pig entwined in bed came into his mind. The fury and disgust were dizzying.

   Toryen ran the tip of his tongue over the scar on his upper lip, the one Podrick’s fist had left there over a year ago. The Pig was as craven as he was fat, daring to touch Toryen only when he’d been bound securely to the horse. Toryen’s shoulder no longer ached from where Timmor’s dagger had sunk in to the bone, but that too had spoken of the Pig’s cowardice, thrown from a distance rather than taking him on in close quarters.

   Smugglers, beasts, bastards, buggers, and pigs as lords and ladies. What had the six kingdoms come to?

   No, this had to stop and it had to stop now.

   Toryen longed for a glass of wine or something stronger. The Islanders did not keep grog on their ships, adhering to a peculiar abstinence that was so lacking in the rest of their lives.

   “I know you would rather be home,” came Mosi’s voice, unbidden and unsolicited, having silently climbed to the poop deck, else Toryen had been too lost in thought to notice. “And in truth, I would rather you were home as well.”

   That was a surprising admission from the man. He was usually terse and reserved, though his habit of sneaking up on Toryen was a known, annoying quantity. He would have made a good assassin if he had half a spine.

   “You’ll get no argument from me there, Mosi. It is insufferably hot and your food turns my stomach. I have a rash that… Never mind. It’s hot! You’ll be rid of me just as quickly as I wish to be rid of you.” The how of those two respective outcomes, Toryen left unsaid.

   “Perhaps if I better understood…” Mosi began.

   “You will have Abioye’s princedom. That which I need, you do not have to understand.”

   Mosi gave an almost imperceptible bow and left him alone on the high deck.

   Home, how Toryen longed for it.

   The Stormlands still had no Lord Paramount to whom they bore fealty, bending a knee instead directly to the cripple on the throne. Toryen had spent the year receiving reports from his spies and lackeys concerning the goings-on at Evenfall and Port Town, though he hardly needed their information. The expansion of the port and the reopening of the quarries and mines were the talk of the Stormlands, the smaller freeholds and houses buzzing with anticipated trade and commerce. The vast majority of stone was destined for King’s Landing to repair and rebuild the Red Keep and the lower parts of the city decimated by the mad queen, Daenerys. It would keep Tarth bathed in gold for the foreseeable future.

   When he’d heard of the expedition that Lady Brienne meant to lead herself, that had been his cue.

   The sacking of Tarth was well out of the question - too many houses were already bowing their heads to Evenfall Hall - and Davos Seaworth, Lord of the Rainwood, had made oblique mention to more than a few houses that Tarth was under his protection until Lady Brienne returned from her expedition. With well over half the other houses of the Stormlands already carefully presenting a son or daughter, niece or nephew for service at Evenfall, the Stormlands had made their choice ahead of the king, hoping for beneficial consideration upon Lady Brienne’s return. In a further display of her perversion, Brienne had put those noble children to work. Work! Assigning them positions of responsibility at the quarries, mines, and even the Port Town and smaller hamlets as local constables. Gentle-born folk made to earn a wage with the sweat of their brows. It was disgusting.

   The only other contender of note, Storm’s End, was yet another great house reduced to chaff by the wars. Gendry Baratheon (Baratheon, what a jape!) wandered the halls of an abandoned castle with a handful of men cobbled together from the remains of other houses and small-folk he’d recruited from Flea Bottom, happy to come in out of the mud and rain, leaving Lady Brienne and House Tarth as the clear favorites. Gendry was an affable enough man, but Toryen could only see a bastard, the legitimizing at the hands of Daenerys was meaningless. And again, Gendry had no men to speak of, just the muck he’d found in his old haunts, so his grand castle was as meaningless as the name he now carried. 

   But taking the Beast herself was another matter altogether.

   And he had her, but there was no sense of satisfaction, no victory, not without taking his brother and the Pig as well.

   Toryen scanned the horizon, low-grade anticipation in his chest, or perhaps worry. Somewhere out there in all that green and blue water, forces were amassing against him. No idea how many or how soon, but they were there. A warm wind whipped his hair about his face. It was damp and sticky, both the wind and his hair.

   Yes, the sooner he was done with this place, the better.

   They continued to sail southwest, rounding The Singing Stones and The Three Exiles. They were little more than granite keys. Large blubbery creatures packed their rocky shores making a commotion that could be heard from the ship. As they passed south of the small islands, the smell of the creatures blew over the ship, nauseating in its pungency.

   He had Brienne brought up on deck so she could see how far they’d come unmolested. He meant to demoralize her. She said nothing other than requesting water to bathe. Toryen had two of the sailors splash her with buckets of seawater. True to her legendary stoicism, she took it silently. He had her bindings undone, daring her to try something. She only removed her leathers and asked for more water from the sailors. They eyed Toryen, looking for instruction. He waved it off as beneath concern so they continued and Brienne scrubbed her head and beneath her muslin shirt, never once taking her cold blue eyes from Toryen.

   “Behave and I’ll only have your hands tied. You can behave, can’t you, Beast Brienne?” he taunted her from behind several armed men.

   “I have no wish to harm these people, Toryen. They are not the savages you make them out to be, but they answer to someone, as do we all,” she replied. He heard the vague threat, but the very vagueness was what made it empty.

   She would comply.

   Another two days brought them to the island of Moluu. Rounding its southern tip, sails crested the horizon. The sails bore the lavender cockle shell of Prince Olamíde.

Chapter Text

Odé Qaxar

   “You should not be here,” said Odé. The Dornishman was the last person she wanted to see. She made no attempt to hide her sentiment.

   “Odé, I… I fear I have offended you, but we have more pressing matters to worry about and I want to help,” he said. His stage persona was missing and he fumbled for words.

   “I am better off alone,” she replied scanning the room for the effects she would need.

   “And Timmor?” he asked.

   “We will be fine. I have come to know him.” And with his lady missing and his Podrick unconscious, she would not think of leaving him alone in Ser Randel’s hands. He would come along with her, though the beginning of her plan did not include him. Perhaps later in the gambit, he would be of use.

   “You know Timmor? Do you know how he got that scar on his neck? Do you know how he came to be with us at Evenfall? Do you even know his favorite book?” Luras asked.

   “When Tima wishes to tell me these things, he will tell me,” she replied.

   “And yet you say you know him.” The man’s brow drew into a scowl. “His favorite book is The Loves of Queen Nymeria. Ser Podrick made him a gift of an exquisitely bound copy. He got that scar from his brother, who held a blade to his neck. Lady Brienne and Ser Podrick found him, alone, at Bronzegate, forgotten. I was there the day he got that scar, the day his brother nearly killed him. I’ve been there every day since. Ser Podrick is not the only one who loves that boy.”

   “I would have thought women were more to your taste, Luras of Dorne.” She snatched up another pair of trousers and another top. And those boots, yes, they would come in handy.

   “Don’t be crude. There are many kinds of love, Odé. That boy is in love with you, for example.”

   “He is not.” The thought was absurd. She’d seen the way he looked at Ser Podrick. He lived in the larger man’s eyes.

   “No, of course not," Luras responded, finding his stage presence. "A beautiful, tall, impressive, skilled water-dancer from a foreign land takes him under her wing, shows him things he never even knew existed, promises to train him and make him into a fierce warrior. What a fool I am. Who would ever fall in love with that?”

   He was persistent. And he had a point.

   “The Loves of Queen Nymeria?” she asked.

   “Yes. He reads it to Ser Podrick when they are alone.”

   “Can Ser Podrick not read?”

   “Of course he can read. But he prefers for Timmor to read to him. And now he lays in the prince’s bed, broken, with Timmor at his side and I cannot stand idle. I cannot.” His hands at his hips, his face pinched with frustration, he looked like an angry wife.

   “I am sure Ser Randel will have orders for you.” Orders of which she would rather not be in the way.

   “And I am sure that the prince will have orders for you as well. This is your home. You know these lands. You slip through the trees like a shadow. I beg you to take me with you where you are sent. I was vulgar with you, Odé. I beg your forgiveness. It will not happen again.”

   She looked to the empty scabbard at his waist. “Can you handle a sword?”

   “Of course, but I am better with a bow.”

   She sighed heavily. His expression and tone were scattered and disheveled. No artifice, no drama. Just a man in desperate need of direction.

   “Ser Randel will be counting on your presence. If he gives you leave to come, fine. If the prince forbids, then that is the end of it. I catch you eyeing my tits again and you’ll wish you’d gone with Mosi and Toryen.”

   “My eyes will stay where they belong, and I’ve a feeling Ser Randel will be glad to be rid of me just now. And if Timmor is with you, that will be enough. I can argue that he needs supervision.”

   “The old man doesn't trust me, does he?” In his place, she knew she would not either.

   “He is not so old, and you took Timmor somewhere he doesn't understand to do things he cannot fathom. It frightens him.” He paused, a quizzical look twisting his lips. “Where is Marco?”

   “… somewhere. I do not know.” Odé had not seen him since Brienne and Podrick’s disappearance. She hadn’t thought of him until now. Where was he? It didn’t matter and she doubted he would want to be involved. “Can you swim?” she asked, the beginnings of a terrible plan forming.

   “Like a fish,” he assured. “Why?”

   “Because you may need to. If you could breathe water like a fish, it would be better.” She eyed him up and down, taking his measure. “Do you love your lady well?”

   He made a face as one does to a child asking a silly question. “Why else am I here if not for love of my house and my lady? What do you have in mind?”

   He wouldn’t like it. No one would. It would likely mean countermanding both Ser Randel and the prince in the same stroke, but if Luras could help her sell the plan, perhaps they would have a batter chance. She did not want to go further behind the prince’s back. The time for that had passed. The prince’s forgiveness must not be stretched, else she’d find herself in the same straits as her father. No time to think of that now, though.

   She thought for a moment. “We will stay with the prince, for now,” was her first point. “No sneaking off on our own, not until later. Issa said the ship flew the cockle shell. That is Ebonhead on Jhala, southernmost of the Summer Isles. What roll Prince Olamíde plays in this is unclear as of yet. We have never had trouble with them.”

   “If Toryen Buckler is involved, expect for things to make less sense than they should. Expect lies that serve his ego, not his purpose,” replied Luras “Timmor’s brother is an irrational, prideful man. Ser Podrick should have finished him when he had the chance.”

   And worn the blood of that death on his hands forever for Tima to see, she thought. No, he’d made an honorable choice. He’d given Toryen the opportunity to make amends, an opportunity the man had squandered.

   She hesitated, then said, “Tima told me you saved him from his brother’s hands.”

   “And now it seems we must save Lady Brienne from those same hands. The man loathes her. He calls her Brienne of the Swine, a highborn lady. He killed several men in Evenfall taking his brother back, and Timmor’s continued presence at Evenfall is a thorn in his side. I fear Ser Podrick’s generosity has come back to bite him. Toryen was never going to forgive or forget. Never.”

   “Westerosi care too much about who loves whom. You have wisdom here.” She tapped her head. “But not here.” She tapped her chest.

   “Not in Dorne. In Dorne we would celebrate them.”

   “But Tima is not Dornish. He must live with the cold ways of the north and the ice in his brother’s heart. You need different clothes.”

   She handed him a sack into which she stuffed several items that she hoped would be of use. He held it dutifully, and to her surpise, quietly while she picked through the mess strewn across the room. One day she would learn to be tidier, but not today.

   Nothing else would fit in the bag. Luras followed her to the palace stores where she grabbed another sack. She pointed to the guard supplies. There were a few uniforms there and she had him find thin trousers. It would be easier for him to go without a shirt for what she planned.

   Again, he remained silent and obedient throughout the exchange, asking no questions, doing as he was bid.

   “I accept your apology,” she finally relented. “A woman grows tired of merely being the escort for her tits.”

   He seemed to relax a bit after that. It never failed to surprise how much men needed to have their emotions reassured.

   “But what is the plan. I cannot help you sell what I don’t know.”

   She explained the rough points and where she expected him to be of help in the execution.

   “Ser Randel will hate this. He will want a greater show of force.”

   “The prince will also hate it because it is too much like your way. If he has a better idea, I’ll hear it, but this is what I will propose. Are you in or out?”

   “I’m in, of course.”

  The prince deplored the idea. Ser Randel laughed openly.

   “The risk is too great and there is no assurance Prince Olamíde will abide the challenge. As it is, he has broken with tradition in a disturbing way,” the prince said with finality.

   “My prince, I beg you to reconsider.” A large part of his hesitancy would concern declaring a challenge against the prince from Jhala. There was no knowing what had already transpired, what alliances had been forged. “You can best him. And are his actions not already a challenge? If it goes unanswered, who is next? What other coward will slip into the palace in the middle of the night thinking he can do as he likes? We must answer, my prince. Luras of Dorne will be at my side. He is ready.”

   “Luras of Dorne will do exactly what I say, when I say it, and nothing more,” Ser Randal declared. It was a shocking breach of decorum for him to answer in the prince’s stead, as though his authority were on par. There was hushed whispering. “I beg your pardon, my prince. Surely you can see that this is madness. What does she expect to do with a single man at her side?”

   “I expect to retrieve Lady Brienne, Ser Randel. I expect to bring her back to her men, to you, where she belongs. Your fates are now intertwined with ours.”

   The prince waved a man over and whispered into his ear. The man left with haste.

   “He goes to ready my ship,” the prince said to Ser Randel. “Odé’s plan is reckless and not to my liking, but she is right. Challenge has been made, even if it is a coward’s challenge. It will be answered.”

   “How does she propose to get near their ship without being seen?” asked Ser Randel.

   The prince glanced in her direction awaiting her answer.

   “One of the racers, no sail, just paddles. We will dismantle it and bring it aboard the prince’s ship. Assuming no earlier contact, past Moluu - the island nearest Ebonhead - we assemble the racer and Luras and I will leave the Swan Ship and recover Lady Brienne while Prince Olamíde is busy answering our prince’s reply to his challenge.”

   “You’ll have no idea where she is. They could keep her aboard the ship, take her ashore, who knows where. This is foolish,” said Ser Randel. “And what of Toryen, who we are assured is somehow part of this, hm? What of him? You take Timmor’s word, so think on that. If he is truly here, Toryen Buckler will care nothing for your traditions or forms. He is without a scrap of honor.” He turned to Timmor. “You know I am right. You know it. If he is here then he has taken leave of his senses, and if that be the case, he will not rest until he has you in hand, and that is our best hope that Lady Brienne lives because it means she is bait. They meant to take Ser Podrick and Issa as well, but failed. Even if he killed her, Ser Podrick is heir by royal decree. No deathbed whispers to silence. The whole of Westeros knows he will become the Evenstar. And you would be with him. You had harsh words for me earlier. Perhaps they are earned. Perhaps I am the fool you think I am. But I know where my loyalty lies. And you may think me old, but there are years in me still. Good years. If Ser Podrick is lord, then to him shall my loyalty go so long as I can raise a sword, as my lady wishes. If Toryen is here, if this is his hand, then I know what is in his mind because it has been in mine, that our house shall be led by Ser Podrick. And by you. My sight is clear. I know what I see. I am never not protecting you, boy. It is my duty. And it cost me to see that duty, in the beginning. I am a man from a different time. But I have learned to see differently, to know that yours is a good heart, a worthy heart. But your brother, I fear it will never be so for him. He is vain and petty and he cares only about image, how he is seen and greeted by his cronies in their haunts. He will not be able to live with this. I pray that I am the one who is right, that this is but another game of thrones. If I am wrong, then this is an old and messy grievance.”

   Here is a true knight, thought Odé. The kind from stories and legends. They breathed in loyalty, drank pints of duty, ate piles of honor, and shat out nothing but service.

   “It is true, my prince,” said Timmor. He continued when the prince’s finger beckoned him on. “Toryen is not an honorable man. His way is deceit. And I was wrong to disrespect Ser Randel. He speaks nothing but truth.”

   “If we but had a warg,” said Luras quietly. The word had no meaning to Odé. “A skin-changer. One who can enter the mind of animals.”

   He’d taken his time to speak up, but his addition was fortuitous.

   “Mara,” whispered Odé.

   “Rider,” Mara’s small voice came from the group. “We say rider.”

   The woman’s eye rolled back and there was a great cacophony from the canopy above, Mara’s spirit riding one bird’s mind and then another. Her eyes rolled forward and she slumped into her chair. “It has been a long time. I am out of practice.”

   The crowd had grown unsettled at Mara’s display.

   “Children of the Forest and wargs,” said Ser Randel in a low voice. “What next? Giants?”

   The prince was contemplative. After a minute, he said, “For now, we have the start of a plan. Ser Randel, ready your lady’s men. I will ready mine. We leave before dark. Odé, go to the dock and choose from among my own racers.”

Chapter Text

Ser Podrick Payne

   Voices came and went. Time was a snake wrapping back and forth across itself. It had too many heads and no tail. Things began but did not end, or perhaps they ended without having begun.

   Dead hands reached for him. They burst through the walls of Winterfell and grabbed arms, hair, legs. Their icy touch burned and sizzled. He yelled and kicked and punched the air in vain.

   Bony fingers covered his mouth and pulled him down into putrid piles of rotting skin, all the while whispering into his ear.

   Podrick the Pig, Podrick the Pig, as fat as the baker who dances a jig.

   Fuckers.

   Like ravens rising into the night sky, the procession turned around him. Only one point remained still. There, to the north, was Timmor, and the whole sky spun around him. His green eyes lit the night sky. Sometimes they turned blue, blue like the wights, blue like the Night King.

   “What did you do to those women?” Tyrion Lannister asked him from miles away.

   “What I thought they would like,” Podrick replied to no one, tumbling through darkness. The untouched coins Tyrion had given him rained from the sky, each of them a star falling from the heavens.

   In the corners, in the shadows, Timmor spoke. His curls were wave crests. Great sea birds flew from one curl to the next, dipping their beaks. He reached for them. They were impossibly far away.

   “No, those are mine,” said Brienne. “They’ll be yours soon enough, though.”

   “Not now!” he screamed into the void.

  Brienne took the birds, passed them though her hands where they became playing cards, each with an image of one of the Seven. She dealt them out like a professional at a house of games and they found their wings again, flying away.

   The world beneath him shifted. He slid, and tumbled, then was righted again. But not all the way righted. The ground still danced and slid, wobbling and untethered from the bones of rock and mountain.

   Did he ride a dragon? Was this the great Drogon? He prayed it wasn’t Viserion.

   Oh, but it was. The Night King’s flying beast, stolen from Daenerys. It turned its head back toward him and said, “No one stole anything from me, silly man. I am the breaker of wheels and the mother of dragons.”

   Occasionally, he awoke, or at least thought he did. Strange things were said. Timmor spoke to trees. No, that couldn’t be right.

   But each time, the cold hands were there to draw him under yet again.

   Cold, so cold. As cold as it had been in Winterfell in that last great battle, not a star in the heavens, the torches on the ramparts alone in all the night. How he’d shivered, and not just from the cold. That was the least of it. He’d shaken at the advance of the dead army, their eyes ablaze in the night, the only thing in all of existence other than the torches.

   He would die in good company, noble company, though most of those around him were anything but nobles. A girl child, near him, in rags with a dagger in hand, her lips pulled back, all teeth and fury. The Seven knew how she’d fought before she died, worthy of a tale from the Age of Heroes, her tiny life burning like the sun.

   He’d had to fight her when she rose anew. The only peace he could give her was release from the Night King. He’d given it and wept for her, the wights never ceasing.

   Those who live to see epic times are not to be envied for such times are made of bowel-emptying fear. He would be sure to tell Timmor the next time he read of Queen Nymeria. Such majesty must surly ride upon unending fields of bone and skulls.

   “Will there ever be peace for us?” he asked the ghost of Timmor.

   “There is nothing more costly than peace,” the beautiful young man - for it had been some time since the word boy felt remotely correct - replied.

   “Is this part of the price?” he asked, but Timmor faded.

   Podrick, wake up.

   But he was awake, surely, here among the dead banging cups upon the table, lest the dead woman with the flagon move away.

   Podrick, wake up.

   Just another mug of ale and then we’ll leave, all right? When will we get a chance again? Bloody Lannisters in the woods! How can they not know it’s over? Bastards hiding in the bushes. What honor was there in such an attack? He’d slain them out of anger more than fear. When had that shift taken place, fear into anger? More ale!

   Podrick, wake up.

   I don’t want to be a kingsgaurd. I want to leave all these houses eyeing and spying on one another, trying to suss who will be next to rise, who will be dangerous, who would be a friend. The game of thrones was indeed a game, a boring one with no real winner because the knives never tired of one’s back.

   Podrick, wake up.

   Sansa? Don’t be a fool. Yes, she’s pretty enough, I have eyes in my head, but those aren’t the charms that fill my dreams. Those are held by Timmor.

   Podrick, wake up.

   He batted away a hand, then grabbed it tight when he would have slipped back again into the cold of bones and frozen earth.

   He was no longer cold, but instead drenched in sweat, fighting to surface, breathing heavily as if from under water.

   “He’s awake!” Timmor yelled.

   “Your fever has broken,” said Issa. “A blessing. I feared blood poisoning from the wound.”

   She held a small bowl with water and urged him to sit up. He drank the water greedily and waved away the bowl and took the flagon she held instead.

   “Not too much,” said Issa. “No, no. Give it here.”

   He handed back the half drained flagon and wiped his mouth.

   “Where are we?” he rasped because this was neither the palace nor even dry land. They were at sea.

   “We are on the prince’s ship,” she replied.

   “Lady Brienne?” he asked.

   “That is where we go.”

   “How long have I been asleep?”

   “Two days. Almost three.”

   She explained the care he’d received, warned him to leave his eye alone until the wound had knit. How Timmor had been at his side the entire time and she explained where exactly they were going, and of Odé’s plan. A messenger had come – a local boy who’d been entrusted with the message by Mosi and told to wait a day. This, shortly after Podrick and Issa had returned, corroborated all that had been suspected. The prince had been officially challenged. It was not until Odé and Timmor came into the hold that he learned of the rest, the part that explained why. Timmor had spoken with trees, or at least a tree. He was told the story twice, from Timmor and Odé’s respective points of view, Issa nodding gravely on occasion to emphasize that these things were indeed true, though they may be hard to understand. He learned of how Timmor had advised the prince of all of this and the prince’s words to Timmor.

   “I have seen dragons and giants and Children of the Forest. I have seen the dead and the Night King and the Three-Eyed Raven who became our king. I have seen things I would pay dearly to never have seen. I doubt nothing, but I need to speak to the prince.”

   He threw back the coverings of the palate and tried to rise. He was overcome with vertigo and lay his head back again.

   “You need to rest,” implored Issa. “Odé has the plan in hand.”

   “I understand that,” he replied. “But the prince cannot be made to answer a faithless challenge on our account. What he said to Timmor is correct. None of this would be if we had not come. I must challenge Toryen first, and pray that it will be enough to spare the prince having to answer for something we caused.”

   His heart broke to have spoken the words, to declare his intent against Toryen. There seemed no other way. If Toryen could be removed from the fray, perhaps he could save the alliance with the prince. Perhaps something could be saved from all this, even if the price was Toryen’s blood on his hands.

   “You cannot,” said Timmor.

   “What other way is there? Think what Lady Brienne would want, what she would say if she were here. Think how she would want to handle it, how she would wish to save our hosts from harm. We came to make friends, not to start wars. He is your brother, and I know…”

   “He is no brother to me,” Timmor cut in like a blade of ice. “I have no family that is not you and Brienne. If I have brothers, they are here, with us. I say you cannot because you are too weak yet, not for any concern for Toryen.”

   “He is no fighter. You know where he was at Winterfell. Lady Brienne has told you. How he hid with the untried sons. His sword is clean and new. That is no knight’s sword.”

   The room swam, whether from rolling water or just his head, he could not tell. Issa looked despondent, as did Timmor. Odé’s eyes were turned inward, unfocused. That was the face of someone putting things together in her mind.

   “Let him rest,” was Issa’s final word. She rose with the expectation of being followed and was not disappointed.

   He could face Toryen. He would have to. It was the only way to save face for his house. There was no question it would be what his lady wanted. No question at all. He could hear her saying the words and they felt right and fitting coming from her fantasized presence.

   Issa had left the flagon. He took another deep drink, luxuriating in the way it passed a throat made dry and barren from too long of a sleep.

   What if he failed? What if he faced Toryen as Prince Oberyn had faced the Mountain, so sure of himself by all accounts. Too sure, in the end, and to his doom.

   A hand shook him gently. He’d dozed off again. It was Odé, a finger to her mouth to quieten him. She puled her legs beneath her like a cat on the palate, leaning near him.

   “Tima is right, Ser Podrick,” she whispered. “You are a big strong man, but you are not well. You are Lady Brienne’s man in many ways and I think you speak as someone who fights a fair fight. Do you think Toryen will fight like you, with honor?”

   And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? When had he ever given evidence that he understood any more about honor than the jibes of men who were themselves unworthy of anyone’s concern.

   “No. He will not. He never fought me, truly. He held Timmor captive and used the threat of his death to stop us.” An image that would replay in Podrick’s mind until the end of his days.

   “Do not die, Ser Podrick. Not to this man who is not a man. I have a different idea, one of which I am sure your lady would also approve. Hear me out, please. The outrigger will take three. You will take my place and go with Luras and one other to find your lady. I will challenge Toryen.”

   “You can’t…”

   “I can. Do not forget that Talíb, my father, is the prince’s cousin. I have enough right to challenge. Tima is now my student, which gives me yet another right. And Tima and I have the blessing of Iya. That will seal it. If Toryen refuses, Prince Olamíde will see him for what he is, a coward, and there will be no dealing with such a person without taking the stain of cowardice upon himself. If he accepts, there is no chance he will defeat me. I do not fear even the most gifted among you, and you say he has no gift at all. He hid behind Tima to save his own life. That is not a man. It is a good plan, a smart plan.”

   “Your people do not fight to the death, Odé,” Podrick replied gravely. “And I fear that is the only end to this. If Timmor has told you of his brother, then you know the truth in that. For him it is personal and a matter of pride, the pride of a petty, no-account man from a house no one knows or credits, the worst kind of pride.”

   “My people are doing many things lately that we do not do, Ser Podrick,” she countered. “And I fear more lines will be crossed before it is done.”

   There was sense to her plan, though he wasn’t as sure with regard to how his lady would receive it. She would want it to be him. Still, it had merit and simply looking at the well-muscled woman, remembering the unnatural agility Arya had possessed, he was sure she was right, she would best him easily. His own limbs felt boneless just now.

   “He is a coward, but he is not stupid. If you face him, somewhere there will be another knife, one you do not see.”

   “That is always the case,” she said with a smile. “Yours came in the form of a slaver dart.”

   He almost laughed.

   “Fine, I agree,” he said. Her smile doubled in intensity.

   “Then we are of one mind. Good. It will be easier to bring the prince around this way. We will go to him together.”

   “Who is the third person? You said the outrigger takes three. Me, Luras, and one other.”

   “Mara, of course. She is the rider.”

   And with that, Podrick learned that the Islanders also had wargs. It was the missing piece, the part that linked it all together. They would have a source of information.

Chapter Text

Prince Abioye

   Some lessons were invariably learned the hard way. One does not interact with people like Lady Brienne, people about whom fantastic stories are told, without a bit of that life rubbing off onto you. To have thought she would somehow fit into his collection, his entertaining menagerie of interesting people, was a profound underestimation of her power, of the way life rotated around her much like it did around himself. She was a tidal current ripping past his own, threatening to capsize his ship.

   But try as he might, he could not blame her or her company. She was victim here, not perpetrator. She had brought evil with her, but it had come for her, not him. He was merely in the way.

   The horizon was clear, as was the sky. Blue over blue. The sea was unconcerned with the affairs of men. She would look like this the day after the last man or woman drew breath.

   Odé's plan only became worse each time she spoke to him.

   "No," he had said when Odé beckoned him to the hold and she and Ser Podrick had informed him of their idea. Her talent of persuasion had been on full display, those were her words in Podrick’s mouth, though he spoke them as if they were his own.

   "I would prefer it were otherwise as well, my prince," the knight had assured. “Odé is the clear choice for the challenge.”

   "What makes you think I cannot answer a challenge myself,” he'd said.

   "I know you can, my prince. I am sure of it. But you should not have to. If it goes against you, we will have ruined you, and that is unforgivable. I would never be able to look my lady in the eye again. I would be too ashamed,” Ser Podrick said, his solemn eyes filled with regret for things that had not yet come to pass.

   "Few men would be so concerned," Abioye replied.

   "Few men answer to Lady Brienne," said Ser Podrick as though there were nothing more to say, as though he informed of the color of the sky or the wetness of water.

   And only one man was her heir. Only one man thought of the kind of lord he would be when his time came. Only one man followed the likes of the Warrior Maiden. Ser Podrick had said none of those things, but he had not needed to.

   Mara stood at his side on deck, her eyes closed, face into the breeze. She had always been a quiet woman, unlike himself or Issa. More like Mosi in her introspection. Unlike Mosi in her loyalty.

   "You are sure you are willing?" he asked.

   "You ask foolish questions, cousin," she replied. Only Mara ever dared call him that. He allowed it, not as a privilege, but because somewhere someone must think of him as merely cousin, not as prince. He needed it.

   "I worry for you," he said.

   "Mine is the safest roll in this gambit."

   "You know that is not true. If something happens while you ride, what happens to you? Where will you be?" It disturbed him to think of her riding the mind of some bird or other animal. What was it to look through their eyes, breathe through their lungs, and taste with their tongues? If she herself were harmed, would she remain an animal forever? And if it was the animal instead, where would she be, where would she go?

   "I will be careful, cousin. I like this body. I have no plans to abandon it. And you may have further need of me before this is over. I won't fly away." She never once took her eyes off the horizon.

   They were only a day away from Ebonhead. The message from Prince Olamída had come in Mosi's own hand. Everything about this stank of foreign minds. No prince made challenge in this manner. You presented your courage first. You made your challenge in public, for all to see and hear. If you won, it was known, and if you lost, the same.

   "I will rest," she said plainly.

   He took her hand and kissed the back of it as he had done when they were children. She gave him a sad smile made of memories and left him.

   At the prow of the ship, Timmor's red curls danced in the wind. Islanders sometimes had such hair - the gift of Essos, it was called - but never so fiery, never so much like polished copper as Timmor's. He walked up quietly to where the young man stood regarding the horizon as Mara had done and placed his hands on the rail.

   "I am sorry, my prince," Timmor said, taking notice, and made to leave.

   "No. Stay, Timmor. I seek your advice," the prince informed.

   "Perhaps Ser Randel,” he said. "It is not my place."

   "I know what Ser Randel will say. He will say it must be him, that he is the eldest, the senior. I know that Podrick has told him that is the very reason it must not be him. If it comes to the worst, Tarth will need him. I see the wisdom in both points of view, and the shortcomings. I know he is unhappy and out of place in all of this. He feels the years, as I do too. But I wish to know your mind. What do you think of Odé's plan? The one she made with Ser Podrick?"

   "I like it better than Podrick's original plan. But it feels wrong that Odé should serve as champion."

   "Champion?"

   "That's what we would say back home, when someone fights in your stead. That one becomes the champion. It should be me."

   Such bravery the prince saw in his eyes. Bravery and fear, who are eternal lovers, intertwined and inseparable. How he envied Lady Brienne that all her man should be so ready to lay down their lives for her.

   "I suspect Odé has other motives as well, but no, Timmor. It should not be you. You have a life yet to live. To slay a brother - you should not live with that. Fast or slow, it would destroy you."

   The young have little practice in understanding the results of their actions. For the young, life is today, never tomorrow. But there are many tomorrows and one must live with each of them.

   “This is all because of me, my prince, and I am doing nothing. I have no part to play. My brother's words are true. I am worthless." And those words showed Abioye the hole that was in this boy’s chest.

   "To say you are worthless is to make a liar of Lady Brienne and Ser Podrick. Are they liars?"

   "No, of course not, my prince."

   "Then you are not worthless. You must not think that. And I do have a task for you, one for which I think you are very well suited. You will speak for us, for the house of your birth that you share with your brother, for your lady's house you call home, and for mine. You will present us formally. Then you will name Odé as our champion, as you say. We have this too, but since she wishes to face your brother first, it will be better coming from you. It will be your way mixed with our way. I will teach you the words and what is expected. It is simple enough. Olamíde will be obligated to continue and your brother will have to agree, else stand down and it will all have been for nothing."

   Timmor had difficulty looking the prince in the face. He took the young man by the shoulders, forcing him to look up.

   "You can give your brother a chance to stop this. You can be the one to save him, if he is willing. If he is not, there is no cause for you to feel guilt. He chose once, and he chose again."

   "Will Odé really do it? Will she kill him?" His voice quavered.

   "I believe she believes she will. It is not our way, Timmor. You have learned this much and perhaps you knew before. But when she does, what of you?"

   "I will be free of him." The words seemed to stick in the boy’s throat.

   "We are never free of family, Timmor. It is both blessing and curse. Issa and Mara are like sisters to me. They ask for nothing, but if they did, it would be theirs. I would have said the same of Mosi before this, and yet here I am, a man with a treacherous cousin and you are a man with a treacherous brother. We are the same, you and I. We have the same problem - family. And we have the same blessing - also family. If your brother dies, will Odé look the same to you? Will you still go to her as your teacher? Will your eyes shine for her as they did before?"

   The boy was quiet for a moment, then, "I don't know, my prince. When he tried to take me before, it was different. There was no time to think. It was already happening. I wanted to be home, my real home on Tarth. That was all I could think of. I just wanted to be safe. I wasn't thinking about Toryen living or dying, just letting me go. Now he has my lady, and he almost had Ser Podrick and Lady Issa."

   "We do not say lady, Timmor."

   "I know, my prince. But in my home, where I live, she would be a lady, perhaps even a princess. I know it's not your way, but it's mine. She is deserving of respect."

   "Your brother will be lord when your father is done. Does he not deserve respect?"

   "He should, as should we all, my prince, but it is difficult for me to admit it in his case. He has made it so. Even before Lady Brienne came and took me away. Even then. Always. He is my father's child. I was my mother's. There is no story of when I was small and he was kind to me, and then one day something changed. It was always this way. It is worse and worse, but always - this." He stopped and glanced back up at the prince. "I am prattling like a child. Forgive me. I was raised in a castle. I was never hungry. I had books to read in front of a fire in a comfortable room. Not even Ser Podrick had as much as I did when he was a child. No mother, no father, passed from hand to hand, whoever would take him, until he met our lady.”

   "Every childhood has pain," he replied. "Some more than others and some more than should be shouldered by the young. And hunger comes in many forms, Timmor. The spirit can hunger as much as the belly. Worse. Perhaps your brother also hungers."

   His green eyes were piercing. There was a question burning there.

   "Ask," said the prince with a permissive wave of the hand.

   "Is it true you challenged Odé's father?"

   "It is. But you want to know why, yes?"

   "Yes."

   "Because he asked me to. He begged me. He knew Mosi would challenge him and win. Mosi may seem old to you, but it is just that the years have finally caught up with him. Some are like that, unchanging for years, and then overnight-" He snapped his fingers to emphasize the speed with which time had asked for its due. "Not long ago he was a more robust man. Talíb had no wish to rule, but he did not want Mosi to take his place. I lived for the races then. You saw them, yes? The racing boats? That was my life. Beautiful, curved boats. And beautiful, curved women." He chuckled when Timmor blushed.

   The crew attended their duties like dancers on a stage, in perfect sync, rarely speaking. He remembered that choreography, the peace it brought to be part of that dance. And the races, the cheers, the feline eyes of endless fetching women vying for his attention.

   "Why does he live outside the palace? Could he not stay with you and Issa and Mara?"

   "And Mosi?” Abioye added. “It was Talíb's wish. You wear his sandals. Are they not exquisite? They are the finest you will see anywhere. He was always gifted with his hands. Always making enviable little things. But that is where he lived, in his hands, in the the things he made. He met a fine woman who gave him a strong daughter, Odé. He has the life he wanted."

   "But you do not?"

   “I am the prince of Walano. I have whatever life pleases me.”

   “But at a cost,” the boy said timidly.

   “And that is the lesson of this conversation, Timmor. Nothing comes without a cost. Nothing is ever truly free. Let me guess - Talíb gave you those sandals as a gift, yes?”

   “He did, my prince.”

   “He is a generous man, a kind man. And those are admirable qualities. I see the same in you. But to lead, you must sometimes be hard. You must make choices that are unpopular. You must listen to criticism and judge what is real from what is simply another man’s personal wishes. That is how your lady is, no?”

   “And you, it would seem, my prince.”

   He chuckled again. Candor was such a rare gift. He savored it. The boy had refused to speak out directly against his brother, had refused to indict him nakedly. Perhaps in the heat of anger, he’d have spoken differently, but now he’d chosen to protect the idea of family, even if that idea was only a dark illusion. It was easy to side with Brienne, to uphold her as an ideal. There was nothing lost in the admission and much to be gained. But to admit that blood was not blood, that flesh was not flesh, the boy refrained from that as much as it had clearly harmed him over the years. Others may have heard weakness in the boy’s words, but Abioye heard strength and devotion, even for those who had never earned it. Could he find the same charity for Mosi?

   “Thank you for your wise counsel, Timmor. You have given me perspective.”

   “I’m not sure how I did, my prince.”

   “You spoke from the heart. Remember that in the future when your lady leans to hear your opinions, as I am sure she will.”

Chapter Text

Brienne of Tarth

   "When I return, Beast Brienne, most beautiful blond sow of all the kingdoms, I will have my brother, I will have your man, and I will have your house. And I will do with them as I please. You thought to shame me, your little family of monsters on display, but here ends your line and your memory."

   The inane monologues never ended - the magniloquence only increased - but at least he'd stopped pissing on her. She'd not seen Mosi for some time, but had refrained from asking his whereabouts, lest she give him something else to talk about.

   By his own word, one way or another, it would end today. As fond as he was of hearing his own voice, Toryen had been as careful as Mosi not to reveal what they did and didn't have in their favor. It had been her best assurance that Timmor and Podrick were still safe, unavailable to display as trophies. Now, his words confirmed it. He did not have them, but felt sure he would soon. She prayed that was the way of it.

   She waited and listened. Within the hold where she was kept, she'd learned to hear the sound of the men working on the decks above, their unshod feet hissing against the wood like sand. Toryen's boots were a clearer thunk, thunk, thunk against the deck. Occasionally, she'd felt a sail open, catch the wind, and bump the ship forward. She could just make out the sound of men yelling instructions and the wet crash of a smaller vessel being dropped from the ship. That would be Toryen going ashore. It wasn't the first time. He wanted to stay close to her, but something was bringing him ashore from time to time. Probably the need to assure the prince of Sweet Lotus Vale that all was well. Lies had been told, promises made. She didn't know exactly what they were, but clues had fallen like crumbs from a dinner table. The prince would expect an army made of many swords, an army that would help him take the whole of the island of Jhala, the largest and most southerly of the islands. From there, conquest of the whole of the Summer Isles. Toryen had sold him the sad story of the six kingdoms, polished and made bright, particularly the facet where he was one of those favored by the crown, the fair-haired son. She had to admit he was good at telling that story, a ghost of Timmor's flair with words. He told it so often to himself, and to her, that he'd begun to believe it. It slipped from his tongue as truth. Sadly, there was no house in Westeros that could send an army anywhere, not even her own house, which had been among the least to suffer, advantaged by its island seclusion. And what could Bronzegate possible offer other than a forlorn castle with an old, bitter man in its great hall, and this proud, hollow peacock of a man as its representative? She'd seen those halls and heard the dead echo of cold, empty rooms. It had once been a place with a history to boast. King Monfryd had held her ancestors at bay just outside its walls. But those were days of myth and legend and her folk had eventually won. She wondered if some of Toryen's hatred of her found root in her Andel ancestry. The complexion and coloration he shared with his father and Timmor spoke of strong ancestry from the First Men. No, she doubted it. A man like him would find no satisfaction in such abstract anger. The answer would be as simple as the man. He valued women only for their charms, their teats, their shapely bodies and spread legs. She had none of that to offer him, so of course he loathed her.

   Had she erred with Timmor? Had she been too indulgent with Podrick? Men made bitter little religions out of the lines crossed against them. Women know nothing but how to survive those crossed lines because men do not care who else may be in the way of their blades when their target is in sight.

   A hot ball of shame settled into her chest and held there because its seed was pride. She'd been prideful. She'd assumed no one could or would touch her. She'd thought to teach Lord Ralph a lesson through his son and failed to apply the lesson she herself had learned so many times. Men do not take lessons well.

   "Stop it. Stop it right now," she gritted quietly through clenched teeth.

   Today was the last day and it would not end in a wallow of self-pity.

   The door to the hold was bolted from the outside, of course. Only her hands were bound, her wrists a mess of scabs that healed and reopened. Other than a bucket in which to relieve herself, and another with water, the hold had been carefully picked clean of anything she might have used to defend herself.

   "Today is the last day," she whispered. A cold calm spread from her belly to her limbs.

   She'd found the nail yesterday. It protruded from the bulkhead behind a beam that arched from the floor and passed through the deck above. It would be difficult to even reach, let alone use it to remove the bindings from her hands, and what protruded was barely more than a fingertip's worth of corroded metal.

   But today was the last day. Do or die.

   Toryen's favorite chest - how he loved to lean a single leg on that chest and hold forth - she rolled to it, and looped her hands beneath her legs. For once, it would serve her purpose to have her hands behind her back. She braced against the floor and pushed the chest with her feet. It scraped loudly and she stopped. She held for several minutes before pushing again. It still scraped, but not so loudly.

   Push and push and push again until it was against the beam behind which the nail hid.

   Voices passed the other side of the door, sinking cold fingers of dread into her chest, but the voices continued on.

   Passing her hands forward again, she carefully climbed the chest. Her wrists were bound tightly, for which she was grateful. It would make it easier to saw the rope against the nail’s tip than if it were loose and shifting.

   The space was barely big enough for her to get her hands in. A few passes back and forth across the nail and the skin was rubbed bloody on the backs of her thumbs.

   And that did not matter because today was the last day.

   She continued to work at the rope, ignoring the pain, then getting angry at the pain, gritting her teeth, but making no sound. Blood dripped from her hands. She pulled them back, and sure enough one pass of the rope was fraying. She jammed her hands in again, tried her best to position them the same way and continued on. Sweat poured into her eyes from the pain and awkward exertion. Soon, there was enough blood that her hands slipped easily back and forth in the space, lubricated.

   There was a pop and a loose tail of rope came free where it had split. She used her teeth to wiggle the piece free, found where it dove back into the knot and where it came out again, pulling the piece bit by bit. If she lost a tooth, she would not care. It pulled free and she looked for where it continued, and pulled that part free too. The knot gave way.

   She stood there, on the chest, breathing heavily, the rope unraveling and falling from her wrists. She flexed her fingers. They all worked. Bloody and messy, but no real harm done. She remembered how Cat Stark had lost the strength in her hands, tendons severed when she'd gripped the Valerian steel dagger sent to kill her son. She'd been a granite woman, Catelyn Stark, but it had not been enough to save her. They had come first for her children, and then for her. The parallel was not lost on Brienne.

   She searched every corner of the hold again. Other than the buckets and the chest, which proved to be empty, there was nothing else in the room.

   But there, where she'd allowed it to drop, was the rope that had bound her wrists. The longest bit was a little longer than her arm from shoulder to finger tips. Not much to hold on to, but it would have to do. Wrapped around someone's neck, it was as good as a sharp edge. Dead was dead now that the Night King was gone.

   She prayed that fortune would deliver her someone with a blade in hand, a blade she could take. The Islander men were impressive, hardly the kind of men you could wrestle into submission, especially in her current state. She was weak from lack of food, though water had never been kept from her. But the men aboard the ship had been loathe to look her in the eye, uneasy with her presence. Perhaps they felt the shame of it, the cowardly way in which Toryen and Mosi had conspired.

   If it were to be Mosi, she'd cave in his head with the empty chest once she'd done her work with the rope.

   If it were to be Toryen, Mosi’s fate would seem like a blessing.

   Prince Abioye must surely be here by now, having answered the challenge Toryen boasted time and again had been issued. How he'd gone on and on about the fabled moment Olamíde would trounce Abioye. She hadn't had the pleasure of meeting this other prince, the one with whom Toryen had treated, but Abioye was a fine, strong man. He would not fall easily.

   What could she do now but wait? There was no hope of opening the door from inside. This ship was beautifully made and rugged. The door was no exception. She'd have cursed the Islanders for their craftsmanship and attention to detail, but could not find the heart. Precision was just another name for discipline, and she would not curse that.

   She sat by the door, leaned against the inner wall, facing where the door would swing open, ready to kick the feet out from under whomever entered. She sat and she waited.

   If today is truly the last of all days for me, be well, Podrick. Be strong. I was impatient with you in the beginning. I had oaths to keep, little time, and many enemies. I could not see then what I see so clearly now. You were my most important oath. Through you, my house lives on. Take care of the smallfolk. Be good to them. It is they who will tell your stories, sing your songs, and keep your memory.

   And now she was eulogizing, which made her feel ridiculous, which made her furious.

   A minute shadow scurried through the dark on the other side of the room. There were several arched beams along the far wall like the one behind which she'd found the nail. The rat dashed from one beam to the next.

   "I can think of better places to be," she whispered to the small bundle of fur. Tiny black eyes as glossy as obsidian regarded her from behind a nimbus of whiskers at the end of its sharp little face. It went back the way it had come and was gone. She had no love for rats, but their occasional visits had been a respite from the boredom, worry, and the images of worst outcomes that plagued her.

   “And at least they don’t fucking talk,” she sighed.

Chapter Text

Luras Sand

   Her eyes had never ceased to flutter, her small form held within Ser Podrick's arms, nestled into the shallow confines of the boat. As swift and clever as the craft had seemed when the Islanders plied them through the water, as smooth and polished as her hull was when he saw it on board the swan ship, here alone upon the dark water far from shore, it felt tiny and ready to capsize. He had no knowledge of what lived beneath and would happily live a thousand lifetimes without ever knowing. They had launched the boat while still far from Olamíde’s shores, and with no sail, it would be hard to spot at a distance.

   "How is her breathing?" he asked, feeling useless.

   "She is breathing," replied Podrick. "What more can I say? Stop asking."

   He still looked pale and rough, his eyes sunken, skin beginning to peel in patches from the burn he'd taken prior to the attack. He'd had, what, three days to recover? It seemed reckless. Ser Randel had said so in myriad ways and just now, surrounded by the wine-dark sea, Luras agreed with him.

   "And you can stop looking at me like I'm on my deathbed. I'm fine."

   Luras wished he could believe that with more assurance.

   Wavelets slopped the side of the hull making hollow noises against the polished wood. In her strange slumber, he regarded how Mara did and did not resemble Issa. Issa's face was longer, more aristocratic, her skin as dark as ebony. Mara was rounder of face, wider of nose, lighter of skin, the child she had been was more well preserved than in Issa. In his mind's eye, he saw them as children running through the waves at the shore's edge. Mara would be shy; Issa would be daring. He would have enjoyed their friendship as a boy.

   "Who do you think we will be when we are old men?" he asked, the thought bubbling up from nowhere.

   "What?" Podrick asked at his randomness.

   "I am trying not to worry and ask you how you feel, because frankly, Ser Podrick, you look like something I scraped off my boot, so humor me," he said dryly. It was a game he sometimes played with Alren. "Who do you think we will be when we are old men?"

   "You will be the old fool gone bald reaching for the serving woman's flagon and then her tits in the great hall. She will slap you, and when you look my way for remedy, I will laugh and a raise a glass in her honor." He pantomimed a fantom glass of wine held high.

   It seemed Podrick had listened to the banter that flew back and forth between Luras and Alren in the training yard.

   "Ah, yes, I can see it now! How fat you will have grown, Ser Podrick. Like King Robert himself. A belly with legs."

   "But a full head of hair. Men like you with the tresses of a woman always go completely smooth and shiny. I will use your head as a mirror."

   The men in Luras’ family indeed did tend to go bald.

   "Will you be able to pull your eyes from Timmor to use this mirror my head has become? His flame will have burned low into auburn and gray at the temples. His eyes will be as piercing as an eagle. The young ladies will sigh and curtsy, praying for a kiss on the hand from the legendary Timmor the Red. You will suspect every pretty lad and lass that passes in front of him."

   Podrick smiled at the game. “You leave Timmor out of this. I will suspect no one and nothing. Timmor is not you. Do not put your desires and your antics into his head."

   "But I must, Ser Podrick. I must save him from your seriousness, lest we all lose that which we love most about our sweet Timmor."

   A shadow passed over Podrick's face at those words.

   "If it comes to the worst..." he said, his voice husky.

   "Don’t,” Luras warned.

   "If it comes to the worst, you will stay with him, yes? You will protect him? The world is a cruel place."

   He thought for a moment, not wishing to be flip. "Of course. Never doubt it. Though I fear I will have competition for the roll of guardian. He has cleaved to Odé in a way I would never have predicted. It is his talent, is it not? The way you cannot help but love him."

   Which earned Luras a queer frown from Podrick.

   "Not as you do, Ser Podrick. Rest easy on that account, but how can you question my love for him? I wish you northerners did not treat that word like gold to be kept in a chest with you as the miserly Master of Coin. In Dorne, we love openly, unashamedly. I love even you, Ser Podrick, you strange man. I said as much to Timmor when you fought the poison of the slaver darts. You may ask him yourself and know the truth of it. You are dour, unimaginative, sometimes dull, so very easy to scandalize, and you are a good man. You will be a good lord in your time, and I will be at your side, my sword at the ready for you and Timmor both. No man shall speak against you who does not eventually answer to me.”

   "I often fear how it will be, Luras. Timmor and I. The other houses..."

   "The other houses will talk because they always talk. They will judge because it makes them feel better about about their station. They will jibe to hide the fear that their lives will vanish without a trace that they ever even drew breath, that they will die as no one. They may even challenge hoping to have bested the Evenstar. It will be what it has always been, a man’s world filled with a man’s weaknesses.”

   "You say it with such ease."

   "Not ease, but anticipation. I also fear oblivion. I fear never having existed. I fear a life that amounts to nothing. But a life of notoriety? A sword in service to the Warrior Maiden, and then, in their turn, to Ser Podrick the Round and Timmor the Red? The gods are generous - my trencher is full.”

   Podrick had gone stock still at the mention of their song names.

   "You think I don't know your song? For love it was done and with love it was paid, the Red and the Round and the Warrior Maid. Oh come now, man, there is no cause for coyness. How many pretty lasses have sung that song sat upon my knee in the alehouse, their young, pert bosoms bouncing along to the tune? How many times have I used it to my advantage? Frocks become slippery and have a difficult time remaining on their owners when such songs are sung, Ser Podrick, most especially when wine is flowing."

   A seabird wheeled far overhead. Mara mumbled, her eyes still rolled white.

   "Thank you," said Podrick.

   "For what?"

   "For everything you've done for Timmor. You and Alren both. I've never properly thanked you. I could not find the words."

   Now it was Luras' turn to feel embarrassed. "As I said, it is his talent. It costs me nothing and brings me much. There is no need to thank me."

   "Of course there is need. And there will always be a cost,” he said gravely. “You know it. You brush it aside, but we both know that tongues turn into swords in the blink of an eye.”

   And, of course, he was right, but now was not the time to let fear settle into their chests.

   “Those are the tongues and swords of lesser men. The stallion does not measure his beauty against donkeys, but other stallions.”

   Mara shivered and shook within Podrick’s protective embrace. She’d warned them it would be this way when she came back into her own skin. Her eyes danced and rolled as she fought to fill the vessel of her body and awake. Great lungfuls of air broke past her dry throat.

   “I have found her,” she said.

   Podrick gave her the skin filled with water and she drank her voice smooth again. “Second hold down to the rear of the ship. She is in the prisoners’ cell. I rode a rat and squeezed through the spaces between beams. She has freed herself from her bindings but cannot get out of the cell.”

   “And the crew?” Luras asked.

   “There are still many men aboard the ship. Most are deckhands. But in the hold, there are several of Olamíde’s warriors and two Westerosi. The captain’s cabin is empty. The rest must have joined to see the challenge.”

   “Excellent,” said Luras. “And the diversion, are your friends at hand?”

   “They are,” she said. “Give me the oar. Time is wasting.”

Mara

   Mara again lay against Ser Podrick, eyes rolled back, busy with the game of deception. She rode a porpoise that led a group of its own kind. Near Olamíde’s ship, she filled the great beast’s tail fluke with all the power she could muster, the creature leaping out of the air, spinning like a child’s top. Again and again until the others in the troupe joined. Then sea lions joined in the game. She rode from one to the next, ensuring their cooperation by leading their own brethren, taking the game from the starboard side of the ship facing them to the port side facing away. She could manage such a feat for only a short time.

Luras Sand

  Luras dug the oar into the water. Ser Podrick could not help, preoccupied with the twitching form of Mara. They had gained some speed before she slipped out of herself and into the beasts in the water. Luras made the most of the velocity they already had. It would be a matter of luck that all the deckhands went to see the display Mara created on the far side of the ship. On approach, the railing of the ship was empty of bodies and the water was blessedly empty of arrows.

   It had worked.

   Luras took the goldenheart bow Mara had insisted on bringing and nocked the grappling arrow. It was a heavy, ungraceful thing and the bowstring felt like an iron rod.

   “Are you sure you can draw it?” Podrick whispered.

   Luras glanced acidly at him from the tail of his eye, but damned if the string didn’t feel like it would take the tips of his fingers.

   “Let me,” said Mara.

   He had not noticed when she’d come back to herself and was about to protest when she firmly took the bow with a reproving maternal expression. She squared her knees inside the hull of the boat in a most unladylike fashion, held the bow high overhead, brought it down at the same time she drew back and then aimed. The grapple flew and appeared to miss. But Luras was wrong because he had assumed she would aim for a window. Instead, the grapple flew through a gap between the hull and a decorative element near the windows, a great fish carved to look like it was breaching from wooden waves carved below. Just before the grapple would have hit the water on the other side, she snatched the rope and stopped it from going any further, the grapple swinging freely just a few feet above the water, secure where she had threaded the needle.

   “It would never have held Ser Podrick as a single length of rope,” she said.

   Luras stared at her, gape-mouthed.

   “It’s always the quiet ones,” Podrick said unexpectedly.

   “Indeed,” was the only word that came to Luras.

   They strapped on weapons and the climb was arduous. He went first. He feared Ser Podrick would not make it, though he did finally reach the carved fish, his face purple with exertion. Mara tied the end of the rope to the poles that connected the outrigger to the main hull so it would not drift away and came up last. He tried the nearest window of the captain’s quarters. Mara gestured for him to push it in at the top. He did and was rewarded when it tipped inward at the top, outward at the bottom. He climbed in, legs first, then helped Ser Podrick. Gods, he was heavy. Mara came in last. She gestured silently to the door. There was no avoiding the deckhands given that the cabin did not have access to the lower decks. They would have to exit onto the quarterdeck. Mara studied the floor taking deep breaths, filling herself with courage.

   I am ruined for all other women, thought Luras.

   She squared her shoulders, arched her back, and walked quietly through the door.

   On deck, toward the prow, the men were still watching the antics of the porpoises and sea lions. He prayed they might make it to the hatches before being noticed, but it was not to be. A young man, barely more than a boy, spotted them. He panicked and froze. Mara’s expression immediately changed. She gestured for the boy to come to her. He hesitated, looked back to the men leaning over the rail, then back to Mara. She whispered things in the Islander language that made the boy’s eyes grow wide and his lip tremble. She said something else and he calmed. The boy went to the nearest hatch and opened one side, then went and hid behind where a forest of lines reached up to the furled sails above.

   “What did you say to him?” Luras hissed.

   “That I would send the Little Sisters to come rob him of his cock in the middle of the night if he didn’t help us.”

   “And he believed that?” Luras asked incredulously.

   “What makes you think it’s a lie?” she asked.

   With that, she slipped across the short expanse of deck and down the hatch. Podrick followed next. Luras went last.

   The upper deck was well lit through the grated hatches. It was empty in this part of the ship. Mara pointed the way and they found a ladder to the lower deck. The three looked at one another in silent preparation. There would be men below, men with swords.

   “When I say down, you drop to the floor, understand?” she whispered.

   Luras knew this trick. He nodded. Ser Podrick looked much less at ease. Luras winked at him and gave a jovial grin he did not feel.

   They descended.

   The lower deck was much darker and warmer. There were still no men in sight, but that would change soon enough. Mara pointed the way. They inched forward. The deck curved up as it went back, obscuring the view to a small degree. Two men were sat playing a game of dice.

   “Down”, said Mara and they dropped. She launched two arrows in quick succession, pinning one man to the wall behind him. The other man had taken the arrow at an odd angle, passing through the meat where neck met shoulder, disappearing into his torso. There had been almost no sound.

   They were not so lucky with the next men.

   Fighting in closed quarters has both advantages and disadvantages. You knew where the business end of blades would be, but you also had little recourse to retreat. Ser Podrick held his sword as a man who intends to run another man through, ramming into them. Luras followed. The space was too tight for more than two men to face one another. Podrick finished one man with the roar of an animal in his throat. Luras took the other man who had foolishly stared at Ser Podrick, unsure what to make of the enraged Westorsi man.

   “Down!” Mara yelled again. Two more men died, one of them patting the bloody hole where the arrow had passed through, looking relieved, as though the arrow had missed. It hadn’t. He simply had a few more beats left in his heart. When they were over, he fell too.

   “There are at least two more,” Mara said.

   Yes, she’d mentioned there were men from Westeros here.

   A few more paces and the curve of the deck revealed where they were, guarding the door behind which Lady Brienne must surely be, both ready and waiting, the element of surprise having already been used up.

   “Stay where you are,” said one of them, a nondescript man who would fade invisibly into any crowd.

   “It’s the Pig,” said the second man to the first. “And the Dorni-”

   A few inches of arrow was suddenly protruding from the man’s right eye. He grasped at it, blindly, fell on his face, which pushed the arrow clean through.

   “Drop it,” said Podrick, gesturing to the remaining man’s sword.

   “Come take it, piggy,” he said, though his voice decried the bravery of his words.

   Podrick swung at him, the clang of metal reverberating through the narrow passage. The man took a swing and caught Ser Podrick in the leg. Podrick punched him with the same hand holding his sword. The man spat and, to his credit, he managed to push Podrick up against the wall, but his victory was short-lived. He coughed blood into Podrick’s face, a dagger stuck into his belly beneath the breastbone. Podrick gave a vicious twist before pulling it out, stabbing him twice again in the neck, the dagger going in to the hilt. More blood sprayed in a great gout as he grasped at Podrick with hands that drained of strength by the second. A last choked sputter and he was done.

   Podrick’s face was drawn into a terrible grimace, breath heaving in and out of him. Luras waited for their eyes to meet, giving him space. A man this deep in bloodlust must never be touched. It had to pass.

   The passage filled with the smell of blood, shit, and piss. The perfumes of death.

   Luras, still wary of approaching Podrick, nodded toward the door.

   Ser Podrick tapped the door with the butt of his sword. “My lady, please do not try to kill me when I open the door. The way is clear.”

   Luras slipped the heavy iron latch up and back.

   Lady Brienne was a sight to see. She seemed smaller to him, older, though it had been just a few days since last he saw her. Her eyes flicked back and forth from him to Podrick to Mara.

   “We must go quickly,” Mara said.

   Lady Brienne ignored her. She approached Ser Podrick and gathered him into her arms, holding him tightly, sobbing into his hair. Luras was sure that no man had ever seen this sight before, and no man ever would again.

   “My lady,” said Luras softly. “There will be time for reunion later. There are other matters on shore and we are not yet free of this ship.”

   “Yes, yes, of course,” she said, sniffing back the tears. “Tell me you have a sword for me.”

   He pulled the spare sword that was strapped to his back and handed it to her.

   “Now tell me that Timmor is safe,” she said to Podrick. “And why is Ser Randel not here?”

   “Timmor is with Odé and the prince, my lady. They are here, on shore. I will explain when we are gone from this place,” he said. “Ser Randel is with them. If this had failed, someone had to lead.”

   “Yes, yes, of course,” she said. “That was wise.”

   “Lady Brienne, come,” Mara urged, stepping over the dead bodies in the passage.

Chapter Text

Timmor Buckler

   Ebonhead was a larger, more sedate destination than Lotus Point, more a proper city. It sprawled into a rise of low hills. Rather than a quay, the ship dropped anchor and a host of small craft took them to the sandy beach below the city.

   "Remember your manners," Ser Randel had said. He was distracted and on edge, looking around as though he could spot Lady Brienne from where he sat in the small boat. He had wanted to simply attack Olamíde's ship. The prince refused. Perhaps such a thing happened daily in Westeros, but such an attack would mean the end of any aid or commerce with the other realms in the Summer Isles. Both Timmor and Podrick had insisted it would end any chance of retrieving their lady alive. Toryen would panic and kill her as he had tried to do with Timmor. Ser Randel had admitted to the logic of it, and then went and punched a bulkhead until his knuckles were bloody.

   Many people silently watched them enter, a wall of faces on either side, warriors carrying tall ceremonial spears leading the way.

   Just as Prince Abioye had described to him, a field had been cleared for the challenge. There were two platforms, one at either end. Prince Abioye sat with Issa, two of the four chairs provided remaining empty.

   On the other side of the field, Prince Olamíde sat with Mosi, Toryen, and another man who Timmor learned was the other prince's advisor, in the same roll that treacherous Mosi should be filling with Abioye.

   Though they were well removed and hard to see, Toryen's eyes were pinned on Timmor. He felt them like icicles ready to fall from the ramparts and skewer him on a cold winter day.

   It was Issa who whispered into Timmor's ear that he must sit up on the platform with them. It felt improper and he had no wish to copy his brother's haughty casualness, the way he slumped into the chair.

   "Ser Randel is senior," he whispered back. "And he is wanting a place."

   And Timmor was wanting to make amends. He'd spoken sharply to the man in front of their hosts and he still regretted the disrespect he'd shown.

   It was the prince who beckoned the knight sit with them. Timmor took the furthest seat and noted that Ser Randel looked more himself. He would never have insisted on his own. He wasn't that kind of knight.

   "I'm sorry for being cross with you," Timmor said.

   "I'm sorry for doubting you," replied the man, his eyes signaling Toryen in the distance. "I'd swear it was you over there, only look at him! I’ve seen Myrish high courtesans dress more humbly.”

   Prince Olamída was much older than Prince Abioye. They seemed like father and son, to look at them. It made more sense now, why the prince had taken Toryen's offer of aid. That man would never best Abioye on his own, and what prince would support him in a barbaric attack?

   How had Toryen found this man? It was a question for another time, but it wanted an answer.

   Warriors in full ceremonial dress stood in formation on both sides of the field, Abioye's men adorned in vests and cloaks of deep blue feathers, their hair set into helmets of plumes. Olamíde's men were similarly adorned, but in a pale purple. They formed two long lines to either side of both platforms, men with golden heart bows in front, long spears in back, all of them struck from the same chiseled, muscular mold.

   He went over the words in his head. The prince had been patient with him, making sure every line was recited as must be, accounting for the unusual circumstances, refining it down until he was happy that form was satisfied in content. Timmor had blanched in relief when the prince recited in the common tongue. He'd said that because Olamíde had so flagrantly broken with protocol already, this would be how Abioye responded to the lack of decorum. It would be a subtle insult to show he had more concern for tradition. If Olamíde objected, he would have it thrown back in his face, his dishonor given full voice. Whatever plans he had, once the other princes of the Summer Isles knew that Olamíde dealt in such subterfuge, allying with slavers and foreign nobles to make war like a savage, he would be challenged by every single prince of the Isles, and there were several. It was the very reason they could not attack the other ship openly. They might win the battle, but they would lose the war.

   He expressed to the prince the question that had just occurred to him, how they'd found one another.

   "A very good question, indeed," had said the prince, nodding Timmor's attention forward.

   Odé stood in front of the platform like a statue in a pair of white woolen trousers of the kind worn by the male palace servants, her rapier belted at her waist, a golden heart bow in hand, and nothing else. She was barefoot and bare-breasted. Issa had shorn her hair to a tight cap, which remained unadorned. Seeing her like this from behind, Timmor admired how finely she was made. She was the Titan of Braavos come to life.

   His thoughts strayed to Luras, Podrick, and Mara. There were two battles to be fought today. The one here on this field, and the one out there among the swan ships. He prayed the gods would not think him selfish to wish for both victories.

   It grew quiet once each side was settled in. The sun was high and bright, the sky filled with white clouds that raced overhead. A horn blew among those gathered to watch the challenge. Issa squeezed his hand to remind him to stand. The prince went first, as was only proper. They made a slow procession to the middle of the field, the warriors following in formation. It seemed an eternity. Timmor could see only his brother Toryen now. Ser Randel was right, he was dressed in cloth of gold and other finery that would have cost more than House Buckler could muster. He wondered what poor tailor had been robbed of his long hours and fine materials.

   They met in the middle of the field. It was the nearest he'd been to Toryen since the day in the ramshackle farmhouse where his idiot men had died at the hands of Luras and Alren. But today there was no Lady Brienne or Ser Podrick to rescue him.

   Issa cleared her throat. Timmor began to speak.

   "Prince Olamíde, you have declared challenge against Prince Abioye and though you did not go to him according to tradition, he has come in response and accepts your challenge." His voice wavered a bit, which brought a crooked grin to Toryen's face.

   The older prince frowned and Mosi mumbled an interpretation to him in the Islander tongue. The man inhaled deeply and exhaled noisily though his nose. He nodded for Timmor to continue.

   "Prince Olamíde, you have broken the sanctity of Lotus Point, taking Lady Brienne of Tarth as hostage. She is Prince Abioye's honored guest and this grievance must be settled first, else you forfeit the right to challenge. Forever."

   It was as though the blood seeped out his toes and through the fine braid work of his sandals. To speak such words to a prince left him lightheaded.

   "Are you going to fight me, brother," said Toryen.

   Mosi hissed at him. "Be silent!"

   Prince Olamíde took on a sour expression. Toryen's lack of discipline had cost him some pride.

   Timmor continued.

   "Prince Abioye demands satisfaction for this grievous insult before challenge is undertaken. He presents Odé Qaxar, daughter of Talíb, cousin to the prince, and of the royal family."

   It was Olamíde who spoke and Mosi interpreted. "Whom do you seek?"

   "Him," said Timmor, pointing at Toryen.

   "I will not fight a woman. What do you take me for?" Toryen blustered. “There is a knight here, why not him?”

   “Oh, I should love to, boy,” Ser Randel said in a venomous tone. “But I think I shall enjoy it even more to watch her finish you. You’ve been shown nothing but mercy since I first clapped eyes on you, mercy that should have gone to better, more worthy men. And look what you do with it. You will find no mercy today.”

   Prince Abioye spoke directly to the other prince in their own tongue. It went back and forth, Timmor unsure where this was going.

   It was Mosi who clarified. "You will answer her challenge, Toryen Buckler. You will not cow on the field of battle."

   "This is ridiculous. She's standing there with her tits out and you expect me to fight her, a woman?"

   Now it was Odé who broke decorum. "You are not half the man I had imagined you to be. I think I shall be bored."

   Toryen's lip curled up, the scar Podrick had left there standing out all the more where the flesh puckered around it.

   "Fine," he said with false bravado. "If you wish to see this woman run through, you shall have it."

   Mosi asked, "What are the terms to settle the grievance?"

   Though such terms should have already been clear, form demanded it be stated outright. His eyes never leaving Toryen's, he said, "The insult to Prince Abioye was unearned and his honor is deeply injured. This man is Westerosi, as is Lady Brienne, against whom he has a longstanding grudge. A grudge that concerns me, his brother, and another man, Ser Podrick Payne, my sheré. Because Toryen is the root of this evil, we demand the Westerosi way, to the death."

   He had never seen such a look in Toryen's eyes as he did now. What little color he had drained. He seemed dazed. His eyelids fluttered, his tongue played back and forth with his whiskers and mustache. His hand went to the pommel of his sword indecisively. Even when their mother had died, Toryen had been unfazed. He had never been anything but cold toward Timmor, had only ever smiled at gifts their father had given him, meager as they had been.

   "You would see me die, brother?" Toryen said breathily.

   This was the moment of which Prince Abioye had spoken, the moment where Toryen could redeem himself, could stop this.

   "I would that mother had never died, that father had not hated me so, and that you had not been a cruel brother. But there is no undoing that. It is in the past. Will you stop this while you still can? What could you have offered them but lies? Our house has nothing. Without Lady Brienne's help, Bronzegate will not survive the winter."

   "I have Lady Brienne, so I have Tarth, and Tarth is rich and grows richer by the day. My spies earn their pay. I have told no lies. You think to dishonor me, but what can you know of honor? Do they know what you are? Do they know what Brienne allowed and fostered?"

   Something snapped within Timmor. Something as old and weak as the cradle became something very different.

   "Of course they do. I said as much to the prince just now. Sheré is a husband's husband." Toryen's jaw went slack. Timmor continued. "We came to treat with the Islanders honestly and plainly, and Prince Abioye has been honest and plain in return. We have been shown every respect and comfort. The trade Lady Brienne intended to secure would have been of benefit to the whole of the Stormlands. You put all that in jeopardy, and for what? To humiliate me?"

   Toryen lost all semblance of composure, a shrill scream breaking through a face turned red, "It is you who humiliates me!"

   And for the first time in his life, his brother's rage did not make him shrink or hide or reduce him to impotent tears. It was equal parts loss and gain. Loss of hope, loss of the story he kept in the back of his head that one day they would find common ground. He had gained a position in the retinue of a prince, was in the tutelage of a fierce warrior, had been shown marvels, and he had known love. He had a life to care about, not just an existence to be survived.

   He was not afraid. He was furious.

   Turning to Mosi, Timmor said, "The king in Westeros will never stand for it. Lady Brienne is favored and she has an heir, Ser Podrick. Whatever my brother promised is not his to offer. House Buckler is without coin, without men, and without influence. You are being swindled."

   Mosi interpreted and Prince Olamíde gave a single, guttural reply before turning and walking back to his platform.

   "Accepted," Mosi said and followed his new prince.

   Issa took his hand and he let himself be led back to the platform. His ears were ringing and his legs felt like stilts, hollow and not really in contact with the ground. Only when he sat did he realize that both Odé and Toryen had remained on the field. Issa said something that did not register.

   "Breathe," she repeated, looking him squarely in the eye.

   "You spoke well, Timmor," said the prince.

   "Why did the prince accept? I spoke the truth. Toryen has nothing and the king will never let him take Tarth. The Stormlands would revolt and they sit at the very foot of King’s Landing. And Prince Olamíde is an old man," Timmor said softly. "He cannot hope to best you himself.”

   "He was committed the moment he issued the challenge, and he expects your brother to win the day. The only way out for him would be for me to forfeit or to break with tradition. We gave him neither. Your brother took him for a fool, and I think now he knows it. As I said it would be, he must follow through to save face and pray your bother’s lies are truths, else face the wrath of the other princes with no one to back him.” Prince Abioye smiled at him and redirected his gaze back to the two people who remained alone on the field. A woman in nothing but trousers, holding a sword, and a man dressed like a peacock.

   “What if he does something else, my prince?”

   Issa responded, “Do you see the woman there on the palanquin with the canopy? That is the high priestess of the Isle of Women.”

   “Where Nymeria took refuge,” Timmor stated. “Did Prince Olamíde invite her?”

   “Doubtful," she replied. "It is not to his advantage that she be here. I suspect she knew beforehand the same way you knew your bother would be here, from Iya. If he were to harm her, the Little Sisters would have their vengeance, against which no man could possibly stand. Whatever happens, she is an untouchable witness. The die has been cast.”

   The horn sounded again and a great ululation arose from those assembled. It had begun.

Chapter Text

Odé Qaxar

   The horn sounded, soft and airy. She did not move, though Toryen’s head flicked in the direction of the sound.

   "It seems unfair-" he said after a deep intake of breath. "-that you should die defending that deviant. You seem like you might actually be able to handle yourself, for a women."

   Of course, he would be a talker.

   "I would say the same for you, but the women of my country are very capable warriors. You do not seem like you know which end of that sword to grasp."

   "I know perfectly well how to handle a sword, you savage." His face twisted in disgust. "What is that at your waist? That is no sword. You could have at least prepared."

   It was too easy, she thought. The ones who talk are also the one's who listen when they should not. She could likely goad him into stabbing himself.

   "You're right, Toryen of Westeros. I have no need of this bow." She held it up and away from herself. A young man came and took it from her without a word.

   "I am Toryen Buckler, heir to House Buckler, not that it would mean anything to you."

   "I am Odé Qaxar, daughter of Talíb who would have been prince before Abioye."

   "Yes, yes. Mosi told me all about you. Would have been is not the same as is or was. You are no one.”

   He came at her in a great heaving arc. She knew from the first step exactly where he would arch and attempt to hit her. His movements spoke as much as his mouth. She twisted easily out of his way and slapped him on the back with the flat of her blade. His own momentum carried him forward and he stumbled.

   “You have animal cunning, I’ll give you that,” he said from a head tipped forward like a bull ready to charge.

   It was disconcerting to see those eyes filled with such malice. Timmor's eyes, but no, never.

   Again, he came, his blade swinging around to her right. She dropped, rolled, and stuck him beneath the gilded jacket he wore as though it were armor. It was beautiful, but it was no armor. It had been a needling jab, not a fatal one. Just enough to make him bleed and know this was no game. She’d taken many such jabs from Marco, and delivered them too. Someone with experience would shrug it off as nothing. Someone as cocksure as this man would take the wound to his courage, though the nick to his flesh was minor. He was accustomed to carrying a shield, as Timmor had mentioned on the singular day of training, but where Timmor had felt freed of its encumbrance, Toryen was too dependent on its presence. The opening would not have been there had his fantom shield been present.

   His hand went to the wound and came away bloody.

   “You bitch,” he growled. “Is this what you are showing my brother? This is not fighting. Have you no decency? Cover yourself!”

   She gave him the smile of a shark. “And yet, it is you who bleeds. We had only one day in the sparring arena, Tima and I, before your nonsense.” She strode around him with exaggerated grace. She gave him all the feline muscularity that had entranced Timmor, but in such a different way. “And in that one day he learned more than you have shown so far. You announce your intentions like a novice.” She casually gestured at her breasts. “You fear these more than you fear my blade.”

   “Your sad little teats mean nothing to me,” he said, though every inch of him said he was a liar. Men are forever tripping over their own cocks.

   He ran at her, sword held with both hands over his shoulder, meaning to cleave her with it. She held until the last second, dropped her body into a ball, rolled hard into his knee, where the man then flipped wildly over her, landing with an audible thud on the dusty turf.

   She spared a glance across the field to where Mosi and Olamíde had their heads bent toward one another, each with the most displeased look she’d ever seen on either. How had Mosi thought…?

   Her guts turned cold. “Where is Marco?” she demanded.

   His expression became smug. “There are different ways to be clever,” he said. “You have yours and I have mine.”

   She’d gotten in her jab, but Toryen had been first. She didn’t have to ask. Marco’s best value to Toryen was as a corpse, and she had only to look at the gloat on Toryen’s face to know it was true.

   “Get up,” she said with feral coldness. “Tima is too young to learn this lesson, but since you insist, he shall have it. He will see you bleed out.”

   He got up and dusted himself off, though the blood on his hand only smeared over his finery.

   “Don’t you want to know where he is?” he asked.

   She was already shaken. She would not give him the satisfaction of handing him a rope with which to lead her. She drove at him, as he had done to her, giving him the familiar, the expected. He crouched, ready to take her, his empty shield arm bracing a non-existent shield. She feinted at the last, jumped, spun forward, and swung out as his blade sliced the air beneath her.

   He cried out in shock. The tip of her blade was as red as his hair. She had, in fact, caught him in the scalp. It bled profusely as head wounds are wont to do, running down the side of his face, further decorating his ridiculous clothing. It was a dangerous wound only in how much it would distract him.

   “Cunt!” he screamed. “I will hang your head above my mantle at Bronzegate. I will display your body upside down, run through on spears, at the front gate. You can guess where the spearpoints will come out.”

   “You have to catch me first,” she said. “And while you are busy failing, I will continue to train your brother. I will turn him into his name.”

   “You can’t even pronounce it.”

   “I know Timmor’s name perfectly well,” she replied, leaning into the final consonant. “Tima is the moth dragon. Tima stays in the shadow, more quiet than a mouse, until he slips out and takes the moth from the flame. You are the moth, Toryen. I will train him to take you behind the vase and eat his fill.”

   Toryen gathered himself and stood up. She gave him the space he needed to take in the situation. The pommel of her blade went from one hand to the other, taking the opportunity to stretch her fingers. As Marco had drilled into her time and time again, hold it like a bird - firm enough so it didn’t fly away, gentle enough not to crush it. The blood pouring from the wound to his head slicked his neck and a great stain formed at his shoulder. He might just faint at the loss.

   “Nothing but craven tricks,” he blubbered. “You know nothing of our country. You do not know what he will face there, what I have faced there. You may not care who lies with whom, or with what, in this land forsaken by the Seven, but you are not the lords and ladies of Westeros. What you do to him only makes his fate more assured. There will be no end of swords that come for him and the Pig. They will come because decency demands it. They will come because no man worthy of the description will stand to watch a great house turned into a brothel. They will come because every man will want to take down the Pig and his whore. Every man who fails will only wet the appetite of the next man to come. You are his doom.”

   “You talk as much as Tima, but you lack-“

   There was a commotion that had drawn Toryen’s attention. There would not be a better moment to run him through, but she held. There was little honor in slaying such an unworthy opponent when he wasn’t even looking. She would not have Timmor see such a death.

   His face had gone still, his lips parted, and a gasp of surprise escaped. She glanced in the direction that had transfixed him.

   Out from the crowd that had gathered to see the challenge came the imposing form of Ser Podrick, the smaller wiry frame of Luras, and the unruly mop of untamable yellow hair that was Lady Brienne.

   “No!” he yelled, already stomping off the field in the direction of the commotion.

   She followed behind the man, the tip of his sword dragging carelessly across the ground.

   Ser Podrick and Luras placed their lady behind them and the rest of the crowd parted like fish hunted by a porpoise. Toryen made strange noises of frustration, half-formed words spat out and he stumbled on. Luras held Ser Podrick back. She did not hear the words he spoke, but his face said everything. He held his sword high near his ear, in the Dornish fashion, a huge grimace showing all his teeth.

   But it could not be any of them. The challenge had begun and must end according to form. She had played for time, hoping Olamíde would see the error he’d made, hoping sense could still come from this, but one cannot make a pearl from a pebble.

   “Toryen!” she bellowed.

   He turned and almost fell. She was on him as soon as he looked her way. She needed to see his eyes, to know that his blade was there in front of her, as close to her as hers was to him, that she had given him the chance to defend himself. All had to see and know that the thing had been done well.

   Lady Breinne barked something Odé could not make out past the rush of blood in her ears, her sword sunk to the midpoint beneath his breastbone, Toryen’s held out to the side in a worthless attack. In those brief moments, he seemed to grow younger, his eyes were those of an injured child, his lips parted like a fish but only red-stained spittle came out.

   “Blood for the Little Sisters,” she whispered into his face, his green and gold eyes just inches from her own. She wrenched the blade out and slid it full length across his throat.

   He stood for a moment more, dressed in gold, dressed in blood, and fell like a tree.

   She looked to where Timmor sat next to Ser Randel, both faces made of stone. Issa’s hand was to her chest. The prince was inscrutable.

   She took up Toryen’s sword and walked to Olamíde and Mosi. It should have been a bow, but the sword would have to do. She flung it to the ground in front of them.

   “Withdraw the challenge or I will ask for you next, Mosi,” she said without looking at Olamíde.

   “You cannot call me out,” he sputtered.

   “Then I will simply take you, old man.” She brandished her sword. “This blade is like you, Mosi. It hungers for you as you hungered for the palace. It wants you the way you want the prince’s rooms. Withdraw or I will feed it. And after you…” She turned to Olamíde “I will call upon you.”

   Mosi bent his head to the prince, but Olamíde did not acknowledge him, only stared directly at Odé, his nostrils as flared as she’d ever seen on a man.

   She gestured behind her. “It seems Lady Brienne is free, as is Ser Podrick. I am sure you are familiar with the tales of the Warrior Maiden?”

   “The challenge is withdrawn,” Olamíde said in defeat. He made a broad gesture with one hand and his warriors marched off the field in tight formation.

   A great cry of victory sounded from the other side of the field, bows and spears held high. It was customary for such celebration to be short, loud, but controlled. Instead, Abioye allowed them to cry high into the air, ululating like warriors of old intimidating their opposition.

   “You should stay here, Mosi. I think perhaps you have no place on Walano.”

   “You are no one to pass decrees. Only the prince…”

   “Mosi, my blade will find you with or without permission. I swore as much to Iya, and though she was heartbroken to hear such a promise from one of her children, she did not forbid it.”

   She turned and walked toward her own prince and the boy who was the spitting image of the brother she had just killed. The field seemed to be three times as big as it had been before. The platform retreated with every step until it was upon her.

   “The challenge is withdrawn, my prince.”

   Timmor looked at no one, his eyes lost inward. He sat alone with the prince, Ser Randel having gone to his lady and Issa searching for Mara, whom she found at the edge of the crowd.

   “You fought well, Odé, though there was little competition,” the prince replied.

   “Marco of Braavos is dead,” she said, her throat tightening.

   Timmor glanced her way at those words.

   “Where is he?” asked Timmor.

   “I do not know, but your brother gloated over it on the field. He is gone.”

   “I grieve for you, Odé,” the prince said solemnly. “His spirit brought out the very best in you.”

   “I have suggested to Mosi that his presence is no longer required in the palace. I felt sure you would agree,” she added.

   “Indeed,” said the prince. To Timmor he said, “Your lady is returned. I am certain she will want to know you are hale and whole. Go to her, Timmor. Heal a mother’s worries, for those are what she surely has.”

   Timor stood on legs that seemed made of wood, still not looking at Odé. She let him pass without a word. Just now he looked to be made of blown glass. One wrong word and he would shatter. But it was to Ser Podrick to whom he went and she was thankful the man’s arms were so substantial, that the embrace he gave held Timmor from falling to the ground in sobs. She envied him, in that moment, having someone to hold you together when you fell apart.

   She saw Lady Brienne speak a word to Luras and they both approached her.

   “I owe you an unpayable debt,” Brienne said.

   Through the reaction that was settling in now that the ordeal was over, she managed to say, “You are safe and returned. That is all that matters.”

   There would be time later for heartfelt admissions and words that needed saying. Emotions were too high now for words to come easily or appropriately. Her eyes strayed toward Timmor.

   “Give him time,” said Brienne.

   Though there should have been, there was no feast, nor any other formal conclusion to the challenge. What had begun with shame had ended in the same way. Her father would have said that while skill was needful in the making of fine items, the materials were just as important, and here, the materials had been the worst, and so the conclusion was more bitter than sweet. The prince said it was just as well. He had no wish to remain among those who had made such choices. The ways of foreigners had crept into the islands. The savagery with which they dispensed with life was no longer a thing Odé could judge with innocent, clean hands. Now she was part of it. The sparring arena where the worst wounds were easily mended had given way to a field of death made by her own hands where the wounds did not ever mend.

   Would the Little Sisters still accept her? They would smell the history of what she’d done on her skin, on her hands. They would know as they knew everything. And if Iya ever allowed her into the waters, she too would know it in her trunk and boughs and leaves and wood. It would be written into her bark and roots.

   The folk of Ebonhead watched them leave as silently as they had watched them arrive, their large eyes filled with more worry than before. Their prince had broken tradition in ways that made them fearful of retribution from the dark understory of jungle and trees, out from caves and hollows as old as time. Compared to that, the fury of another prince was nothing.

   It troubled her that Toryen’s body had been left where it lay. No one had so much as looked back, not even Timmor, though there had been little chance of it. Brienne, Podrick, Luras and the man named Alren had formed a subtle corral around him, leading him away without making it obvious. She doubted it was their custom. It was a final insult, and well deserved. The body was burned on the beach later without ceremony.

   And Marco, what of him? He would never get a proper burial. She couldn’t bring herself to think on it too long. The memories threatened to take her away. The sparring arena would be forever haunted.

   Aboard the prince’s ship, Podrick and Timmor holed up in a cabin, rarely leaving it. Luras had quietly transformed into a servant, bringing food and drink, taking away trenchers that were sometimes empty, sometimes still full. He did it with the graveness of someone who did not know what else to do, but since no one stopped him and the task appeared needful, he seemed thankful to be useful. No one dared jibe him about it. She had judged him harshly at the beginning, but to watch him dote over his companions without the slightest resentment that it was a servant’s task, it changed him somewhat in her eyes.

   Lady Brienne was quiet and turned inwards. She spent much time with Ser Randel. She seemed shaken at first, but the knight's presence calmed her, allowed her to return to herself.

   When they were a day out from Lotus Point, Lady Brienne sat with her, a conversation she wished to have written on her face.

   “It should have been me, but I am thankful it was you, and I am pained if it has cost you Timmor’s admiration. He was enamored of you.”

   “Yes, Luras said as much. I too am sorry,” she replied. “I have grown fond of him. More than I thought I would. Your mark is strong on him and the rest of your men. Soon Tima will be home and he can forget about me and what I have done.”

   “I think he should not,” said Brienne cryptically.

   “He will. He is young and all of this will soon be far away and in the past.”

   “No, I mean I think it’s better if he doesn’t. I have a proposition I wish to present to the prince, but it means nothing if it is unacceptable to you.”

   Odé waited, then said, “Go on.”

   Brienne leaned in and spoke.

Chapter Text

Ser Podrick Payne

   The afternoon was deceptively mild. There had been a week of cold days, but the morning had broken clear and bright and his lady had made preparations for a day in the valley. The waterfall was as proud as ever, cascading into the crystalline pool. Podrick remembered their first time here and smiled to himself.

   The entourage was much larger than usual. Brienne had sent word the night before to the hamlets and quarries. The younger nobles in her employ had been invited, and though the day was meant for leisure, Brienne always found a way to ensure that leisure was not idleness. The next shipment of marble was nearly ready, and there was much to discuss. Today’s outing would replace the usual visits to the castle to give report. Timmor was with them now, each sat on a marble block set in a ring, hearing their needs, concerns, and grievances. He wore one of the many tunics he’d purchased before leaving the Summer Isles, his feet wrapped in Talíb’s sandals, his skin tanned. His hair had grown long in the year that had passed, curling down his back in vivid flame.

   Upon their return, Brienne, Podrick, and Timmor had first gone to Kings Landing to give a full account of all that had transpired. The trade with the Summer Islanders was auspicious. The fate of Toryen and his attempt at foiling their plans was not.

   “I leave the fate of Bronzegate to you, Lady Brienne,” the king had finally said. “Yours is now the ruling house. You, Brienne, are Lady Paramount of the Stormlands.”

   From there, they’d made the rounds to the houses of the Stormlands with the royal decree in hand. Bronzegate had been first, at Timmor’s own insistence. He was not going to cower or hide the news of his brother’s death, nor the circumstances surrounding it. Lord Buckler had deigned to receive them and had never looked smaller or older. He’d been carried out, hunched in a chair, shriveled. Timmor recounted every one of Toryen’s deeds and how, were it not for Lady Brienne and Ser Podrick, those deeds would have brought the wrath of the throne upon Bronzegate. It had not been like the time before, no vitriol from Lord Buckler. It seemed an entire decade had fallen on the man while they’d been away. He never once looked up and whatever he’d mumbled in reply had been incomprehensible. He was as done as any man Podrick had ever seen who still drew breath. He doubted Lord Ralph Buckler would see the end of the year.

   When they left, Lady Brienne had asked for Timmor’s opinion on the fate of Bronzegate.

   “Lord Davos has been a good friend to House Tarth, my lady,” he’d said. “Let him annex these lands for now. Perhaps they may come back to life under a kinder hand. There is much work to do at home.”

   Something had shifted within Timmor. Something had fallen away and something else within him had coalesced and solidified. His lady had seen it too, murmuring to Podrick to be mindful.

   Podrick was proud of Timmor. He was proud of the way he stood taller, his shoulders back, his head high, and the way the young nobles deferred to him.

   They had seen him at practice. They had seen what he was becoming.

   They had seen and met his friend Odé Qaxar who found their young intrigues amusing.

   There had been tears when they'd boarded the ships. Tears for her father Talíb who beamed admiration at his daughter headed off to Westeros with the Maid of Tarth. She and Issa and Mara had hugged endlessly. Prince Abioye had stern words of advice he'd had not the face to sell as seriously as he wanted.

   “I look forward to your return, Ser Podrick,” the prince had said. “You have yet to leave, and already I miss my new friends.”

   The castle had been abuzz. Odé was given rooms fit for a visiting noble. She’d learned to let the servants call her m’lady, if, for no other reason, to stave off constant correection. The servants occasionally had to be reminded of their duties when they found reason to watch Odé and Timmor train in the yard that had once belonged to him and Podrick alone. Brienne had it repaved to Odé’s specifications.

   Timmor flowered under her tutelage.

   But Odé was not the only Islander to return with them. As he had mentioned to Issa, not one but two cooks joined them. They were husband and wife and bickered constantly. Podrick learned they were more than just cooks. They managed the stores and supplies for feast days at the temples. Samaya, Lady Brienne’s superfluous lady’s maid, helped them reorganize the storerooms for the new food that was being unloaded. Without asking or telling, Samaya found new purpose with them.

   Just now, Odé was with Luras, sparring in a sunny open area. Luras wore only trousers, his olive skin and tight physique glistening with sweat. Their friendship had grown when she’d seen what Luras and Alren meant to Timmor. Alren was not up to the challenge, but Luras was determined to find the grace Odé and Timmor displayed with ease. He would never be a water dancer, but there was merit in learning what he could.

   “All this is yours,” his lady interjected into the quiet from where she sat in the grass next to him, rousing him from introspection. “Not quite yet, mind you, but it’s important you start seeing it that way.”

   “It should be him,” Podrick said, tipping a chin toward Timmor and his little retinue. “He’s so much better at it than me.”

   “Better at it than me,” Brienne admitted. “I never wanted to be a highborn lady in a castle. I wanted to be a knight with a good horse and sword.”

   “You have been both, my lady,” Podrick replied.

   She smiled at the compliment.

   “You have good people around you, Podrick. That is what matters,” added Ser Randel from where he leaned his back against a tree in the shade. “They will come to you and Timmor because you are good men, but never grow complacent. Goodness also attracts evil. You have seen it with your own eyes. My sword is yours as long as I can lift it, but when I no longer can, there must be someone else like me at your side. Those two over there,” he said, gesturing at Luras and Alren. “As rough as they come, and neither is a knight today, but there is always tomorrow.”

   They grew quiet with heavy thoughts. Podrick leaned back into the soft grass and dozed softly under the warmth of the sun, wrapped in the security of good company.

   A shadow passed over him, waking him from near-sleep.

   Odé was never less than impressive. Luras was sweaty from their sparring, but she looked unperturbed.

   “Are you coming?” Odé asked.

   “Go,” said Brienne. “We’ll wait here. I don’t want to interrupt Timmor.

   Podrick glanced at Ser Randel.

   “Not dead yet, boy,” he assured, patting the hilt of his sword. “You heard your lady.”

   Podrick got up and stretched. Luras took the opportunity to poke him cheekily in the belly, making him whoop.

   Odé led the way past the waterfall, through a stand of grey-barked aspens toward a small side valley.

   “You’re doing better, Luras,” Podrick said.

   “I appreciate the lie, Ser Podrick,” Luras replied.

   “No, you are,” Odé added, though it sounded like the encouragement one gives to a child. Some moments passed before she added, “I have spoken with Brienne. I will join the next expedition, but I will return to Tarth. I have grown fond of this place, despite the cold.”

   “Timmor will miss you when we’re gone,” said Podrick.

   “And you,” she replied.

   Podrick was to lead the mission. Timmor and Lady Brienne would remain. As ruling house of the Stormlands, Lady Brienne was no longer free to adventure where she pleased. She had a minor realm under her care.

   “I will be glad to see Issa again,” said Podrick.

   “Perhaps you can take part in the races,” Luras interjected pantomiming an oar digging into the surf.

   “I think less excitement will be better,” Podrick answered, draping a companionable arm around Luras’ shoulder.

   The aspens gave on to a small field with low growing shrubs at its periphery. The little side canyon was to the left. Odé took the lead. The air in the little canyon was unmoving compared to the breezy field. A small line of stones placed in the path gave warning they were nearly there.

   Odé knelt down. Podrick and Luras did the same.

   The sapling was small and thin. It would be many years before it was anywhere near the size of the ceiba near Prince Abioye’s quarters, and centuries before it approached the size of Iya.

   But it was here. It had taken and was still growing. Odé had brought several seeds with her. Small, round little things that did not look as though they could give rise to what they had seen in the Summer Isles.

   Odé had been worried the cold would be too much for it. She’d said the Little Sisters would help, but from so far away, Podrick could not see how. Then again, he’d seen and done many things that were hard to describe to others.

   “She is well,” said Odé. “I would come back regardless, for Tima, but now my duty is clear. I must return for her as well.”

   “Will there be Little Sister?” Luras asked.

   “I don’t know,” Odé answered. “But I have hope. This is a good place.”

Fin