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Blackfish Out Of Water by jacobk
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, Brynden T., Words: 96k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Apr 30, 2016 Updated: Sep 15, 2016801Chapter 15
AN: Could dragon flame be used to power a steam generator to run a mechanical dragon? The Alchemists' Guild would know.
ooOoo
Pulling armor off of a dead body is a macabre task. It is made a little easier, though, by the thought that the armor will soon be turned into cash and the cash redistributed among friends. I did my best to supervise the looting diligently. Tempting though it might be to turn a blind eye as my men pocketed particularly choice bits of swag, I didn't want to develop a reputation for short changing my allies. Besides which, we would far more often be dependent on the honesty of the Windblown in looting than they would be on ours, so it behooved us to try and make sure everything stayed on the up and up.
The lion's share of the loot came in the form of the armor and weapons of the twenty or thirty fallen lancers. Full plate mail cost a pretty penny, and most of the lancers had had well made swords as their backup weapon in addition to their lances. A fair few of them had coin purses on their bodies as well. I was a little surprised at the skill some of my men were showing in ferreting valuables off of dead bodies, but I didn't make an issue of it. Any skill put in service to the betterment of the legion was a noble one in my book.
The fallen horses added their share of valuables to the pile as well. The saddlebags were largely filled with provisions but also contained a few worthwhile knick-knacks, while the saddles themselves were reasonably valuable. We could have butchered them for the meat but I didn't judge the savings to be worth the hit to morale. All in all it made for a nice little pile of loot to pack into our supply wagons.
By the time we had everything ready to go the sun was already low in the sky. We only wound up moving on far enough so that we didn't have to camp on the battlefield itself before we called it a day. After dinner, the Tattered Prince paid me the honor of visiting me in my command tent while my officers were busy compiling their after action reports. He didn't waste time getting down to business.
"The Long Lances hid beyond a hill just outside of my scouts' range," he said, scowling. "I will be investigating whether their failure was a result of incompetence or corruption."
It was quite possible that they had just honestly been outsmarted. The Long Lances could have observed or intuited the Windblown scouts' habits before picking their hiding places. It often seemed to me that the people here were too quick to attribute all of their misfortunes to overly complicated conspiracies. Of course, I thought they also seemed too quick to form overly complicated conspiracies, so maybe it evened out. In any event, I didn't feel any particularly strong urge to speak up on behalf of the man whose mistake had subjected my men to a surprise cavalry charge.
I wasn't particularly worried that the Tattered Prince himself had betrayed me. A mercenary company traded on its good name. Betraying those who fought by your side had a tendency to dry up future contracts. I didn't expect him to be loyal in the sense that Brynden usually expected out of his comrades at arms-that is, willing to stand and fight together to the bitter end-but I was fairly sure I could predict when he would leave me in the lurch. As long as I didn't expect any heroic last stands out of his sellsword company I shouldn't be disappointed.
"And the Long Lances?"
"Held together on retreat," the Tattered Prince said, "all the way to their allies' camp, directly ahead on our line of march. I suspect if their attack had gone off as planned they would have returned with friends."
"How many friends?"
"It's hard to be sure. All told, I'd say they're roughly twice our combined number. Perhaps a bit less."
I paused for a minute, considering. There would probably never be a better time to press the attack than now. The Long Lances were still stinging from their failed ambush, and might be half-ready to take to their heels once more if pushed. Also, there was no telling what kind of reinforcements might show up for the other side if we waited.
"I'm half minded to press the attack," I said. "Keep up our momentum."
"Your men were impressive on the charge and did a good job fending off the Long Lances," the Tattered Prince said, "but I suspect you might have trouble with a cavalry charge from the flanks while you make your forward push."
"You expect that would happen?"
"The Long Lances alone give them more heavy cavalry than I have cavalry," he replied. "My men are skilled, but..."
"Sometimes quantity has a quality all its own."
"Just so."
Not to mention the massive numbers disparity when it came to the infantry. It wouldn't do us much good to push through a segment of the enemy formation if at the same time they swept the Windblown from the field under sheer weight of numbers before enveloping our whole legion.
"We dig in, then?" I asked.
The Tattered Prince nodded. "Thanks to our efforts Tyrosh has more money coming in than they've had in years. If they want to fund another push they can send us some reinforcements."
As it turned out, Tyrosh seemed content with the status quo. So, too, did our enemies. We didn't know that latter piece of information at first, of course, which made for a pretty exciting week of finding the most defensible ground that we could and throwing up barriers while keeping an ear out for our scouts' warning cries. Once we were settled in, though, the days began to pass with no activity besides the cut and thrust of opposing outriders trying to outwit each other.
It made sense on reflection. We did not want to engage them on terrain of their choosing where their superior quantity would make the difference. They didn't want to engage us on terrain of our choosing where our superior troops would win the day. The Windblown had a reputation on top of their recent victories, and the Long Lances had recent personal experience with the fortitude of the Sunset Legion. If a war were hanging in the balance perhaps they would have tried to force their way through and make their own names at the expense of the Tattered Prince and Brynden Tully, but as it was they were content to sit and wait. There was just not enough profit to justify an attack for either side of our little standoff.
We gradually fell into a routine. With the threat of imminent attack fading away it became much like the sieges we had just finished conducting, a challenge of keeping the men fit and ready for action without wearing down morale. I wasn't exactly thrilled with the situation. Getting paid to do nothing was hardly the worst thing in the world, but I'd been hoping to get my men a strong dose of combat experience. On the other hand, becoming acquainted with the "hurry-up-and-wait" side of military life was an inevitable part of the process of turning rookies into veterans. The only real events of note took place via correspondence.
One of Walder's sources sent him a missive with two pieces of news: the Queen was pregnant, and it had been announced that once she had recovered from giving birth, the court would be hitting the road. Robert intended to reign for a year from the Reach. His exact schedule would no doubt be determined through some combination of Jon Arryn's careful planning and Robert's whims. From a certain point of view, I suppose that was how all of the business of the realm was handled.
My first real change to the timeline. Maybe two changes, even. I didn't remember exactly when Joffrey had been born originally and there was a chance that this time Cersei's firstborn would actually be Robert's child. I could only hope. I also, at this point, could only hope that my advice had put Robert on the path towards being a good king. Well, a less shitty king. Or at least a king who was shitty in a less destructive way. It would be interesting to see how things went. While some people found Robert off-putting-mostly the people that he ribbed mercilessly for being "prissy" or "boring"-he still had that undeniable animal magnetism. Being out and about in the realm doing personal diplomacy just might help him out even above and beyond any effect on his own happiness.
In more personal happy news I received a letter from my wife informing me that she had given birth to a healthy baby boy. Tytos, my firstborn son. I had brought a child into this world. This crapsack of a world.
I felt a little bit distanced from the news. Some of it was probably from hearing about my son in a letter rather than holding him in my arms. Some of it came from Brynden's instincts: while it was important for a Westerosi noble to have sons to continue on his family name, most fathers didn't interact much with their sons until it was time for the local equivalent of teaching them how to throw a baseball, that being teaching them how to hunt and how to fight. I also had the sense that fatherhood would not be a brand new experience after having been so involved in the raising of Catelyn, Lysa, Edmure, and Petyr. Well, we'll see how I felt once I saw the kid.
This was the kind of thing that really brought home what an alien world this was. My kid was born and instead of seeing a video of him that very day I would have to take a multi-week sea voyage to get a glimpse of him. Walder had to exert a not-insignificant level of effort and expend a not-insignificant amount of coin to keep me "only" as out of touch as a man who got his news through month old newspapers.
As time passed and the stalemate in the Disputed Lands continued, I gradually felt more and more of an itch to get out and do something productive. I also gradually felt more and more comfortable leaving Rodrik in command of the legion in the field. He had maintained his easy going nature as we moved out on campaign and had shown himself to be level headed in combat. He was still a little too green to be handed over control of an entire campaign, but I thought he could be trusted to hold a position while I was away for a few months.
It didn't seem likely that he would be pushed very hard to stay in place, either. As the months went by and the prospect of combat became more and more remote we had even seen camp followers starting to set up near our little defensive base. You didn't often see that kind of thing in an active combat zone but then this was hardly an active combat zone at the moment. I was hardly going to object to anything that would improve morale, though I did make Petyr responsible for preventing any outbreaks of the pox.
I had Legion business to take care of that I couldn't manage from the Disputed Lands. Tyrosh had indicated that they were interested in hiring as many heavy infantry as I could provide, but the men weren't just going to train themselves. I also had family business that I couldn't handle by letter. Hoster deserved a visit, both to celebrate the birth of his nephew and for a report on what all his adventurous Riverlanders were up to in Essos. I wanted to see my son in person, and after months away I had a definite need to see my wife.
The problem with handing somebody a new level of responsibility is that you can't be certain what they'll do with it until they have it. In the long term, though, I would have to rely on other people carrying out critical tasks at some point. That had to start somewhere. And so it was with just the slightest trepidation that I handed field command over to Rodrik Lolliston and set sail to Riverrun along with Walder Frey.
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Blackfish Out Of Water by jacobk
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, Brynden T., Words: 96k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Apr 30, 2016 Updated: Sep 15, 2016801Chapter 16
AN: Now I just need to remember the formula for anti-freeze so I can take my mecha dragon up to the Other's hideaways.
ooOoo
Another triumphant return home, another feast thrown in my honor. I'd say I was getting tired of it, but that would be a lie. After spending months with an army on the march it was a blessed luxury to get to sit back and enjoy food intended to delight the palette of a Lord Paramount rather than serve as simple hearty fare for young men. Being the center of attention was always fun, and I didn't even have to endure an evening of good-natured teasing this time. I'd obviously been spending the last year alternating between nailing my wife and winning a war, so nobody was going to out-macho me. Instead I was able to hold forth about fighting in the Disputed Lands and tell tales about the Tattered Prince.
It was a grand old time, but I could always count on my brother to bring me back down to earth. He summoned me to his solar after lunch the next day, handing me a glass of well-watered Arbor Red as I walked in.
"To one more Tully in the world," Hoster said, holding up his glass. He had made a full recovery from the injuries he had suffered during the rebellion and was once more the hale and hearty perfect picture of a Lord Paramount that I had known for most of my adult life.
"I'll drink to that," I replied, tapping my glass lightly against his before taking a sip. It was perhaps a little sweeter than I preferred, but damn good nonetheless.
"I'd rather my nephew weren't younger than my grandchild," he said, "but I suppose you can't have everything."
I held my tongue. Hoster was in general a good person. He was generous with his family and diligent in executing his duties. He was also constitutionally incapable of letting little things go. It wasn't enough for matters to eventually go his way in the end, he always had to pick away at you and remind you that you had let him down. He generally stopped short of outright malicious behavior, but it was damned annoying. Fortunately I had inherited over forty-odd years of living with Hoster when I arrived in this world, so I was able to let his comment roll off my back instead of replying.
Hoster gave me a challenging look, almost daring me to say something. It occurred to me that if he weren't a Lord Paramount he would get punched in the face a lot more often-and that it might have been good for him. Then the moment passed and his expression turned contemplative.
"Have you given a thought as to where you will foster the boy? I assume you don't want him growing up Braavosi."
My initial instinct was to tell him to piss off and let me worry about my own family, but I bit that back. No need to start a fight when he was genuinely trying to be helpful. Also, say what you will about his parenting skills, he had done well by his children politically. It's a rare man whose grandchildren will occupy three different Lord Paramountships.
I was also a little bit thrown because of all the things to carry over from the modern world to Westeros, I wasn't expecting the Tiger Mom phenomenon. I'd heard the stories back home about the parents who signed up for pre-school waiting lists as soon as the pregnancy tests came back positive. Apparently while young Tytos would be able to live his life without having to worry about pleasing any admissions committees, being born into the aristocracy came with expectations of its own.
"Providing him with appropriate tutors should help tie him to his ancestral lands," I said, "although to be honest I did not plan to put much thought into such things until he's off his mother's teat."
Maybe I didn't entirely repress that instinct to tell him to piss off after all.
"Rare is the plan that is improved by dithering," Hoster said, adopting a lecturing tone. "Doors are open to you now that might close if you disdain to walk through them."
I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to massage away the impending headache. "If you're going to insist on having this conversation I either need stronger wine or fewer riddles."
Hoster seemed amused as he set down his wine and steepled his fingers together. "Judging by what I saw at the Royal Wedding the queen and your lady wife were well on their way to becoming fast friends."
"I doubt that," I said, snorting. "Darla has turned into quite the social butterfly since leaving Raventree Hall, but our queen is hardly the type to make friends who outshine her in appearance."
True story: Cersei Lannister is the girl at the club who keeps a carefully curated array of friends who were all just slightly less attractive than her so that she would look better when hanging out with the group. She is also, thanks to medieval law and custom and the horrifying whims of fate, fifteen years or so away from wielding executive power over a continent if I don't change things. No pressure or anything.
Hoster's smile only broadened as he continued. "Be that as it may, I've just received word by raven that the queen has given birth to a healthy baby boy.
"A prince?"
Hoster nodded. "Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name."
Okay, deep breaths. It was too much to hope for to think that they would choose to name the prince something different. I'd have to rely on Catelyn to name one of her kids after good old Uncle Blackfish. As long as this Joffrey wasn't some kind of incestuous demon child the realm would still be all right. It would probably be a little weird to ask about his hair color right now. I would just have to wait and see.
"There are many advantages to being a prince's childhood playmate," Hoster continued, apparently taking my silence as lack of comprehension of his plan.
I wrenched my train of thought from questions of high politics to the matter of my own family. Was Hoster suggesting that I could get Tytos fostered by the king? On the one hand, that would be pretty cool. Being close to the royal family was the ultimate in social currency, and it didn't get much closer than a fostering arrangement. On the other hand, it meant that my son would be raised by Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. If they weren't the worst role models in the country it was at least a close run contest.
It also would create an instant hostage in the event that everything went to shit. More than that, it would essentially pre-commit me to a side in the event of civil war. I was doing my best to avert the civil war as predicted in the book, but there were still plenty of other things that could go wrong. I would probably want to side with Joffrey if he was actually Robert's kid-or, hells, even if he turned out to be an incest baby, I'd probably support him as long as he wasn't also a psychopath-but I was reluctant to give up the independence and flexibility that I had by virtue of leading my own army with my family living overseas.
"I've lived a long and happy life by avoiding court politics."
Setting up my son to be best friends with the prince would also blow up my efforts to stay under the radar of the various factions at court. Even making the effort would raise my profile more than I was really comfortable with.
"Things change once you have children," Hoster said. "You have to think of their future, not just your desires."
Hoster's pitch would be more compelling if I didn't have vivid memories of single-handedly maintaining his own children's emotional health. He had secured good marriages for his daughters but if they weren't total emotional basket cases it wasn't thanks to anything he had done.
"Is it really best for his future to throw my son into that pit of vipers on his eighth name day?"
Hoster shrugged. "All of us in this world have to learn how to deal with politics at some point. More to the point, I'm hardly the only one to see the advantages in such a thing. If you wait to pursue the opportunity, somebody else may snatch it first."
I sighed. "I will think on what you've said."
I took another sip of my wine, then continued. "To be honest, I would have thought you'd be too busy securing a bride for Edmure to worry about my son."
Now it was Hoster's turn to sigh. "Finding an appropriate match has proven more challenging than I had hoped."
"Really?"
Hoster had never seemed at a loss for potential brides when it came to me. I suppose he might be a little pickier when it came to his son. I'd be offended, but hey, I'd played my fair share of CKII and I always put a lot more effort in pairing up the main line with the ideal match.
"Catelyn and Lysa secured us strong alliances," Hoster said, "I thought to use Edmure's wedding to strengthen internal ties. Unfortunately, none of our strongest vassals have girls at the right age."
"The Freys must have somebody," I said. "I could ask Walder if there's anybody he'd recommend."
"You would speak to Walder Frey? Of your own free will?"
I was a little taken aback by the incredulity on Holder's face before things clicked.
"Not that Walder. My assistant, Walder."
"Ah, yes," Hoster said, taking a sip of wine, "I'd forgotten you'd taken a Frey under your wing. Fat Walder, was it?"
"I don't think so. He's not fat, anyway."
"So not Skinny Walder either. Surely he's not Black Walder?"
"No, no," I said, shaking my head as I tried to recall an old conversation. "He told me once he's seventeenth in line to inherit the Twins."
"Quiet Walder, then."
"I suppose," I said, then tried to bring our discussion back on point. "He's a good kid. I'm sure he can suggest some cousin or half-sibling that would be a good match for Edmure."
Walder was a little busy right at that moment setting up an information collecting network in Riverrun. I'd given him stricter than usual instructions about keeping a low profile and not prying into any sensitive secrets. The last thing I needed was for my brother to think that I was trying to undermine him. All I wanted was to be aware of any news that Hoster was too busy to send to me. In any event, I was sure Walder could spare the time to give me a quick rundown on his unmarried female relatives.
Hoster shook his head, frowning as though he had smelled something distasteful. "I hardly want to reward the Late Lord Frey by marrying Edmure to one of his brood."
And there was Hoster's penchant for picking away at people coming to the fore. It was less directly irritating when it wasn't being directed at me personally but it felt more ominous when I knew that years of needling Walder Frey would fuel the kind of resentment that would lead to the Red Wedding. I could probably head off that disaster when the time came but it seemed better to try and keep that relationship from turning quite so poisonous to begin with.
"You know," I said, swirling the wine in my glass and watching the light play off the cut crystal, "they have a saying in Braavos: never do an enemy a small injury."
I had taken the time, when I had some to spare, to try and reproduce some of the classics that I thought could be applicable to my new station in life: The Prince, The Melian Dialogues, The Art of War. Unfortunately I couldn't remember much beyond the high points: "the strong do what they will while the weak suffer what they must," "know yourself and know your enemy and you will win a thousand battles," that kind of thing. I'd tried to stitch them together into coherent thoughts and wound up with a hundred handwritten pages that were as much my own speculation as they were verbatim quotes. My half-formed plans to be hailed as a genius on borrowed wits didn't really work out, but I could still drop the occasional not-yet-overused quote into conversation to make myself sound smart.
"You think I'm being unfair to my vassal?" Hoster asked, taking on that slightly pissy tone that he usually did when he thought I was questioning his competence.
"Fuck fairness!" I said, draining my wineglass and setting it down with some force behind it. "Execute the old shit for his delay and send the whole family to the Wall for all I care. But if you leave Walder Frey in a position of power and heap petty slights upon him, he's exactly the kind of snake who will brood on it until the moment arrives when he can fuck you over."
"I hardly need to fear a jumped up merchant family."
"He doesn't need to match your strength to fuck you over," I said, then sighed. "Look, what would happen if Robert went out hunting tomorrow, fell off his horse, and broke his neck?"
Hoster's eyes narrowed. "Tread carefully, brother."
"It's not me that changed the world," I said. "Aegon won his crown with dragons, and so we had peaceful successions so long as no pretender had dragons. Robert won his crown with an army."
"Is that why you sought to raise an army of your own?"
"I'm still about 40,000 short of the host Robert had at the Trident," I said, shaking my head. "Robert changed the rules and won, and we won with him. I don't want somebody thinking they can run it back and try again. And if they do I don't want them to bring the war to the Riverlands."
Hoster picked up his wine glass and took a heavy drink from it. He was silent for a long moment before heaving a great sigh.
"You are right that to support a young dynasty won through strength of arms we must ourselves be strong and unified," Hoster said, "but gods does it grieve me to think of welcoming Walder buggering Frey to our family."
"If you want to go the other way, I'll lead the host up the Green Fork myself," I said. "Though there is this to consider: should Lord Frey prove tardy once more, it could prove useful for Edmure's children to have a claim on the Twins, however distant."
All according to the other piece of "Braavosi wisdom" I was saving for a rainy day: keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.
ooOoo
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Blackfish Out Of Water by jacobk
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, Brynden T., Words: 96k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Apr 30, 2016 Updated: Sep 15, 2016801Chapter 17
AN: Crap! I thought my mecha dragon was unbeatable but the Others have a giant mechanical St. George!
ooOoo
Fortunately, I did not have to impose on my brother's hospitality for too long. I had sent letters ahead of time to the young men who had expressed interest in joining the Sunset Legion in the past, and twelve of them made the journey down to Riverrun to meet with me. I gave them each their initial allocations of silver stags to be paid out to new recruits, confirmed the schedule that we would all be operating on, made sure that Walder was done with his work, and then hit the road.
A brief note on managing logistics in a medieval environment: it sucks. I'm old enough to remember taking ski trips before everybody owned cell phones, when instead of texting or calling to arrange lunch on the fly everybody would have to pre-commit to meet at a particular place at a particular time so we would be together for our meal. Scheduling anything in Westeros was like that, but more so. I had to allow for the longest possible travel and recruiting time faced by any of my new lieutenants in gathering one hundred new people together and getting them to Saltpans. And a margin for error. Then we all had to agree to meet on that particular date. Later, I would arrange for shipping capable of moving twelve hundred people to be in place as well.
Instead of impromptu meetings where people knew each other's schedules to the minute, it was a meticulously planned operation where things were going well if everybody arrived at the right place by the right day. Sadly, since I had not yet spontaneously developed the ability to shit iPhones, it wasn't like I had a choice.
Walder and I split up once our new batch of lieutenants was on their way. He traveled to our training camp to start getting the place ready for new arrivals. I'd be there when they started showing up but in the mean time I would be able to spend a few weeks with my wife in Braavos.
Rank has its privileges, after all.
ooOoo
Tytos was the world's cutest baby. I say that as a not entirely objective observer, I suppose, but I would lay odds the kid's going to grow up to be a lady killer. He's got a little tuft of red hair to go along with what looked like the Tully facial structure combined with his mother's delicate features.
He was also endlessly fascinated by grabbing at my fingers. I was happy to move them in and out of his reach for his amusement while Darla looked on fondly. It was hard to wrap my mind around the fact that I had made another human being. I thought I had known what fatherly pride felt like when I thought about Cat and Lysa but it paled next to the fierce protectiveness that shot through me when I saw this little bundle of blankets.
After a good long game of grab-the-finger Tytos finally started fussing. The wet nurse carried him away, leaving my wife and I alone. I was looking at Darla with what I suspected was a goofy grin on my face.
"He has a strong grip."
She smiled back at me. "He'll grow up to be a strong man, like his father."
I cleared my throat and shook my head, trying to focus past the warm fuzzy feelings.
"We'll have to foster him," I said. "We don't want him thinking of Braavos as his only home."
Darla nodded, and I continued.
"Hoster has it in his head that you're friends with the Queen."
She started, a guilty expression crossing her face as she glanced to the side. I followed her gaze and saw a writing desk, complete with a neat pile of correspondence stacked on top of it. A small shock of betrayal rolled through me, though I tried not to let it come out in my voice.
"You've been writing to her?"
"She wrote me such a kind thank you note after the wedding, then I wrote back and, well, she tells so many interesting stories about the court and she seems to enjoy reading about Braavos..." Darla said, then, finding her courage, looked me in the eyes. "I would have told you if you weren't off fighting in that pointless war."
"Don't make excuses," I said, putting a bit of a growl into my voice. She looked down, apparently repentent.
In truth, it wasn't the worst possible secret rebellion. Far better a female pen pal than a male lover. Still, striking up a friendship with the queen could drag the both of us into court politics and wasn't the sort of thing she should be doing without my approval, let alone behind my back. It made me wonder what else she had been up to here in Braavos.
Now that Darla had borne me a male heir I'd be well within the bounds of propriety to ship her back to Raventree Hall and pay a stipend to her family for keeping her in house and home. She'd still get her pin money but it would be a lot less fun spending it in the backwaters of the Riverlands rather than the markets of Braavos. It would also greatly reduce her ability to cause me any headaches.
"Have you made any other friends back in Westeros? Any promises here in Braavos in my name?"
Something of what I was thinking must have come through in my tone of voice, as Darla's feigned repentence melted into real submission tinged with panic.
"No, no! Just the Queen."
I sighed. It was an innocent enough mistake, and Darla was quite young. It was easy to get swept up in the excitement of royal attention and act without thinking of the dangers involved.
"You may continue writing to her on your own account. Hoster had the idea that we might foster Tytos with the royal family when the time comes," I said, holding up my hand to forestall comment, "which I will consider approving if the Queen brings it up herself. We will not go begging for royal favors."
"I understand."
"Good," I said, reaching out and tugging Darla into a comforting embrace. She melted against me, shaking a bit as her emotions got the better of her. "I have half a mind to foster him with Cat up in Winterfell regardless. Court life is no place for a young boy."
Darla nodded but didn't say anything. I ran my hand down her back in a soothing motion that in Brynden's experience worked equally well with skittish animals and young women.
"What did you get her for a wedding gift, anyways?" I asked. I remembered she had been secretive about the whole thing.
She leaned back and smiled at me. "Remember the red silk nightdress?"
I nodded. That was the one time I had approached that particular topic with more experience than Brynden, as Westeros didn't really offer much by way of negligees.
"I bought her one in green."
You're welcome, Robert. I let my smile grow a bit more suggestive. "Whatever happened to yours?"
"You tore it off me, remember?"
Now that she mentioned it, I did. We shared a grin at the happy memory. "You should see about getting it repaired."
"Why bother?" she asked, pulling away and turning to walk into the bedroom. "I won't be wearing anything so conservative tonight."
"Are you sure we have to go to this party tonight?" I called after her.
Hoster had suggested rather strongly that I put some effort into meeting some of the better sort of Braavosi. Apparently Jon Arryn was trying to bring our kingdom and the Free City closer together, and Hoster had had the ridiculous idea that I might help out with his diplomatic efforts. It also just so happened that Magister Golatas was throwing a party the very night of my arrival. According to Darla I had already prevented her from attending one of Magister Golatas's get-togethers, so it was only fair that I attend this one. Golatas was also fairly well connected within Braavos, so it would behoove me to get on his good side.
Of course, we could always come up with some kind of excuse to miss out, just this once.
"Dessert tastes all the sweeter when you have a hearty meal beforehand."
Or I could do my duty to king and country.
ooOoo
And so, on my brother's advice and my wife's insistence, I finally made my introduction to Braavosi high society. We arrived at Magister Golatas's house fashionably late, a half hour or so after the party was set to begin. We were met at the door by the host himself along with his wife. They both greeted Darla like an old friend, launching into a spirited conversation that took place, somewhat to my surprise, entirely in the Braavosi dialect of low Valyrian. I'd been working on learning the language and considered myself to be doing well to pick out nine words out of ten, but Darla chattered along like a native. I suppose she'd had more incentive to learn.
Eventually they finished their greeting and it was time to introduce me. I smiled just a little bit as I caught the magister's wife checking me out. I was wearing a red doublet decorated with my personal crest, a stark departure from the muted colors favored by proper Braavosi. Perfectly proper attire for any kind of get together back in the Riverlands, but here the obvious mark of an outsider. Dark blue hose and a dagger at my belt-I'd left my sword at home as a courtesy to our hosts-completed the image of a barbarian warrior.
The barbarian image was most effective when paired with unexpected social graces. I was the very picture of courtesy as I took Onesta Golatas's hand and bent over to just barely brush my lips over the back of her palm, before letting her go and turning to shake Magister Golatas's hand. I met his gaze evenly and drew on Brynden's experience to give him a precisely calibrated nod designed to communicate the message: yes, I could probably fuck your wife but out of respect for you and your home I will not make the attempt today.
I could only hope that the basic meaning would translate across cultures. The magister didn't immediately kick me out, which I counted as a win. With the initial introduction over Onesta led Darla away while the magister walked me down the hall.
The basic structure of dinner parties was consistent in Westeros, Braavos, and as far as I knew across all of time and space. First, the guests stand around and chat while drinking and eating snacks. Then, everybody sits down for dinner and drinks while talking to people around them. Finally, there's some kind of musical entertainment and, of course, more drinking. Depending on just how much drinking has occurred there may also be dancing.
One difference from what I was used to was that the initial mingling period was sex-segregated. The women were all gathered in an enclosed fifth floor balcony that offered spectacular views of Braavos at night. The men congregated in a trophy room of sorts that was attached to the balcony. Some of the younger men were hanging out by the door that connected the two, no doubt intent on enjoying the view.
I didn't have much of a chance to look around, as the magister led me to a corner of the room where a large man was staring morosely at a map of Westeros that had been pinned to the wall. The magister introduced us and excused himself to head back to the door. He did it all so smoothly that he was out of earshot before I realized that I was alone in a secluded spot with Ser Willem Darry.
I didn't recognize the name from my own earlier memories, but Brynden knew the Darry family to be fanatical Targaryen loyalists. They had all rallied to fight against Hoster, their liege lord, during the rebellion. Many of them had died, including Willem's brother Jonothor, a member of the Kingsguard. Willem had gone missing after the war, his whereabouts a mystery. Until now.
I didn't really care. Robert had proven unenthusiastic about chasing down vanquished foes once he secured his throne, other than the young Targaryens. To the best of my knowledge those two were down in Pentos, which I was making a point to avoid. Other loyalists were free to kick around the world doing whatever they wanted, so long as it didn't involve stirring up trouble back home. Despite that, I still felt a brief flash of anger at seeing a man who had sworn himself to serve my brother before taking up arms against him, but I could overlook it.
"I suppose he thinks all of us barbarians get along," I said in the common tongue, trying to establish a calm tone for level-headed communication.
"I didn't know there would be traitors in this house tonight," Willem spat out.
Well, so much for polite conversation. Taking insults from this fucking forsworn loser was certainly not part of my plans for tonight. With an effort, I forced down my instinctive reaction. I couldn't just up and stab him. Not yet.
"You speak to me of treason? You must be joking."
He hawked up a loogie and spat it out deliberately at my feet.
"Only a Tully makes a joke of honor."
All right, it was on. A sort of red mist had descended on my vision and I was ready to launch into this jackass. I just managed to hold myself back, dimly aware that it would be better for me if he threw the first punch.
"Tell me: is it true that your brother taught Rhaeger the ways of boy-buggery? The Prince seemed most grieved when Jonothor was cut down like the dog he was on the banks of the Trident."
Ser Willem stood half a head taller than me. He was a bit broader across the shoulders, but also well older. He wasn't wearing a visible weapon, which meant that he had a knife tucked away in hiding somewhere. I figured that in the time it would take for him to draw it I could have mine out and ready to go. He caught me by surprise when he instead lunged forward with a roar and wrapped me in a bear hug.
There was no knightly wrestling technique at play here. Only crushing pressure as he tried to subdue me with the strength of his arms alone. With my own arms pinned to my body I had no way to draw my knife. I could feel my ribs creak and smell the sour alcohol on his breath as he slurred out some threat or another and redoubled his efforts to squeeze me to death. Then I leaned back as far as I could and slammed my head forward, driving my forehead into his face.
I heard a wet snapping noise as he cried out, releasing me with his right arm and reeling a half step backwards. I balled up my left fist and hooked a punch into his short ribs as hard as I could. Then another. After the third he let go of me entirely, taking another step back. He gathered himself and threw a long looping punch at my head with his right hand, raising his left arm to shield his own face.
In the mean time, I drew my dagger from its spot on my belt and drove it into his side. The shock of it made him pull his punch in short so that his knuckle only scraped along my forehead instead of crashing into my temple. I grabbed him with my left hand and stepped in close, drawing the dagger out and stabbing it in again, this time striking low in his side with the blade angled upward and pushing until the foot long blade was buried to the hilt. I gave it a couple good stirring motions before I stepped back, withdrawing my dagger as I did.
Ser Willem stood there in a daze, staring at me without comprehension as his hands automatically moved to staunch the wound at his side. It was pointless, of course. The internal bleeding would see him dead before the night was over. Still, there was one more thing to do.
Wrapping my fist firmly around the hilt of the dagger in my hand, I drew back and sent a straight right crashing into his already abused nose. He took two steps back then fell to the floor. He wouldn't be standing up again.
"Oh no oh no oh no..."
As the killing haze started to fade from my mind I became aware that I had an audience. Turning, I saw that Magister Golatas had pushed to the front of the crowd. It was his fretting that had drawn my attention. He was holding a white handkerchief out as a sort of offering. I don't know what he intended to accomplish with it, but I could certainly use it.
"I knew he was looking for sellswords so I thought..."
I ignored his babbling as I took the handkerchief from his hand and used it to mop my forehead. Taking a glance at it I saw less blood than I expected mixed in with the sweat. I then used it to clean the blood off of my knife, dropping the soiled handkerchief to the floor as I sheathed my weapon.
"...a man dead on my new carpet..."
I paid no mind to the ongoing stream of words as I surveyed the crowd. The adrenalin was still flowing through my system, my heart was still pounding, and... there she was. Darla was with a group of women who had gathered to the side of the watching men, and had seen a good portion of the fight. Her face was flushed and she was definitely giving me the bedroom eyes. Excellent.
I pulled a gold dragon from my pocket and tossed it to the magister without looking in his direction.
"Sorry about the mess."
I didn't hear anything anybody said as I strode towards my wife. The crowd melted out of my way like magic, and I hardly slowed down as I took her by the waist and took her out a side door. The door turned out to lead onto a small open-air balcony facing the Titan that guarded the city. I hardly paused to admire the view, growling something incoherent before I shoved Darla forward until she was bent over the balcony rail. I did just have the presence of mind to kick the door shut behind me before I went to work with my other dagger.
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Blackfish Out Of Water by jacobk
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, Brynden T., Words: 96k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Apr 30, 2016 Updated: Sep 15, 2016801Chapter 18
AN: Wildfire will make a steam engine more efficient, right?
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I slept in late the next morning. I felt that I'd earned it. I came half awake as the bed shifted with the motion of Darla waking up and starting her day, but I steadfastly refused to come back to full consciousness and soon drifted back to sleep. I was woken some time later by the feeling of damp pressure on my forehead.
I blinked awake to find my vision filled with a pale, slender wrist. Looking over I saw Darla seated by the bed, wrapped in a green nightgown, her tongue stuck out in concentration as she leaned toward me. As I watched, she wrung out the washcloth in her hand before re-soaking it in the bucket of warm water next to her and continuing to dab away at my forehead with short, gentle strokes.
I smiled at her as I did my own self inventory from last night's excitement. There was some pleasant soreness, of course. There were also some less pleasant aches and pains as a result of my tussle with Willem Darry. I tried rolling my right shoulder and felt a warning twinge. I could probably force the full range of motion, but I got the feeling it would be a bad idea right now. I had also somehow picked up a real humdinger of a bruise on my upper thigh. Darry must have gotten a hit in there that I hadn't registered during the fight.
I was also feeling some aches throughout my body that I couldn't pin down to one specific cause but more to an overall sense that I was too old to be getting into random brawls. If anybody should be roaming up and down Essos picking fights and headbutting people it was Robert Baratheon.
Darla finished cleaning my forehead and frowned as she looked at the results of her work. "I think we should have a maester take a look at this."
"It feels fine," I said. There was a little bit of soreness that was only to be expected after headbutting somebody, but I didn't feel any sharp or shooting pain. "Is any of the skin around the cut discolored?"
She stood and leaned forward, intently examining my forehead. Her robe, which had only been loosely wrapped around her body, fell open. I had already been experiencing the natural reaction from having a beautiful young woman fuss over me in bed. I reached around her back and pulled her close.
...
Afterwards, I lay back in a comfortable haze, my wife curled up by my side. It took a while for my mind to return its focus to more mundane pursuits.
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have a maester make sure the cut doesn't go bad."
"All right," Darla said, though she made no move to get up. We lay there for a time before she broke the comfortable silence. "Who was that old man?"
"Ser Willem Darry."
I felt her tense up beside me, although she didn't say anything. She would recognize the name. The Darry family was prominent in the Riverlands. Not so prominent as they were before the rebellion, of course.
"I squired for his uncle, you know," I continued. "I thought I really knew the whole family. Then they chose the Targaryens over us."
"Did you meet Ser Willem on the battlefield? Was he trying to take some kind of revenge?"
I laughed. "Perhaps I should pay a bard to write a song that tells the story that way. No, he said some things about my family so I said some things about his family. He attacked me and... well, you saw the rest."
I rested a hand possessively on her back. "The truth is, men start fights over some petty foolishness far more often than out of some grand plan for revenge."
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Once we managed to drag ourselves out of bed and get cleaned up, Darla insisted on taking me on a tour of the city. I didn't require much persuasion. In my previous trips I had always been focused on accomplishing one goal or another, so I hadn't had much of a chance to wander around. I was happy to have the excuse to play tourist.
Braavos is a city scattered across a hundred islands all hidden away in a secluded lagoon. Every inch of available space was paved and crowded with stone buildings, often four or five stories tall. The Braavosi seemed to favor decorative stonework in public spaces, and statuary was threaded throughout most buildings and even dotted the public roads. Many islands called for many bridges, ranging from creaky rope and wood contraptions to solid stone arches, but the easiest way to get around was by boat.
It would have been incredibly romantic if not for the ever present fog. Darla and I both wore heavy cloaks to ward against the chill. She had secured the services of a punt to ferry us around town for the day. The boat was painted in a riot of colors but the man hired to push us from place to place was thankfully a rather quiet chap. One modern invention I had no intention of bringing to this world was the singing gondolier.
Darla and I sat together in silence, leaning up against each other and watching the scenery pass by. The boat slid smoothly through the water, offering a far more comfortable experience than riding on a horse or, worse, in a carriage. Between the grey walls lining the sides of the canal, the grey buildings rising up out of sight, and the blanket of fog smothering everything, it felt a little bit like gliding through a dream.
I came fully awake as the boat scraped to a halt at the foot of a little ramp leading up to the road. I helped Darla to the shore and she seemed to come alive as we began to walk, peppering me with stories of the good times she had had at our destination. We were heading to a small cafe offering wine and snacks that apparently served as a frequent host for afternoon get-togethers for Darla and her friends.
I gave Darla a smile as she finished the epic tale of Verdiana Katsaros and The Missing Bracelet.
"You have so many friends," I said, "and here I was worried that you would have trouble adjusting away from the quiet solitude of Raventree Hall."
We paused for a moment to watch a brief altercation taking place. A rich man had just had one of his guards pin a servant up against the bright red door of the house we were walking past. As we watched the guard fished through the man's pockets and picked out a few valuables. I took Darla's arm and got us moving again before the ensuing beating got too brutal. She shook her head, then brightened up as she remembered my comment.
"Oh, making friends isn't so hard once somebody shows you how things work," Darla said, waving her hand dismissively. "For the first few months they were willing to forgive me anything. They were so excited to have a barbarian princess to coo over that it hardly mattered whether I understood a word they were saying."
How did the saying go? It's not important that a bear dance well, it's impressive enough that it's dancing. I didn't think Darla would appreciate the comparison, so I held my tongue.
We arrived at the cafe and with a few short words Darla very quickly secured us a private table, a bottle of Volantine white wine, and a plate of candied pears. I could definitely see myself becoming a regular at a place like this.
"Over time I learned the language and I learned how to fit in," Darla continued, pausing to nibble on a slice of pear. "Eventually it was almost like I was one of them."
I raised an eyebrow and took a sip of wine, taking a moment to enjoy the flavor. Tart, sharp, just a little bit sweet. Very nice.
"I suppose I undid some of your work last night," I said, setting my glass down with unrepentant grin.
"Oh, I'd say we reminded them of something they shouldn't have forgotten," she replied, matching my grin with one of her own.
"You don't want to be just another Braavosi lady?"
"You know, the women here brag about how much money their husbands make," Darla sniffed. "Oh, they try and dress it up and talk around it, but it's always there. That's why Onesta Golatas thinks she's practically royalty."
Every country, every society, every group of people has its pecking order. Westeros had an extensive formal hierarchy in the feudal relationship between the king and his vassals and their vassals and so on. Braavos had the Sealord and the keyholders of the Iron Bank, but otherwise prominent citizens were on a fairly level playing field. Westerosi noblemen competed against each other in their own personal strength and skill at arms and the power of the levies at their command, and to a smaller extent with the money they earned from their holdings. Apparently the Braavosi were much more focused on the pursuit of wealth, which fit with what I knew of them as a people who somewhat disdained martial pursuits.
Braavos seemed to follow Westeros in that wives took their social standing from their husbands, at least to start out with. They then jockeyed for position amongst themselves through a process that was fairly opaque to Brynden but that I recognized as essentially mean girl tactics leavened with the occasional bit of palace intrigue and assassination. It was lucky for me that Darla seemed to have a knack for that kind of thing. And also that she hadn't gone completely native-while the Sunset Legion was doing all right financially, we could hardly measure up to any of the major trading concerns, at least not yet.
Darla leaned forward, a predatory gleam in her eye as she lowered her voice. "I don't care how much money her bedspread cost when I know who she was picturing last night when she had to convince her husband that he was bringing her any satisfaction."
I could hardly respond to that with anything but my best shit eating grin. I raised my glass of wine to her in a silent toast before taking another sip. As I did, a question occurred to me.
"Magister Golatas is that wealthy? I didn't get a chance to talk with him about his business."
"Oh, yes. He got his start in long distance trading to places like Qarth and Yi Ti. Then he started a business selling insurance to other traders. They pay him a fee and if they lose a ship, he pays them to cover their losses."
Selling insurance... I wondered how that was regulated. Probably at the Sealord's discretion. Back home Warren Buffet had become incredibly wealthy largely on the strength of his insurance investments, and that was under a regime that required insurance policies to be actuarially fair, where the insurance companies made their money by investing the floating capital that accrued between when they were paid and when they had to pay out. I doubted any such restrictions were in place here.
Of course, I doubted they had actuarial tables here either. If I knew a bit more math I could really make a killing here. On the other hand, having a little more cash on hand wouldn't really do much to help my family against the threats coming down the pike. Besides, how could I live with myself if I took the opportunity presented by living in a fantasy world and used it to secure a desk job?
"So in a way we're in the same business," I said. "We both get paid to take on risks. He just gets paid more, for now."
"Oh?" Darla asked, a bit challenging.
"We've done well on the battlefield so far, and we'll be doubling in strength soon. It might not be the same kind of monthly income that some magisters manage," I said, "but if we ever sack a Free City we'll walk off with a haul that even Magister Golatas would be impressed by."
"That could happen? What is it that makes your legion so special? People ask me and I can't really explain it."
"You want a lesson on battlefield tactics?" I asked. "All right."
I finished off the rest of the pear slice I had been working on and washed it down with a swallow of wine while I thought.
"The first thing you have to understand is that it's hard, mentally, to stand your ground when somebody comes running at you with a weapon," I said. "Likewise, it's hard to charge at somebody who's standing their ground and holding a weapon."
"That makes sense."
"What we do is train everybody to work together. It's easier to charge if all your friends are charging, and easier to hold your ground when you're shoulder to shoulder with people you trust," I said. "It's a lot like what the old Ghiscari legions used to do."
Darla frowned. "I thought the Unsullied copied the Ghiscari legions."
She was familiar with my strong loathing of the Unsullied, and had either done some reading on the topic or had pieced together their training methods from my comments on the topic. Either way, I was impressed.
"There are some similarities, but they're more of a distant cousin than a sibling," I said. "Where they cut off their soldiers' balls and train them like dogs until they can do nothing but obey, we teach young men to channel their actions to the benefit of the entire unit. The only real commonality is how they are trained to act as a unit."
I was prepared to elaborate on my explanation but was interrupted by a young woman who approached our table. She looked to be a few years older than Darla, and more than a few pounds heavier. Contrary to the usual Braavosi fashion of muted colors, her dress-a fancy silk construction-was dyed in a riot of bright reds, greens, and yellows.
"Darla! How nice to see you here," she said. The faux friendliness of her voice set my teeth on edge. "I had such a lovely time at the party last night, though I dare say I didn't enjoy it as much as you did."
"Marghi," Darla said, her smile not reaching her eyes, "how... brave of you to wear that dress."
I smiled blandly and kept my mouth shut. A good commander wins the battles he should and some of the ones he shouldn't. A great commander knows when it's best to avoid combat altogether.
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Blackfish Out Of Water by jacobk
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, Brynden T., Words: 96k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Apr 30, 2016 Updated: Sep 15, 2016801Chapter 19
AN: CKII is a hell of a game.
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I decided to avoid any more big social events while I was in Braavos. It seemed like a good idea to stay out of sight for a while after I killed somebody in public. I had been acting in self defense and I was pretty sure I was well-connected enough that the Sealord wouldn't just summarily throw me into prison or execute me, but continuing to try to thrust myself onto the scene could prompt some kind of reaction. Better to let memories fade. Besides, I didn't much care for parties.
That left Darla and I with plenty of time to explore the city together. Almost like a honeymoon trip. A little different, what with her having recently given birth, but we already employed people who could watch over the kid while Darla and I were out and about. One of the perks of being rich.
Braavos was a real city. It had restaurants. It had a shopping district. It had bars. It had offices. It had people bustling around at all hours of the day. Hells, it had commuters. Drop it off on the Cote D'azur somewhere and it would be completely integrated to modern life within a decade. Sure, the technology would create an adjustment period but these people had already adapted to the rhythms of normal city life.
It was a jarring transition from the army camps, medieval holdfasts, and transportation ships where I had been spending my time lately. At first it felt alien. Then for a while I was a bit homesick. Then I forced myself to stop whining and focused on enjoying myself with my young wife.
It wasn't all fun and games. I did take a couple days to meet with the blacksmiths and armorers that the Sunset Legion relied on to kit out new soldiers to make sure they'd be ready when our new group of recruits graduated. I also met with the Iron Bank to deliver their cut of our earnings so far and give a report on how things had been going. Everything I told them could have been put in a letter but I figured they would appreciate the personal touch. I'm not sure they really understood the foundation for our military success but they were quite keen on how that success would turn into money making opportunities down the road, which was of course why I had wanted to go into business with them in the first place. Other than those errands I was able to devote my attention to Darla.
Mostly we spent our time on the kind of things you would expect newlyweds to do, but there was one evening that stood out. We were walking home from the opera in the dark, the performance having gone on longer than expected, when a pair of brightly dressed young men came walking towards us from the other direction. Bravos. I immediately fixed the one that I took to be the leader with a disdainful glare.
I had absorbed many of Brynden's memories when I arrived in this world, and it seemed that some of his prejudices had come along with that package. One example of that was a severe animus towards bravos. Now, taking a step back and trying to engage in some objective introspection, some of Brynden's mentality definitely came from the angry old man part of his psyche: when he was a young man who needed to brave physical danger to prove himself he'd joined up with Ormund Baratheon's host and battled the Ninepenny Kings in the disputed lands.
There was more to it, though. Brynden didn't really have it in him to condemn teenagers who were out to raise a little hell. He wasn't that much of a hypocrite. No, he saved his real scorn for those who called themselves water dancers. As a reader I always thought they were pretty cool swashbuckling types that brought a little bit of flair into the world and provided a nice contrast to the lumbering knights overly dependent on brute force. But to the eye of a practical military man they looked quite different.
Anybody who knew they were going to be fighting for their life would wear a suit of armor. That armor would render a rapier almost entirely useless. Even if it were technically possible to score a hit on an armored opponent, if one side of a fight has to worry about being hit anywhere on the body and the other side only has to guard a few vulnerable points... that makes up for even a massive gap in skill. Fundamentally, the water dance was useless on a battlefield.
And that was fine. The main point of a sword was to serve as personal defense for the man about town. I was wearing one by my side for just that purpose. Nothing wrong with that.
What set my teeth on edge-thanks to Brynden's instincts-were people who fetishized what should have been a practical tool. Even in a medieval society like Westeros where people took slights to their honor quite seriously, it just wasn't that common for people to find themselves in impromptu duels to the death. It was just common sense to be prepared just in case, but there was no reason to focus obsessively on such an unlikely event.
In modern terms, the Westerosi approach was for most folks to carry pistols and hit the shooting range with some frequency; the bravos spent every weekend obsessively running through urban self defense camps. Were they somewhat more prepared in the event that a surprise fight broke out? Sure. Was it a worthwhile expenditure of effort? Not really.
Where Westerosi society trained men in useful combat techniques and honored valiant warriors, Braavos preferred to lionize clever traders and sailors. Young men who were inclined towards physical combat but blocked from socially useful expressions of that talent had created their own subset of society where they spent their time obsessively honing a skill that was only really useful in competitions between each other. It was a perversion of the warrior ethos that really stuck in my craw.
Basically, water dancing was something you fobbed off on your daughter who insisted on learning how to fight. It was embarassing for grown men to make it the focus of their life.
That whole analysis was running through the back of my mind as I kept my main focus on the approaching bravos. These guys looked more like teenagers out to find trouble than any kind of experts with the blade. As they drew closer it occurred to me that they might have mistaken me for one of their own. The Westerosi style clothing I was wearing was brighter than the average Braavosi citizen preferred, and I had an arming sword visibly strapped to my belt. It was also possible that they were out on the prowl looking for an easy mark to rob.
As they drew closer I didn't let up with the arrogant eye contact, and I even let my hand drift down towards my sword. On the one hand, this was provocative. On the other hand, Brynden Tully didn't go through life shying away from conflict and I wasn't about to start now. Besides, they could just have well been egged on by a show of weakness and scared off by a show of strength as the reverse. Robbers usually weren't interested in picking on targets that fight back, and teenagers out to engage in the time-honored practice of fucking with their peers in front of pretty girls would think twice on running into a full grown man and his wife.
I wasn't one hundred percent sure it would work. I had inherited from Brynden a fantastically fit body for a forty-two year old man. He was solidly built and could more than handle himself on the battlefield. However, he didn't have the sheer intimidating bulk of Gregor or even Sandor Clegane. An unobservant an overconfident teenager-that is to say, a teenage boy-might well persuade themselves that they could take me in a melee fight.
The bravos puffed themselves up as they drew close. I started to prepare myself for action. It was a chilly night, so I was wearing a cloak. That could come in handy if this turned into a fight. I shifted, letting the cloak fall open as I prepared to wrap it around my left arm to be used as a makeshift buckler.
The bravos glanced down at the motion. I saw the lead one's eyes widen. He turned and whispered something to his friend, and the two of them scurried across the street before we crossed paths. I waited until we had walked down to the end of the block and rounded a corner before I said anything.
"That's odd."
Darla, who had been woolgathering through the whole near-confrontation, started a bit. "What's that?"
"Those kids," I said, looking down. With my cloak open the black fish embroidered on my doublet was clearly visible. "It almost seemed like they recognized my sigil. I didn't think people here paid attention to that kind of thing."
She giggled. "They don't, usually."
I raised an eyebrow and waited for her to continue.
"They probably couldn't tell you your house," she said, "but at least this week everybody knows about the Blackfish."
"Oh?"
"Well, they heard about the madman who killed five men and satisfied their wives all in one night."
"Was that what happened?"
She giggled again, and shifted closer. We went from holding hands to a sort of walking cuddle, my right arm wrapped around her. "Stories do tend to grow in the retelling."
I chuckled, but the thought lingered on my mind as we walked down the street. It made sense that the events at the party were the kind of thing that caught people's attention. In the absence of newspapers word of mouth was surprisingly effective at spreading gossip through the community, the more sensationalistic the better, though some of the details might get fudged in the pursuit of a better story. Eventually some other juicy rumor would hit the town and I'd fade out of the collective memory. I should probably just count my blessings that I lived in a world that didn't have cell phone cameras or the internet.
"His tears cure cancer. Too bad he never cries," I muttered to myself.
"What was that?"
"Just thinking out loud," I said, shaking my head. "Jon Arryn wanted me to help Robert's diplomats open communications with Braavos, but it seems to me that you would be much better suited to the task."
One of the most useful skills that I had brought with me to this new world was the ability to delegate work to other people in a way that had them thanking me for the privilege. This one should be easy. I hated bullshit networking events back home and Brynden had never much cared for them here. Darla, on the other hand, was a social butterfly that had been stifled back in Raventree Hall and was just starting to spread her wings here in Braavos.
It made such good sense on logical grounds that I would say no more than seventy-five percent of my motivation for bringing this up was laziness on my part.
Darla looked a bit wrong-footed at the change in topic, but soon regained her poise. "You think so?"
"I'm not really adding much if I just repeat to them the things that you tell me," I said. "Not to mention that with my reputation it might be a little hard to arrange introductions to polite society."
"With your reputation everybody would stay polite," she said, smiling, then sobered. "Can I really help the king?"
"Of course," I said. "You don't need to arrange their meetings with the Sea Lord. Robert's imprimatur will see to that. But these guys will also want to meet with the Braavosi upper crust and get a sense of what they're thinking and how they feel about us. I have a feeling that you can make that happen."
I could see the gears turning behind her eyes as she thought the idea over. I knew things had been resolved in my favor when she broke into a satisfied smile.
"I have been looking for an excuse to host my own party for a while. This could be fun."
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Blackfish Out Of Water by jacobk
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, Brynden T., Words: 96k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Apr 30, 2016 Updated: Sep 15, 2016801Chapter 20
AN: I should mention that I really do appreciate all the reviews. It's too bad that the system here doesn't really allow for much direct author-reader interaction. Also, something something something ice zombie dragons.
ooOoo
I stood at the entrance to our training camp just off the Braavosi coast. Next to me was Walder Frey. Arranged behind us were twelve sergeants pulled from our existing legion. They were to serve as a leg up for Walder, who would be taking the lead in training the new cohort of troops. I wanted to build a machine for creating soldiers, after all, and it wasn't much of a machine if it took my personal attention to keep everything running smoothly.
Walder wasn't completely on board with the plan.
"Are you sure you can't do the introduction speech, at least? It's important to get off on the right foot."
I shook my head. "That's exactly why I want you to handle it."
At some point I would need Walder to be able to handle the entire training process on his own. I was here to catch him if he stumbled but I couldn't carry him through the tough bits. If I did, how would he build the confidence to take care of them himself when I wasn't around? It was rough for him right now but ultimately he'd look back on this as a valuable opportunity to build character. Probably.
"It's just, I'm not much for speeches, so-"
I interrupted by clasping him on the shoulder. "And what better way to learn than through experience?"
He sighed and looked down at his feet. I could tell that he wasn't trying to be difficult. Walder just had a very strong dislike for being the center of attention. It was no doubt a personality trait that had served him well as a child in the Frey family and it had led him to develop some truly useful skills when it came to gathering information. However, he couldn't let his fears rule his life. Or rather, I couldn't let his fears limit his usefulness to me.
I wasn't doing all of this just to fuck with him. Walder was proving quite adept at information gathering, and as his network grew it would become less and less practical for him to manage things from wherever he happened to be in the field. He would need to be stationed in one place. Managing the training of new recruits would keep him an active participant in the legion's business without compromising his ability to run his network. It would kill two birds with one stone.
If, of course, he could get past his phobia and do the job.
I walked around until I was standing in front of Walder, now resting one hand on each shoulder. I kept my gaze on the top of his helmet and waited patiently. Eventually he lifted his head and his eyes met mine. I waited another beat so that he could tell that I was serious before I spoke.
"Walder, you've been to places these kids have only heard about in stories. You're a veteran of war in the disputed lands," I said. "The new recruits are going to look up to you and they're going to look to you for guidance. You don't need to be anything you're not. You just need to be confident in being yourself."
Walder drew himself up a little taller and some of the nervousness fell from his face. "I... thanks, captain."
I nodded and returned to my place standing next to him, waiting for the recruits to arrive. The silence felt a little more comfortable, now.
In the end, Walder got through the induction speech without a hitch. He might not quite have matched the natural flair and showmanship of the old Blackfish-in my completely unbiased opinion-but he turned in a completely serviceable performance. The new recruits hung on his every word, as expected. The rank and file were probably acting out of ingrained social norms as much as anything else, but the twelve young nobles who would be the new commanding officers were all focused on Walder personally. He was everything they aspired to be, after all: a veteran fresh from leading men in victorious battles on the disputed lands, standing shoulder to shoulder with the Blackfish.
I gave a very brief statement after he wrapped things up before we turned the veteran sergeants loose on the new recruits. The first day, as we'd done before, was split between introducing the new recruits to the concept of mass discipline, following orders as a cohesive body, and starting in on their physical conditioning. It retained a certain tragi-comic feel, although more comic than tragic now that I had already seen troops progress from this bumbling first day mess into a fearsome and well-coordinated fighting force.
I stuck around for the first month of training. I didn't say much. I hardly spoke to the men at all, in fact. I made myself available in case Walder felt like he needed advice, which didn't happen often after the first week. I also ate meals with the officers. Even there I let Walder take the lead. If I dominated things he would be one of thirteen junior officers. By taking a step back I hoped to emphasize the fact that he was their leader.
Westerosi nobles were quite familiar with the concept of the chain of command. It was built into their basic social structure. In transforming them into productive members of the Sunset Legion I felt we needed to replace society's chain of command with the chain of command I had set up for the legion. I did everything I could both formally and informally to reinforce the ranks established by the legion.
I may have been overthinking the problem, but if the new officers took it into their mind that they could boss Walder around because their families had a more illustrious lineage than the Freys the results could be disastrous. Better to nip those kinds of ideas in the bud by putting out the message in as many ways that I knew how that doing such a thing would draw the unforgiving wrath of the Blackfish. Sometimes an ounce of prevention really was worth a pound of cure.
A month into the training everything was going well and I packed my bags to head back out to the legion's camp in the disputed lands. I felt bad about having been away for several months and it just felt like a bad idea to be away for nearly a year in total as I would be if I stuck around until training was complete. I gave Walder one last pep talk before I was on my way.
Say one thing about working with the Iron Bank, say it isn't cheap. But sailing from place to place on Braavosi ships makes for a lot of uneventful trips.
ooOoo
I arrived back at the camp to find that contrary to all of the rules of dramatic convention nothing of note had happened while I was gone. Everything seemed to be in order as I gave things a visual inspection although I withheld my final judgment until I had a chance to talk with my second in command. I invited Rodrik and Petyr both to my command tent for dinner and debriefing.
My primary concern was morale. I didn't expect that an army riding high on recent victories and receiving regular pay would mutiny, but keeping a large bunch of young men cooped up in one place for an extended period of time was a recipe for rowdiness, to say the least.
"Morale has been good," Rodrik said. "We've worked them very hard on marching and drill. Their physical conditioning is the best I've ever seen it and I think we could use some of the more advanced maneuvers in combat now."
That was something. When we had graduated the men they had been able to, for example, march straight forward, stop, turn ninety degrees left or right as a coordinated unit, and march off in the new direction. However, it was the kind of thing that could go catastrophically wrong if just a few people screwed up so I had semi-officially stricken the command from the list of things we would ever actually ask the men to do in combat. I'd have to verify for myself what Rodrik was saying, but if he was correct then that was very good news.
"They're not pissing and moaning about all the work?"
"There's some grumbling, sure," Rodrik said, "but nothing serious. They get three square meals a day and..."
He gestured vaguely towards one wall of the tent. I followed where he was pointing, then called up a mental map of the camp. When I put two and two together I burst out laughing.
"Whores," I said, once I had calmed down, "you can say the word. I'm not a septon."
Rodrik blushed as Petyr enjoyed a friendly laugh at his expense. Petyr patted him on the shoulder before speaking up.
"The whores have been keeping the men's spirits up," he said, pausing as it was his turn to flush when Rodrick snickered. "And nobody's come down with the pox. I've made it clear to everyone involved that trying to evade our health inspections will have severe consequences."
"Good," I said, prompting a slightly startled reaction from Rodrick. "Oh, come off it. I was a young man once, I know what young men are like. Which reminds me, have we had any troubles with drinking?"
Rodrick shook his head and paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. "No. A few men have been buying and selling wine rations, but I've only stepped in to discipline them when the drinking affects their performance."
I nodded. Ideally you wouldn't want your soldiers to be intoxicated in a combat zone but in reality a medieval armed camp was no place for persnickety micro-management. As long as discipline was maintained where it mattered I didn't see any need to try to stamp out every little vice. Whoring, drinking, and...
"What about gambling?"
Petyr flinched slightly before recovering his poise and shaking his head. "Some card games and some dice games, but nothing serious."
"Cards and dice... you're sure that's all?"
I wasn't going to insult Petyr by reminding him of my feelings about decisions that were owned up to and decisions that I had to ferret out myself. I let the warning note in my tone of voice serve as a reminder. Petyr held strong for a moment, then sighed.
"I've also been running a few numbers games to keep the men occupied."
"All right," I said, running my fingers through my hair, "what's the vigorish?"
Both Petyr and Rodrick were staring at me like I was speaking in tongues. It took a moment's reflection to figure out why. Usually I spoke Westerosi as if it were English, Brynden's familiarity with the language letting me speak it as if it were my native tongue. When I hit a term that either didn't exist or that Brynden didn't know, though, apparently the English term came through unfiltered.
Well, I couldn't take it back now. Might as well bull through.
"The vig?" I asked, then sighed. "What percentage of the money wagered are you keeping for yourself?"
Petyr nodded, filing away the new vocabulary word before speaking. "I'd need a slate to work it out exactly. They wager a penny and pick three numbers from one through seven. I draw three numbers from a bag and anybody who matches gets two hundred and fifty pennies."
"You put the balls back after you draw them? And the order has to match?"
Petyr nodded. He looked a little nervous, now. Rodrik was obviously glad that he wasn't going through an interrogation but he was smart enough to know that as the man in command he was ultimately responsible for whatever happened on his watch. I let them stew for a bit while I thought about what I wanted to say.
"I understand that we're leading an army of men. Not saints. I'm not trying to turn them into saints. Like I said before, I'm no septon," I said. "If the men want to spend their money on whores, wine, and gambling, that's their decision. And if we're providing those services to them there's nothing wrong with getting paid for it."
A flash of relief crossed Petyr's face, but he was wise enough to know that another shoe could well be about to drop. He did his best to remain stoic.
"What I will not have is my men being swindled by the officers who are supposed to be their leaders. Seriously overcharging for wine and whores is a swindle. Crooked payouts are a swindle," I continued. "Not only is it wrong, it's also foolish to cheat men who you will be trusting with your lives out on the battlefield."
I paused, then drew myself up straight and assumed the pose I usually reserved for making public proclamations.
"Officially, any man tempted by gambling, promiscuity, or drunkenness should pray to the Seven for guidance," I said. "Unofficially, bump the payout to whatever round number puts the vig a little over ten percent, and try not to let anybody gamble away all their money."
Sometimes being a noble in Westeros felt like playing a part in a production of Shakespeare. Other times it felt more like being a mob boss.
ooOoo
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