If one thing can be said for the run-down shanty called “The Screaming Pelican” it would be that the tavern has seen better days.
The floor is made of the finest dirt. The air is thickened with the most putrid fragrances—stale beer, and much, much worse. Light itself seems to have fled this place in droves. The clientele seem to be as willing to cut a man’s purse as to shove a foot of steel into his guts. And the serving wenches? Far, far worse.
But it is in this crowded hovel that the Braavosi has come to drink, with his green silks slashed with red, and his red silks slashed with green; with his neatly manicured moustache; with the gleam from a golden ring dangling from one ear—and a single golden tooth.
Daric’s onetime heir has dressed down in chestnut leathers and green doublet. Astride his white courser he surveys the faade of The Screaming Pelican with a look of aristocratic distaste. A broadsword with sweatstained pommel hangs at his left hip, dirks at his right hip and hidden away in his left boot. Humfrey Westerling rides to the edge of the Pelican’s faade, dismounts and ties his horse to a hitching post. His squire does likewise, Humfrey spares the boy a cool stare. “Dirk in hand, boy, if anyone tries to spirit off with her, gut them.”
A backward glance to his cousins, Ser Dermett the groom, and Ser Jan the Champion. “Well, this is the place. . . remember what we talked about.” Without another word, Humfrey Westerling approaches the door, there is a dangerous grace inherent to the slight but nimble Westerling. Clearly, he’s anticipating trouble.
Jan is dressed plainly, simply a worn orange tunic and dirty brown leggings, the same color as the dirt on the ground. A haggard grey cloak drapes over his shoulders, masking an orange-hilted dagger at one side, which he clutches as he scans his seedy surroundings. He’s joined by Sers Dermett and Humfrey, and he peers over the Westerling’s shoulder as he props open the door to the tavern.
Seeing the clientele inside, he makes a sour face. “Seven, I’m not one to look down on any establishment that serves ale…but this is disgusting,” Jan mutters, his hand never leaving the hilt of his dagger. Taking a step inside, he peers through the crowd for a glimpse of their target. “He dresses and prances around like a peacock, this one, so I imagine he’ll be easy to spot. Either of you see him?”
Glaring at his cousin as if wishing to redress the man on some action, Ser Dermett otherwise stills his tongue when spoken to by Ser Humfrey. He simply nods in agreement as he dismounts and follows the disowned Westerling to the door. The man is dressed in chainmail and leathers, his longsword hanging from his hip inside a crimson scabbard; one could certainly make the case for a more subtle choice of attire but the Corbray heir does not seem to want to take any chances.
Notably, he keeps his helmet and shield with his horse, along with his squire, Almyn Upcliff, who is there to raise the alarm if anything untowards happens.
Ser Dermett’s long, black cloak sticks to his armour as he walks behind Ser Jan and Ser Humfrey. “Ale is ale, Marbrand,” he smirks, though his eyes scan the room for the peacock in question. “I do not,” he responds with his hand rested upon the pommel of his blade.
This ‘establishment’ is not a usual haunt for knights—let alone one as fully armed and armored as the newly minted bridegroom. So it should be no surprise when a hush decends upon the crowd and two score angry eyes look to the door.
A door that is shoulder shut by a large, hulking brute with more hair on his arms than on his head. “You’re in the wrong place,” he says. No titles. No honorifics. No question.
And then, from a table further back in the room, with the accent of Braavos thick upon the words: “Hacking Slashing Jan! And here I did not think to be seeing you again!”
Humfrey looks about the common room and sniffs, but makes no reply when Jan remarks at his disgust. He looks to Dermett and the look he receives, yes, it seems quite cool, but Humfrey makes no reverb here, either. There will be a time for redress, soon—but not when it looks as though some half score of cuthroats might rush them.
Humfrey looks to the Braavosi and moves his head to the left, his neck cracks with a sharp and rather unsettling sound. “I have heard you are a buisness associate of Ser Logan—that he has passed a great deal of coin to you, Braavosi. What is it you have upon this man?”
Jan glances up at the hulking brute with a sneering disdain; he stands up a little taller and grasps the hilt of his dagger tighter. But then he sees the rest of the tavern, all silent, staring down the knights. He deflates, just a little, before he snaps his neck to attention at the voice across the room.
He narrows his eyes and looks the Braavosi up and down, with his multicolored silks and glitterling jewelry. “A peacock, I told you,” he mutters, before speaking up. “Aye, Florio. It’s been too long since we’ve had a drink together, I think. Why don’t you join me and my companions here outside; Ser Humfrey has some questions to ask, as you can see,” he says, and though the words are lighthearted, his tone is anything but. Still, he sinks back to the balls of his feet, eyeing the crowd warily. “We should get this over with quick, sers…,” he adds under his breath.
Ser Dermett peers back at the brute with unflinching eyes, that familiar smirk crossing his lips. After grossily working up a mouthful of phlegm he spits out a wad of green, gloopy bile down onto the floor by the man’s foot. “No, my friend,” he says, “I am exactly where I intend to be.” His eyes do not move from the brute, even as the Braavosi begins to chide Ser Jan. His hand still sits upon the pommel of his blade.
“Where is your other friend, I wonder?” asks Florio. “The one with but half a hand, hmmm? I am seeing him on these very docks, from time to time, asking after this so-called pirate prince. And what will their meeting be, I am wondering? Not a happy one, eh, my friend?” Florio leans back in his chair, gesturing toward several without occupants at his table. “But there are fellows of ill repute about, friend Jan,” he says with a silken smile. “We are safer here.”
Only then does he eye Humfrey and Dermett, that golden smile still upon his lips. “The business of your good Ser Logen is my business alone—a man must be having a code, no?”
For his part, the hulking doorman spews his own spittle upon the top of Dermett’s. “Ask fer the ale und’r t’bar,” he says, mashing a wad of sourleaf into his maw. “‘spetter.”
Humfrey Westerling spares the Braavosi a mad look. Maybe it is the proximity of all these armed cuthroats, maybe it is the warrior conditioning and all the days of blood and fire on the Boneway. His frame becomes taught like a bowstring—it looks as though, at any second he might draw steel and gut the Braavosi from stem to stern!
Then he twitches his head toward Jan, his cousin’s wariness seems to bring him back from whatever blood soaked spot in the Seven Hells he was in. The tension ebbs and his hand falls away from his sword. “Do you bandy words with me Dornishman, Ser Logan has been purloining jeweled trifles from The Red Keep and you have been fencing them, or perchance receiving a share of the profits. It ends, now.”
Humfrey looks to Dermett then and stares at the puddle of phlegem. “We are precisely where we need to be. . .”
Then, “Blackhand?” Humfrey sounds somewhat disarmed “Saan? What do you know of Saan?”
Jan’s eyes narrow further, and he grins his teeth visibly. “It won’t be happy, no. But it will be least of all for the pirate,” Jan replies in a low voice, his hands now balled into a small fist - it’s clear that he is trying his damnedest to remain civil. He notices Florio gesture towards the empty seats, and leans to his companions, whispering. “The man likes to talk, clearly - indulge him, and maybe we’ll learn something.”
Jan tentatively takes a seat opposite the Braavosi, looking back as his cousin questions even further. He turns back to Florio and narrows his eyes skeptically. “Aye, Florio. Is theft a part of your ‘code’? Surely not…” Jan growls, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
Ser Dermett merely raises his eyebrows at the brute as he moves away, grinning at the apparent success his resolute stance has brought. His attention shifts onto Florio, though he periodically scans his eyes across the room to look for anything suspicious. He allows Ser Jan to do the talking, remaining silent. His hand still rests upon the pommel of his blade.
When invited to take a seat, Ser Dermett frowns. Never good to give a potential opponent the advantage of height, but not doing it would certainly draw attention. With some caution he sits to the right of Jan, leaning foward to hear the words of Michael Kenneth Williams better but otherwise remains silent.
As the tension washes from Humfrey’s features, so, too, does that in the room at large. Men and women go about their business, conversations resume, and in a few scan moments it is as if there never were three armed and armored knights in a tavern full of smallfolk and sailors.
“I know nothing of Saan, save that your Blackhand is asking questions,” says Florio, with a shrug. He raises a brow as Jan approaches and sits. “How your Logen has come by my money is not concerning to me. I am no thief as you are no thieves—there is not enough money in such a thing, I am thinking. I performed a service for him, and he is paying his debt. That is all. But this business of money is best talked of between partners, no? We four are not yet being partners.”
While Florio does not speak directly to the heir to Heart’s Home—he isn’t addressed himself, after all—he nods to the man. And winks.
Humfrey likewise remains standing a look to his cousins, before he looks to the Braavosi, Florio. “I am very careful about who I lie with, Ser. What is the nature of the service you did for Ser Logan? We have been charged to find the golden prizes he, or his lady has taken from the Keep. Surely, a man with your influence and wealth something of their disposition, or could easily gain some knowledg thereof.”
As the tavern’s patrons take their notice from the knights, Jan relaxes - enough to order some ale, from above the table. Still, Jan can’t suppress the slightest of eyerolls at the notion of being the Braavosi’s partner. His voice is still anything but friendly, if the hand has been taken off the dager and placed on the table. He nods along with Humfrey’s questioning. “You performed a service? Blackmail, Florio?” His ale arrives, and Jan takes a sip; he gags slightly, then chokes it down with great effort. “As my cousin says, we can’t be partners with just anyone.”
The heir to Heart’s Home smirks as Ser Jan forces down the ale, before turning to face the winking Braavosi. The smirk doesn’t recede but one can tell Ser Dermett is still being cautious. “Ser Dermett Corbray,” he says by way of introduction, when the man seems to seek out some name. “I don’t think I shall bother with a drink,” he grins, eyeing the ale in front of the Marbrand knight. And Ser Dermett resumes his stony silence, albeit with a bigger smirk on his lips.
“Trinkets are not of concern to me, good ser knight,” says Florio, “though golden trinkets may yet be having their uses. Golden prizes are another matter, to be sure.” That slimy, golden smile encompasses each of the knights in turn, allowing Jan a chance to speak.
And Florio offers an eyeroll to meet the Marbrand’s own. “First you are calling me a thief, and now you are calling me a—what is your word for it?” the Braavosi ask, waving his hand as if to snatch the word from the air. “A blackmailer?”
Until Dermett speaks, and those laughing eyes find him yet again. “Just so,” he says. “It is rude of me to forget to offer you congratulations. Did you come to your wedding bed armored in chain as well, I am wondering?”
The Erstwhile heir surveys the Braavosi with hard chestnut eyes, there is no merriment or smirking upon his thin eliptical face. “These trinkets, Florio, are of inimitable value. A bejeweled ring from the hand of Lady Simona Tully, a jeweled pendant taken from off Ser Jan’s betrtothed, Seven Willing, doubtless other trinkets have been stolen. Someone also tried to make off with a oak bow wrought with goldwork along the stave—this treasure was worth some 50 Dragons.”
Humfrey looks to his cousin Jan and his lips form a hard line, then he turns to Florio. “What else would this knight have cause to give you pouches heavy with coin, Florio?”
At the last Humfrey’s stony aspect breaks into a knife edge smile. “Who knows. Some maidens are like lambs, others like shadowcats when they are called to bed.”
“Just asking…” Jan mumbles into his cup, considerably less charmed by the Braavosi than Dermett. As Humfrey lists off the items stolen, Jan’s face grows redder and redder, and he taps his fingers along the table loudly. Finally, he brings it down on the table with a smack. “Fine, Florio. Not a thief, or a blackmailer. A businessman, perhaps. Would some coin convince you to tell us what you know about Ser Logan, or where we could find these ‘trinkets,’” he hisses, trying to keep his voice low enough that the rest of the patrons can’t hear, his narrowed eyes never leaving the man.
“Nay,” Ser Dermett retorts with a shake of the head, “Westerosi tradition dictates that man and wife should be stripped and dragged off directly into the marriage bed. It speeds things up, to be sure,” he laughs. “I would oblige if my lady wife asked, of course,” the Corbray heir adds, patting the chain links on the front of his chest with a gloved hand. His hand moves from the pommel of his sword down on to the chair beside him. Clearly he is feeling more at ease in the man’s company but his eyes still flicker occasionally around the room seeking trouble.
“Oh ho!” exclaims the Braavosi towards Dermett’s reply, wide eyed and smiling. But then, news from Humfrey stirs him. “You are captured, Jan? By the red woman, unless I am missing my guess! I know why you were so angry with me when we first met!” But that inflated joy fades quickly, and Florio leans conspiratorily in. His voice drops below the din of the tavern.
“But I am not forgetting your words, or your actions, or you—” but Florio cuts off as Jan slams the table and speaks into the quiet. “Just so,” is the reply, and the mercenary leans back with his gold-toothed smile.
A laugh bubbles up from Humfrey’s throat, more a sardonic chuckle at Dermett’s remarks regarding marriage—then his gate darkens. “When my lady wife and I wed our guests were crofters, and serving wenches, and not one of them knew why I threw gold and silver about as though it naught but soiled clothe.” Humfrey lowers his eyes to the Braavosi, then looks to Jan. Now, it seemed, they were getting somewhere. “Just so, as the Knight of the Flaming Tree said, we wish to trade for what you know of this knight and the purloined trifles.”
Dermett’s retorn earns an amused snort from Jan, but as soon as Florio starts to speak, he resorts back to a grim expression which never changes; not even the mention of a red woman can bring a smile out of him - if anything, his glare deepens further. “That’s not important to you,” he says with a scowl. “And don’t worry, I’m not forgetting yours either, Florio.” He closes his eyes tightly, reaches forward, and downs the rest of the putrid ale in one gulp. “But that’s in the past, for now,” he manages out, with much effort. “Stags for knowledge, Florio. A fair trade, you’ll agree?”
Ser Dermett resumes his stony silence, ever cautious. He listens to the words of the men as they speak but he doesn’t seem to take much personal interest; the Braavosi is a stranger to him and the mystery of the purloined items has not been one he has taken much interest in, unlike his lady wife. No, the heir to Heart’s Home is merely here as another sword for his companions, and despite a more relaxed demeanour he is still eyeing each and all inside the inn with great suspicion.
The Braavosi listens to Humfrey’s tale attentively enough, but it is Jan that draws his eye. A grin comes easily to this man’s lips, nothing has ever been more apparent, but as Humfrey gives his assent and the terms are discussed, Florio of Braavos is all busines. He thinks a moment, eyes flicking from Unknight to Marbrand to Corbray and back. “Just so,” he intones yet again, before he reaches under the table to retrieve a pouch from Jan, opens it to glance inside, and secrets it up his sleeve. And then the grin returns.
“Your Logen came to me seeking help when he found your chivalry to be lacking. ‘I am needing coin,’ he said to me, ‘so that I may marry.’ A man of many debts, your knightly Logen. But there is money to be had in plenty, across the sea, if a man is willing to be risking his neck for it—and is having the favor of Lady Luck, I am thinking.” Florio cranes his neck from side to side, the bones popping and crackling as he does so.
“Such ways are known to me, the reckless ways of youth, and I was finding passage for your Logen and two others bound for Pentos—and I was intending to write letters of introduction to my old brethern in the Second Sons.”
“But I am no thief, as I have said. The coin he paid was for the passage and provisions which I was obtaining—and a fee of twenty percentages for the letter and my troubles.”
“The Second Sons.” Humfrey deadpans—he turns toward the kegs in one corner of the inn and runs a hand through his chestnut hair. “Who are the two that intend to book passage with him? Have you any idea?” A look to Jan then to Dermett, and lastly as suspicious look at Florio. “Logen. We need to find him.”
Jan studies Florio as he speaks with a probing eye, looking for any sign of untruthfulness or deception. If he finds any, he doesn’t show it, but looks aside to Dermett and Humfrey, gauging their reactions. He looks Florio up in down once more. “You many not be a thief…but you were in business with one, at least with this Ser Logen. Whether you knew it or not,” Jan replies skeptically.
He drums his fingers on the table again, with frustration. He nods in agreement with Humfrey, and comments, “His bride-to-be, surely - and one more. Do you know, when and from where would they leave, Florio? Perhaps we can meet them as they expect to leave.” Sighing, he adds with a roll of the eyes, “There’s another pouch in it for you, if you know.”
Ser Dermett shrugs when Ser Jan looks to him, being about as useful as nipples on a breastplate. Indeed, the man looks utterly lost when the others begin talking of a ‘bride-to-be’, his face a picture of puzzlement. A stony silence is kept, though his attention on the rest of the room is ceasing somewhat. Something else must be playing on his mind… Lady Damia’s thighs no doubt. He sighs as Ser Jan offers up more coin.
“No,” says Florio to Humfrey with a pointed look. “I am not in the habit of asking questions that are not concerning me.” And the bravo offers another shrug to Jan’s comments—though he is ready enough to accept the man’s coin.
He stands quickly, new pouch grasped in hand. “A sevenday from now, aboard the Magister’s Pride.” Florio pauses a moment. “Good hunting,” and he sketches a bow before turning and moving off towards the bar. “I am thinking to buy the next round!” he shouts, to much applause.
And the worthies of the court are soon forgotten.
“No,” says Florio to Humfrey with a pointed look. “I am not in the habit of asking questions that are not concerning me.” And the bravo offers another shrug to Jan’s comments—though he is ready enough to accept the man’s coin. “I am not knowing where your Logen is getting his money, but I am not greatly concerned. It is all in the game, friend Jan.”
He stands quickly, new pouch grasped in hand. “A sevenday from now, aboard the Magister’s Pride.” Florio pauses a moment. “Good hunting,” and he sketches a bow before turning and moving off towards the bar. “I am thinking to buy the next round!” he shouts, to much applause.
And the worthies of the court are soon forgotten.