covered with a great awning bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, and long, streaing pennons affixed to rigging and masts bear the same figure.. Within the shelter of this awning, the ship’s captain consults with the pilot. There, as well, is a steep and narrow ladder leading to the lower deck. To the fore of the galleas is a great forecastle, which can be reached by a carved staircase.
It is after midnight (about 3 am) of the 10th day in the 12th month. The
season is Summer, in the 160th year since Aegon’s Landing.
The wind having turned contrary this last hour, the Black Dread’s captain has ordered the oars unshipped, and now nigh on nine hundred men the great galley’s deck toil away. The boom of the drums to keep time echo below, and can be as much felt as heard on the deck. It’s an overcast day, but warm, and the sailors working at the rigging can be heard to mutter about rain. Throughout the deck, the many courtiers, knights, and ladies are ranged about in discreet knots, and others still prefer to retire to the cabins. A few, seasick, seem wedded to the railing.
And then there’s Prince Viserys, under his awning, a steward beside him with a sheaf of papers; the Hand never stops working, it seems. A minstreal plays a lute softly, but does not sing, and a page holds a bottle of red wine and two goblets at the ready for the Targaryen. And yet another—a twin, in fact, to the other boy—comes from forward of the deck, leading Ser Stevyn to an audience with Viserys.
Stevyn walks with habitual disconnection with the world around him, at home on the rise and fall of the sea as he is on land. As he draws nigh, he pauses some paces away and with a hand to his breast he bows low, and rises to await acknowledgement from the Hand.
“Ser Stevyn Locke, sir,” the page murmurs softly in the general vicinity of the Hand’s ear.
Mahogany hued hair falls in waves to shoulders that are muscular and broad, wrought so by two decades of weapon handling. His form is clad in clothing that is serviceable and neat, with only the crest of Locke upon his chest to denote his identity. His boots are scarred and buttersoft, worn well with knightly spurs at the heels.
Dark brown eyes gaze with steady equanimity at the world, flanked by lines that have squinted often to the horizon. If eyes are the window to the soul, then this man’s soul is slate, for there is little to see beyond the hard set orbs. Sable brows wing upward, a stark slash against the tanned skin of his face. His features are sharp hewn, the lineage of nobility in every aquiline feature. A close trimmed moustache and beard hide the harsh line of his jaw. A red scar scores his face from right cheekbone, just skipping his mouth and down to his jawline. It seems a recent enhancement to his features.
The memory of ages is in his bearing, though he holds some of his youth still. Forged and seasoned in the fires of war, the knight wears his garb with a warrior’s pride and the blade girt at his hip speaks of years of service.
A few quick scratches of the quill in his hand, and then Viserys pushes the document he signed aside. The steward, setting down his sheaf of paper, sprinkles sand on it, blows it away, and heats wax for a seal. While he does this, Prince Viserys says with a certain gravity, “Good day to you, ser. Sit, if you please. We’ve a matter to discuss, these few minutes.” He gestures, and the page offers a carved chair for the northman. Viserys’s expression is inscrutable—thin mouth and shrewd eyes reveal little enough about his business, save to suggest it’s the king’s business that he wishes to discuss.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” there is calm equanimity in the mien of the Locke knight as he takes the proffered seat. He seats himself easily, long limbs folding into a relatively comfortable posture.
“How might I be of service to Your Grace and His Majesty?”
“There is an office his grace believes you may serve him in,” Viserys says, but then he gestures to the other page. The youth sets the goblets down on the table and pours wine from the bottle, the golden wine of the Arbor, first in the prince’s cup and then in Ser Stevyn’s. Once the boy withdraws, Viserys takes up his goblet and continues. “And the Master of Laws and small council agrees.” But he does not say what it is.
Instead, he takes a swallow of the wine, and after a weighing, considering glance he says, “You have been a discreet man, ser, and discretion is not so easily come by at court. You’re no man for chasing after glory with these so-called tourney brotherhoods, I gather.”
“I shall serve in any manner that His Grace feels fit, I am certain,” Stevyn replies in his quiet way, before a faintly crooked smile curves his lips at the latter.
“Indeed, Your Grace, I am no tournament knight. I have coin enough in my purse and no wish to increase it with combatative pursuits. There is fighting enough that is serious. I have not entered a tournament since I was a lad of sixteen.” He looks bemused, as though hardly believing it was so long ago.
The purple-eyed gaze of the Hand of the King is a heavy thing, as he considers that. “Yet you’re a member of one of these, the ‘Brothers of the Battle’. Out of friendship to Jaremy Dustin, mayhaps? Or brave Ser Sarmion? My son, the prince Aegon?” At the last, a certain twist of his lips, a thread of distaste, touches Viserys’s manner and tone.
“They asked me, and I saw no reason to refuse,” Stevyn replies in a flatly prosaic way, “I have few connections within King’s Landing - as Your Grace knows, I had spent nine years in the Free Cities. Sarmion Baratheon has been fair in his dealings with me.” A shrug.
“Does Your Grace find this a problem?” a quirk of a dark brow.
“No,” Viserys replies, as blunt as the northman. “Not now that you explain it. It’s wise to not have too many friends at court, but wiser to have many acquaintances.” Another swallow of wine, the prince’s thick brows beetled in thought, and then he remarks, “The news from the Free Cities is not all that the king would wish. I fear the Sealord has grown over-confident, with his betrothal to Princess Rhaena, and has launched a fleet against Tyrosh too soon. Have you heard ought of it from acquaintances of yours from across the narrow sea?”
“Aye,” Stevyn replies, “Tis hard to avoid the buzz of it at the docks.” He folds his hands in his lap. There have been some hurt feelings in lands distant. And hurt feelings over there…usually end in blood soaking desert sands.” He pauses.
“And if the rumors in court are to be believed, things are not so quiet hereabouts. I was perplexed about it though, Dorne is not yet far enough behind us to warrant involving our forces in another conflict…”
The Hand listens with interest, and nods his head at the end ... but he doesn’t say anything on Stevyn’s perplexity; merely a glimmer of something in those Targaryen eyes of his, to give anything away. “You’re well informed, ser, on Free Cities matters. Trade will be disrupted—only for a little while, one may hope—but that will mean broken contracts and disputes about cargo.”
A last sip of wine, and then he sets down the goblet. “The king requires a justiciar with knowledge of the Valyrian of the Free Cities, a justiciar with ... discretion, and a reputation as an even-handed man. You were most obliging in joining the embassy to Braavos to negotiate the Sealord’s visit, and when names for thi office were discussed, yours was among the first to be put forward.”
“A great many people will be affected, but I suspect we shall see them upon the waters before too long,” Stevyn replies with serious intent, “but your words do me great honour. To whom would I answer to in this position?”
“Lord Terin, chiefly. As Master of Laws, the king leaves many of the more ... tedious cases to him; and if I am not mistaken, Ryger will do the same with you. You shall be a busy man, chasing after defaulting merchants on the docks, I do not doubt.” Viserys’s lips quirk into a thin smile; he finds humor in that, it seems. “Oh, I suppose you shall deal with other sorts of cases than contract matters; the king’s justiciars are much over-worked. Sodomy, thievery, murder—we have all kinds in King’s Landing. Of course, there’ll be a maester and some laymen versed in the law to assist you in the finer points.”
Stevyn proffers a short bark of humourless laughter, “Seven knows, you make it sound so appealing, Your Grace.” He considers a point beyond Viserys’ shoulder, a distant expression on his face for moment as his lips twist a little at some hidden thought.
“Very well,” he utters then, “The King has himself a new justicar. Let us hope I fulfill the measure of his esteem for me.”
“Very good, ser. It may be Lord Ryger will seek you out while we’re still on our journey, to discuss details,” says the Hand, and with a nod of his head one of the pages begins to clean things up—taking away bottle and glass. At the same time, a rapid series of beats of the drums ... and they are stilled, as oars can be heard grinding along being shipped belowdeck; the wind has turned again, and sailors are already crying up the raising of sails. “If not, no doubt when we are back in the city. His grace shall likely invite you to dine, though I suppose he’ll want to know your thoughts on Dorne more than the boring matter that is the law.”
“I cannot pretend to be an expert upon Dornish matters, my time there was more martial than political. But…” a small shrug, “I shall offer what counsel I can.” He stands then.
“My thanks, Your Grace,” he bows his head, “An interesting, unexpected turn for my path in life.”