#and the council is like why would we buy a solid gold ring and a bronze ring with actual rare sapphires | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tennessoui · 1 year ago

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ok no no yall don’t share my vision clearly enough look look look

(1.6k, based on the scene in the original tags where they’re undercover and obi-wan gets drunk and accidentally talks about when he really fell in love with anakin instead of the cover story)

The target gets comfortable on the other side of the booth, one thick arm holding up his head while the other stretches over the top of the booth to tug at the ends of Obi-Wan’s hair, as if he has any right to.

Obi-Wan leans his head up to soak in the touch. The only thing that keeps Anakin on this side of the table is the fact that Obi-Wan had told him in a very no-nonsense sort of tone that he was going to allow the target to touch him all he wanted. It would ingratiate him to their target, to be receptive to the older man’s flirting.

Even though he was supposed to be married to Anakin during this mission. Even though if he were married to Anakin, actually married, there’s no way Anakin would allow another creature to put their hands on him. There’s no way Obi-Wan would be sat across the booth from Anakin, six drinks in with rosy cheeks and speaking comfortably from someone else’s arms. If Obi-Wan were really his spouse, he’d have an arm around him all night in a place as filled with lust and lingering eyes as this cantina is.

Obi-Wan’s foot wraps around his beneath the table, his eyes finding and holding his with a lopsided smile. It’s a warning, Anakin knows it is, even though one of the target’s companions lets out a crooning noise at the sight.

“Careful, Rusal,” she says, “looks like the little husband is getting jealous.”

Anakin is a jealous person by nature, taught to hold carefully onto everything he’s been given with both hands gripped tight and teeth bared. The Jedi never could teach it out of him.

Though he won’t be a Jedi for much longer anyway, he reminds himself, blinking down at the drink in front of him. After this mission ends, when he’s finished playing pretend at being the jealous husband of Obi-Wan Kenobi, he will return his fake marriage band to the Council.

He will trade it in for the real version he keeps in his wife’s quarters. That will be the end of that.

It’s strange. He never thought he had a bad memory, but looking at the wedding band on his finger—bronze, the color of Kenobi’s hair, with a small blue stone set in the middle—he cannot remember what his actual wedding band looks like. He thinks it’s silver, but it could be gold. Padmé had picked them out. His was her father’s; hers came from some artisan on Naboo.

He wonders where the Council got these. His is nice; Obi-Wan’s is as well, a slightly thicker band of gold with the same blue stone. He hadn’t thought the Council would pay so much attention to the small details of their cover story.

He hadn’t really realized Obi-Wan would either, but the other man had memorized pages upon pages of facts about the pair of them and their supposed relationship. Why they had come out to the Outer Rim, how they met, when they got married.

The files never said anything about Obi-Wan’s character Ben getting cuddly with the local gambling gang ruler, but anything for a mission.

And knowing Obi-Wan, anything for a fuck, Anakin thinks rather uncharitably. He pushes his empty drink out of his way. Already, there’s another in its place. Obi-Wan may well be on his seventh as well, rosy pink lips wrapped around his straw as he gazes up in some terribly awestruck manner at the fucking target.

He used to look at me like that, Anakin thinks, even though he isn’t quite sure it’s true. Maybe once or twice when they were padawans together, after the hatred went away and they pushed themselves closer together until they began to grow like trees intertwined at the trunks. Maybe then, a few times, Obi-Wan had looked at him in that way, like he hung the stars in the galaxy.

Padmé, his actual wife, looks at him like that.

The reminder does not fill the empty spot in his chest. He wants, quite suddenly, what he’s been fighting for since he was a new padawan, still with grains of sand pressed into his thin boots. He wants Obi-Wan’s attention.

“Ben,” he says across the length of the table, but he may as well have been still at the Jedi Temple for all Obi-Wan hears him.

“Aw, Rusal, give the boy back to his little husband,” the same lackey from before says, fingers tapping at the tabletop. Rusal looks over at her and then back at Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan has moved so much closer. He could practically put his head on Rusal’s chest.

If he were actually Anakin’s husband, he would—

“Fine,” Rusal says like it’s the greatest chore in the galaxy to take his hands off of Anakin’s husband. Anakin’s hand tightens around his drink and he glares at him then at the table.

Obi-Wan pouts but slides out of the booth, wriggling his body over two of Rusal’s friends’ laps to free himself. Anakin scowls harder, glaring down every karking asshole on that side of the table. If Obi-Wan were actually his husband—

Obi-Wan sits down on Anakin’s lap, nuzzling a burning face into his neck. Anakin’s hands let go of his drink automatically to wrap around his partner’s waist keeping him secure on his lap.

“Aw,” Rusal says, eyes half-lidded as he watches them. He’s watching them and Obi-Wan must know it because he presses a kiss to Anakin’s throat, right over the prominent bump. “Nothing sweeter than a pair of newly-weds all curled up together, huh, Cesti?” The woman beside him grins. “Lovebirds,” she says, using her blaster to push Obi-Wan’s half-finished drink over to him. “Tell me how you two fell in love, Ben.”

“Dunno,” Obi-Wan shrugs loosely, moving his face as he sits up only partially, still draped over Anakin’s lap. “I mean. I hated him for the longest time.”

Anakin stills. That’s not part of their cover story.

“So much,” Obi-Wan agrees with himself. “He made me cry once, do y’know that?”

He’s talking to Anakin. Anakin’s heart is in his throat, his gut all twisted up. “Ben,” he warns. Maybe if he says Obi-Wan’s undercover name, he will realize where they are. He will stop telling these gangsters secrets he has not even told Anakin.

“More than once,” Obi-Wan says, looking down at Anakin’s face with hazy eyes. “But he made me laugh too. He always made me laugh, even when he was being horrible and…and uncivilized. And then one day, we were…arguing by a…pool. And I pushed him in. And he grabbed my ankle and pulled me in afterwards. And he said, ‘If I’m going to be in here, you’ll be in here too.’ And I realized that’s all I really wanted. Just to be with him. Wherever.”

Obi-Wan blinks at Anakin. Anakin stares back, mouth dry.

That’s not in the cover story. That…that really happened. They’d been, Sith’s hells, Anakin can’t remember. They’d been…all of seventeen, friends for the most part. Obi-Wan had been upset that Anakin’s saber design looked so much like his, a fight they’d had so often that they could go through the motions in their sleep. He can’t remember why they’d been arguing about it once more, but it had ended with Obi-Wan pushing him into one of the sacred Temple fountains. Anakin had used the Force to pull him in as well, intent on getting him in just as much trouble as he would be in if they were caught.

That was it. That was all that happened.

Obi-Wan hadn’t…he hadn’t really fallen in love with Anakin afterwards. Anakin would have noticed. Obi-Wan couldn’t have fallen in love with him then, because the next day he went off to Mandalore for a whole kriffing year, and it was only upon his return they became inseparable. He wouldn’t have abandoned Anakin if he loved him. He wouldn’t have jumped out of that fountain like a startled loth-cat if he loved him. He would have stayed and convinced Anakin to love him in return. It would have been so easy, after all. Anakin had harbored a nasty, self-flagellating obsession for the other boy since he first arrived at the Temple. Back then at seventeen, he would have been so easy to coax into love, had Obi-Wan really loved him then.

Maybe Obi-Wan was just too drunk to remember the cover story.

That must be it.

“Baby,” Anakin says quietly, “pass me my drink, would you?”

It’s a good test. A sober Obi-Wan never fails to flush red in anger and stammer out a reproach when Anakin calls him baby and orders him around. He’s hated it since the start of this mission.

Now, Obi-Wan’s face goes red and blotchy, but he shivers. His eyes are hazy, his pupils dilated. He leans over to the table and grabs Anakin’s drink, giving it to him while looking at him beneath his eyelashes. So drunk then. Absolutely wasted.

“How was the wedding?” Cesti coos, probably because Anakin’s husband is the prettiest and cutest thing this side of the galaxy.

Obi-Wan’s mouth drops open as he licks his lips. He’s staring down at Anakin’s hand. His wedding band Obi-Wan had given him from the Council for this mission. “Better than anything I ever imagined,” Obi-Wan says. “And more than I ever thought I’d get.”

Anakin finishes his drink in two swallows and raises his hand for another. He cannot—he doesn’t—he’s a mess, his mind hurts, his husband is beautiful, he’s in love, he’s—

—-------

In the morning, he wakes to a pounding headache and an empty bed, save for the barest ghost of a memory he can’t quite recall. Except it was important. He remembers that. He remembers thinking it was the most important thing he’d ever heard in his life.

brain will not let me sleep until I say

same age padawans au where they’ve been in a weird wired frenemies thing for ages but now that they’re both mature adults (all of 24/25 years old) they’re more friends than enemies….

And it’s Obi-Wan that Anakin tells when he’s decided he’s going to leave the Order, not anyone else. He has a wife. There was a pregnancy scare a few weeks ago and it made her want their relationship to stop being a secret so they could really have kids. He has to leave the Order. Doesn’t Obi-Wan understand?

Obi-Wan, who has been a little in love with Anakin since they were younglings, does not understand. Not one bit. Instead of wishing him well and helping him pack, he goes to the Council and requests a mission in the Outer Rim….perhaps a month long or more…perhaps undercover? No contact with anyone on Coruscant. And maybe they could assign Anakin Skywalker as his back up? He can help with the undercover aspect.

And at first, Anakin is pissed because he was planning to resign from the Order in the next few days, but Obi-Wan convinces him to go on this mission with him….one last mission as a Jedi. To say goodbye to the Jedi life.

Obviously, Obi-Wan sort of wants to go on one last mission with Anakin because in his dreams, he wants the mission to go so perfectly that Anakin stays with him the Order. But realistically, he mostly wants to go on this mission to say goodbye to Anakin and then let him go, soaking up all his warmth and light, memorizing every casual touch bestowed on him because he knows they’re ticking down to the last handful of seconds together.

But then obviously the mission works TOO well and Anakin falls in love with Obi-Wan but doesn’t admit to it even to himself before they’re on the ship about to head back to Coruscant and Anakin realizes he doesn’t want to leave this planet because he doesn’t want to leave Obi-Wan if it could always be like this so he crashes the ship during take off so they can stay longer because he’s 24 and doesn’t know how to handle the immensity of his love except through destruction

#obikin #baby's last mission au #and ok i know i said iin the original tags that anakin crashes the ship because he realizes #how much he loves ob-wan and how much he doesn't want to go back to coruscant #but what if he only THINKS about that but then obi-wan who has gone through tthe 5 stages of grief #and has landed on acceptance says somethng about how this was fun but he can't wait to get back #he's been asking for a padawan #maybe they'll give him one now #and anakin realzes obi-wan wouldn't be with him or leave the order for him #so he resigns himself to leaving and maybe time away from him will make him fall outt of love #only to try to return his fake wedding ring to the council #and for the council to be like uh we didn't buy those? wait why did you pretend to be married? i thought you were just gonna be brothers?#and anakin is like wait you didnt buy the ringss #and the council is like why would we buy a solid gold ring and a bronze ring with actual rare sapphires #and anakin is like who bought the rings then #and plo koon takes pity on him and is like bestie theyre in your hair colors #who do you think bought them

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oneyeartoparty · 4 years ago

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The brothers react to finding an engagement ring you bought for them

Sorry I haven’t posted for a bit, just been very busy and a litte sick. This was something I’ve been working on for a while. Apologies in advance if its not completely spell/grammar checked, I wanted to get it out for you guys ASAP =D I have a request coming up next, but for now, please enjoy this post and have an awesome day!

Lucifer

Lucifer ventures into your room to drop off some packages from Akuzon that were delivered for you. You’d been getting a lot of packages lately, and he was curious about what you were buying but didn’t want to invade your privacy by snooping.

He was planning on asking you when you returned from studying with Satan and Simeon. Lucifer wanted to make sure his love was provided for, and if you needed something, he would get it.

Lucifer had no issue lifting the boxes, but there was enough of them that even with his best stacking skills, they still partially obscured his sight. He managed to make it to your room without knocking something off the wall, but as he entered, he nudged your shelf with the side of one of the boxes causing something to tumble down.

Placing the boxes down, he turned to see a ring box had fallen from somewhere on the shelf and opened on the way down.

Picking it up, he saw an engagement ring with a golden band with a blue sapphire at its centre. Inscribed on the band were the words “To the only demon to have my heart.”

Pride and happiness swelled in his chest in equal measure. To know you loved him enough to plan to propose was a fantastic feeling.

He didn’t know where the box had fallen from, so he hid it on the shelf once more and hoped you wouldn’t notice and left the room, awaiting the day you choose to propose and going to prepare a ring of his own for when the time came.

Mammon

Mammon has a habit of going through your things. It had started as another profit-making venture. Some human items aren’t easy to come by in the Devildom, so he figured trifling through the new human exchange student’s things would be a good way to find something to sell.

But it became a way to learn more about you. Everything you had in your room told your story, and Mammon was intent on learning everything.

It was on a day you were out shopping with Luke that he decided to go through your drawers. You’d been dating a while now, and he wanted to see what you’d picked up on your last shopping trip with Asmo so he could see figure out a gift idea. He wanted to treat you but wasn’t sure exactly what to get so he decided to snoop for ideas.

When he saw the red velvet box, he thought it was for earrings initially, but when he opened it, he saw the two topaz gems sparkle. It was an engagement ring, with an inscription that said, “To my adorable Mammon, who stole my heart the day we met.”

Mammon has stopped working.exe.

He’s flustered, completely red in the face. He so overwhelmed with happiness and love for you at that moment all he can do is stare at the ring.

When he finally regains his composure, he puts back everything as he found it. He doesn’t want to push you to propose until you’re ready, but that doesn’t stop him from being the happiest demon in the Devildom.

Leviathan

Leviathan ventured into your room to set up a new gaming console he’d gotten from Akuzon. He was looking forward to spending the night with you playing games and having fun together.

It was while he was fiddling with the cords that he spied a ring box among some of the consoles neither of you had touched in a while.

Not wanting to accidentally knock it somewhere difficult to reach, he went to move the box. Upon picking it up, he noticed it was already open, and when he saw the contents his mouth dropped open.

The engagement ring inside was a silver band with three small orange sapphires in a triangle. Its inscription read “To remind my true love I’ll always adore them.”

“THEY’RE GOING TO PROPOSE TO ME?” he didn’t mean to shout that; he was just so shocked by his discovery it was automatic. You’re not only dating him, but you like him so much you want to MARRY him?

Tears welled up in his eyes. You genuinely loved him enough to want to propose. It was a scenario he’d only dreamt of, but it was real. For a moment he wondered if he’d isekaied into another world where all his dreams would come true. Still unsure if this was real, Levi sat on your bed and waited for your return.

When you returned to your room, you were immediately smothered in a hug by an equally nervous and ecstatic Leviathan, saying a scattering of “Yes” and “Do you really mean it?”

Satan

While Satan would usually head to the House of Lamentations library or search his room for his next book to read, sometimes he would head to your room and pick from your book selection.

He loved keeping up with the latest additions to your book collection and with many of your books coming from the human world, there was almost always something new for him to read there.

It was while you were cooking dinner that he made his way to your room to return some books and borrow more. After placing back the stack he had in his hands, he scanned the shelves until he had chosen a few.

Retrieving the first few was uneventful, but when he pulled out the final book and small box fell with it.

He internally panicked when it happened as he thought it was something breakable, but when he saw it was a small ring box, he grew confused.

Curiosity taking over, he picked up and opened the box. Inside was a stunning engagement ring, made of silver with four emeralds. Its inscription read “For my loving Satan. May we can spend eternity reading together.”

A smile graced his face when he realised when he was holding. To know you truly wanted him and only him made him swell with joy.

He placed the box back in its place, forgetting the books he’d come to collect as he headed back to his room, grin still present and plans to do something for you in turn already forming in his mind.

Asmodeus

Asmodeus was out shopping when he found the ring you’d bought for him. He’d skipped school to go shopping and had wanted you to come, but you were roped into doing school council tasks for Lucifer before he could slip you out.

He wasn’t going to let this opportunity go to waste though, and he’d been checking out all the new outfits and accessories that had been released since his last visit. He was having a great time and made sure to buy anything he thought would suit you best too.

He had finished buying a new pair of earrings when he was stopped by one of the demon clerks. They said your order was ready, and since their courier was sick, asked if he could take it for you.

Agreeing, they handed him the box and he made his way from the store. He couldn’t glean much about its content other than it was small, perhaps a pair of earrings or a necklace. You’d mentioned wanting to update some of your older jewellery pieces after all.

Wondering what you’d had custom made, he pulled the box from its bag and opened it, nearly jumped for joy when he was the engagement ring within.

He loved the design. The gold band fit perfectly with the five argyle diamonds that were grouped to resemble the outline of a star. And the inscription that read “Never forget I love all of you”.

Slipping the box safely into his pocket, Asmodeus rushed home and began to start pulling together wedding ideas for you two to discuss.

Beelzebub

The nose of a hungry Beelzebub is the most dangerous thing any piece of food can encounter, as anything that nose picks up will soon be eaten. That was the fate of a pile of snacks you’d stowed away in your room, hoping to keep your food-loving boyfriend from eating them.

He lifted your pillow and spied the food hidden there. His attention consumed by it, he began devouring everything in sight, and soon there was nothing edible left.

He noticed it when he was picking up the wrappers. A box stuck between your bed and bedside table. His thoughts immediately shot to it being the final snack that he’d almost missed, so he reached for it.

The box didn’t resemble any food brand he’d ever seen, but this didn’t deter Beel from opening it to check.

The engagement ring withing had a silver band and featured a large ruby surrounded by five smaller ones. It was custom made, evident by it appearing large enough to fit on Beel’s finger and the inscription that stated, “I look forward to snacking eternally with you”.

A happy smile graced his face and red flushed his cheeks. His heartfelt wish of marrying you was going to come true, and he was happy.

He put the box back where he found it and left your room, taking the wrappers from his snack massacre with him.

While he doesn’t tell you what he found, you do notice him smile at you a lot more, especially when he thought you weren’t looking.

Belphegor

With his favourite pillow in the wash, Belphegor was on the prowl for another pillow to use until his original was returned.

Naturally, with you learning magic with Solomon at Purgatory Hall a pillow from your room was a natural choice. You had an excellent mind when choosing the most comfortable pillows and the ones from your room always reminded you of him when you couldn’t be there to nap with him.

He pulled a pillow from the stack and went to make himself comfortable on your bed. He planned on napping until you returned, so napping in your room was the best place.

However, when Belphegor placed his head on the pillow there was a solid lump that made it impossible to get comfortable.

Zipping open the pillow he retrieved a ring box. Opening it he saw, to his immediate joy, an engagement ring.

The ring had several small purple crystals on a gold band. Inscribed on the band were the words “I look forward to snuggling forever with you”.

He wasn’t sure why you though a pillow was the best hiding place, maybe it was because you had such a huge variety of pillows and his brothers accidentally find it there? Regardless he’s please you loved him enough to want to propose.

Stuffing the box back into the pillow, he puts the pillow back and gets another, returning to your bed to nap with a smile on his face.

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tarithenurse · 7 years ago

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In Defense of Asgard (3/11)

Starring: Loki x fem/Inhuman reader. Warnings: Maybe language

A/N: As usual, sorry about misspelling and grammar, though this is good training for my English :) Feedback appreciated!

... Reader’s PoV ...

It had been said as a joke, intended to lighten the mood in the sombre council chamber. Time and time again, [Y/N] had re-evaluated which of her old friends or teammates could be of use, favouring those with experience from space already. Of course, that left only the Guardians of the Galaxy, few of which would be in any fighting condition if the Asgardians or Xandarians managed to track them down before it was too late.

That’s when she’d made the mistake of being sassy, and now she’d been stuck on this cold mining-planet for four days, courtesy of Loki and the Warriors Three, who had set her off under the cover of a snow storm with the promise that they’ll be back in a week, or she can call for Heimdal. At least her husband hadn’t been worried. Having her on Contraxia meant that she was out of harms way of the impending invasion.

‘Might as well ask the Ravagers for help.’ The memory of her own words is echoing through her skull with a mocking tone, clearly audible over the din of the Iron Lotus, a brothel and bar on Contraxia.

She’d spent her time well, fitting in with the questionable types thanks to her disguise and skills. First thing she’d done was get a room, cheap and dirty (and relatively free of rats, which preferred to be closer to the kitchen), but on the very top floor at least. The second part had been easier, all it had required was to by a bottle of booze and mingle, observing anyone who came and went to learn of their affiliations, and whenever one might be connected to the Ravagers, she’d made sure to drop a few hints of a competitor to their business, building up a reputation as a bounty hunter looking for a new job.

Her appearance had helped cement the ruse. Black leather jacket over a ragged, but tight, blood-red top, followed by leather pants and a solid pair of boots that oozed practicality. Of course, no bounty hunter would be complete without an impressive arsenal, although hers mainly favoured blades…save for the one plasma-gun at her hip.

The first few days, she’d stuck to the bar or the shadowy corners with the scurrying vermin, until one day a brawl had made her take refuge in the rafters. There she could balance on the beams unnoticed, perching in the deep-set window over the entrance and gaining unrestricted view of the snow-covered square outside as well as the milling crowd in the joint below her. Sneeper Madame, the owner of the place, hadn’t been pleased to begin with, but on this planet, anything is possible if you have enough gold, and [Y/N] had made sure to buy a new bottle each day too.

Leaning against the cold stone behind her, [Y/N]’s drawing meaningless pattern on the foggy window. She has to try not to look at the empty ring finger, because it only makes her miss Loki more, but flashing something that unique would have been stupid…now it was hanging in a chain around her husband’s neck.

She’s only partially listening to the scratching music and the noise of drunkards below. It’s the usual crowd, consisting of one third miners (or diggers, as some call them), and a third are criminals of various severity. The last third are the love-bots, live whores and a random assortment of low lives trying to get by whichever way they can. At least no gold-skinned haters.

Last time [Y/N] and Loki had been here, the sovereign had run a sort of embassy from one of the backrooms, but Adam had ended that years ago. Too bad he hadn’t finished them all off. I shouldn’t applaud genocide…no matter who it is.

Raising the bottle to her lips, she freezes with the hand in mid-air when she catches the sight of movement out of the corner of the eye. A larger group is making their way across the square, but more importantly, people are moving out of the way for the newcomers. It’s clear who’s the leader of the pack, simply from how he’s carrying himself, despite the many scars and his age (you don’t get that old here, unless you have power). Dressed in black, military style clothing, the only oddity are the stripes of orange that raises over his shoulders as fins, glowing faintly in the perpetual gloom on this planet.

As the group enters, [Y/N] lazily takes another swig of the sweet liquor, feeling it’s burn before negating the effects. Below on the floor, the crowd parts before the man and his entourage, allowing them to saunter towards the bar, accompanied by the growing silence and tension. Keeping a grip on the bottle, [Y/N] shadows them, soundlessly prowling in the shadows up between the rafters. She’s smiling.

Every single alien (some humanoid, some…not) is wearing the flaming badge, most are third or fourth generation, but there are a few from second left. Eyeing the reflection of their leader in the grimy mirror behind the counter, she sees the only badge indicating first generation. A captain. It explains his age and self-confidence. Only the music is playing now, but as the man waves a hand lazily, that too cuts out. He’s tall, solidly build with a square jaw protruding much further than any orthodontist would have appreciated home on Earth. A few strands are still dark, otherwise both the short-cropped hair and eyebrows are light grey, making his small, sleepy eyes appear darker than they are.

Don’t be fooled, [Y/N] can imagine Natasha warning her, like during their many training sessions. This captain might appear dim, but he can’t be if he’s made it to the top of the most competitive crime-syndicate of the last 40 to 50 years.

As if on cue, he leans over the counter to pour himself a drink, calmly but loudly addressing the bartender. “A little birdy told me…” he drawls, “that ya got a pest-problem?”

Pushing one of the many rats in the place out of the way, they both know that’s not what the guest means. “Nuttin’ we can’t handle, Stakar.”

Bingo! The name rings more than just a small bell with [Y/N]. She’s heard about him from Quill before reading up as preparation for this mission. Hunching, the Midgardian studies the people below. She can assume they all are armed, and they have spread out nicely to make room for swinging their weapons.

A subtle nod makes her refocus on the bartender and the face of the Ravager leader reflected in the mirror, a sly smile playing on the lips of the latter before he empties the glass in one go. She’s been made, but that’s okay.

“Sneakin’ up on me normally results ‘n people dyin’.” He’s calmly refilling the glass.

Stopping her bottle with a thumb, she tips elegantly into empty air, flipping around by holding on to the raw edge of the beam so she lands on her feet. The only sound is the softest thud from the heavy boots, and she can’t help but smirk with pride as she straightens up.

“Relax,” an impressive arsenal is pointing at her, so she makes sure to keep the hands away from her own weapons, taking another swig of the burning alcohol, “if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already.” A soundless scoff is the only answer she gets. “I’m glad you got my message.”

As opposed to the normal grunts in the lower ranks of the space mafia, the leaders know that information is more valuable than a quick show of power by killing someone. Stakar Ogord needs to know more about her before eliminating the potential competition. That’s pretty much the only thing that’s keeping his men from shooting. Glancing around, [Y/N] comes to the conclusion that the term ‘men’ is a generous categorization of some of them. Stakar has finally turned to face her, and she lifts her bottle as a form of salute before downing a quarter of it. Bemused, he returns the gesture, draining his own glass. All around them, the regulars slowly return to their own affairs, clearly bummed at the lack of a show down ending in the death of someone.

Indicating for her to come closer, Stakar’s hoarse voice drops to a normal frequency. “Can’t say there’s been much of a message.”

“You knew someone was asking around about your…associates.” She doesn’t bother staying out of his range, preferring to plant herself on one of the bar stools. “I’m just lucky it was you, that came to investigate.”

“How’d ya figure that?”

Giving him a once over, she figures he’ll need more persuading before believing anything she wants him to hear. “Long story. Let’s just say we have common…acquaintances.”

The Ravager captain glares at her, unsure what to think of her comment while another rat scurries over the bar counter, and it gives her an idea. Quick as a cat, she plucks the rodent up by its tail, calming it down by altering the flow of hormones that would have send it into a state of fight or flight. It settles down in her palm, where it sniffs around before beginning to groom itself.

“I’d much rather we spoke somewhere more…quiet, but I guess you’ve got no reason to trust me.” She’s studying the critter.

“Why should I?” Stakar isn’t showing any emotions. This is fun. “I dunno nothin’, ‘cept ya wantin’ a pay soon.”

Finally locking her eyes with him, [Y/N] makes sure to keep her voice quiet as she drains the poor creature of its life. “I wager you’ve heard of me.”

Tenderly placing the small corpse next to his glass, she turns and walks away leisurely. She’s halfway up the first flight of stairs, when the man gets into gear, signaling for the next two in command to follow him as he hurries after her. Probably something he doesn’t do often.

Not a word is spoken until they are inside the crammed room, one backup outside the door, the other (a Pluvian and first officer) hovering next to [Y/N] where she’s sitting on the bed. As a kind host, she’s offered Stakar the only chair, rickety as it may be.

“Alright. I’ve heard of…someone like ya.” He’s on edge, and she can’t blame him. “What’ya want?”

“Just a friendly chat.” She might be smiling, but it’s a cold smile. The kind that makes the guy next to her grab the weapon a bit tighter. “You see. I remember the allies just as well as the enemies. Thanos on one side with his mix of elves, Sakaarians, Chitauri, Outriders and random scum. We knew the Sovereign wanted to join him, but something kept them back.” Her eyes are violet, but she doesn’t bother hiding it. “If the Titan had won, then the universe would have been fucked to say the least…that would’ve affected you.” Fighting to keep the voice calm, she doesn’t flinch by the mechanical click next to her. “So where…were…you?”

Stakar’s trying to look in control. “The Ravagers aren’t an army.”

“Neither were we. Neither were Quill and his team.” Letting out a small huff, [Y/N] leans back against the wall and takes a swig of the bottle she still has been carrying with her. “I remember him and Kraglin Obfonteri telling tall tales of Yondu Udonta and the other clan leaders. Claiming they’d be on the right side.” As tempting as it is to take out the nervously shaking second in command (his crystalline body reflecting the light from the bare LED hanging from the ceiling), it won’t do her any good. “So where were you?”

The Pluvian is finally catching up on things, his confusion pushing any nerves aside momentarily. “Now eh, wait…hoooold on a minute! Yo’re talking just like eh as if yo were there…” He’s staring unabashed at her body. A body too young to fit anyone from the stories of the Mad Titan’s defeat. “Yo’re too eh young for that!”

“I’m about [Y/A+20], counting by Terran years.”

“Hellbullshit!”

[Y/N]’s unsure of the existence of any such bovine, but it doesn’t matter, and she resorts to challenging the claim with nothing but a deadpan stare.

“That could only be if ya’re…her.” The commander’s words make the man with the rattling weapon step ever so slightly away from [Y/N]. “The…healer.”

He was thinking of another label. “A simple test could prove my claim.”

It’s a silent staring contest between the two parties, overlooked by an increasingly jittery first officer.

“Martinex. Roll up your sleeve and hold out the arm for her.” Stakar has known his second in command since at least one of them was young, and he expects nothing but the full compliance. “And don’t fight her.”

Clearly unhappy, the Pluvian first mate follows the order, baring what would have been soft skin on the lower arm for the woman. Will a knife penetrate the crystals? Flipping out a slim dagger from the sheath hidden on her own arm by the jacket, she studies the surface before admitting with a shrug that she’s unsure if it would be effective. Stakar promises to Martinex’s consternation, that it will.

Fine. With a flip and a jab, [Y/N] buries the blade deep in the silicon crystal, before withdrawing it, releasing a fine flow of quicksilvery blood. A hand and a bit of concentration is all it takes before the smudges of liquid is the only evidence.

“Let’s talk.” Stakar Ogord knows when to listen.

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ask-de-writer · 7 years ago

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WELCOME TO EQUESTRIA! : Origin of the Rom, part 2 : MLP Fan Fiction : Part 7 of 8

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

WELCOME TO EQUESTRIA!

The second part of the Origin of the Rom

ORIGIN OF THE ROM SERIES in reading order. (will be completed as the stories are posted in linked form)

Part One : NORE’S CHOICE, which starts HERE

Part Two : WELCOME TO EQUESTRIA! which starts HERE

Part Three : FAIR AND UN-FAIR, which starts HERE

Part Four : ON THE ROADS OF EQUESTRIA, which starts HERE

Part Five : THE FIRST ROM HEARTHWARMING, which starts HERE

Part Six : SANDO’S LAKE, which starts HERE

Part Seven : A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE ROM, which starts HERE

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

13716 words

Writing begun 08/09/15

TUMBLR EXEMPTION

Blog holding members of Tumblr.com may freely reblog this story provided that the title, author and copyright information remain intact, unaltered, and are displayed at the head of the story.

Fan art, stories, music, cosplay and other fan activity is actively encouraged.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

The whole group laughed, but many got thoughtful looks as they tasted bits of the patties that I went ahead and hoofed out, saying, “Down payment on dinner. Let the mares do their thing. They want to thank you properly for saving their wagon and everything that they need for making a living, not to mention that it is their home for now.”

While Malit and Maina were cooking and brewing up a big pot of tea, Sando and Rom got out a flute, drums, and a lyre which they gave to Phapa. The exotic music of Gyptia resounded from the Equestrian hills.

Nore began to dance.

All but the flute playing members of Rom’s band, even the ones cooking, began to chant in Gyptian.

Nore danced the Shehan Ja Rom for them.

That was followed by Sarel’s swirling sashes as she danced. Several of the watching troopers suddenly got it.

“Look at that dance! She is telling how we saved the wagon today!”

When Malit and Maina circulated among the troops with cups of tea and piles of sweet buns, the realities of military life asserted themselves.

Sunbreak called, “Line up. Let them serve, don’t mob them!” Tasting some of the sweet buns she added thoughtfully, “Perhaps I was hasty in saying don’t mob them! These are better than anything that I have ever got at a fair!”

Privately agreeing with Sunbreak, I pondered the possibility that we had found by accident, the means to make good bits at a fair. I knew, from my earlier life as Marchhare the Trader, exactly where and when all of the fairs within fifty miles were.

The Red Branch flood, as huge as it was, did not wipe out all the communities with fairs. Counting the gold that we had found up in the pass, we did not have enough to buy the land, build our homes, shops and settle down to a quiet life. The reward would likely change that but we did not have it yet.

I prefer to not count wealth that is not in hoof.

I was right about the troops. All twenty, counting Sunbreak, had a great time.

Breakfast was equally fine. Tea and batter cakes wrapped about berry preserves filled every pony there. Through a mouthful of batter cake, Vard declared, “If ever you need more help from the Equestrian Aerial Armor, just ask. If I have any say, you will get the help at once.”

Not every step of a journey is an adventure. The far side of the Notch was a long gentle slope. It was well wooded and we found some more useful and/or tasty things to add to our store.

We came out of the woods at a well tended Royal Road wayside. Rom stared in near disbelief. He said, “They have solidly mortared fire places and free wood to burn? How come nohorse steals the wood?” Feeling the solid footing under the grass, he stared down at what was, to him, a wonder. “How can there be such grass over ground that is firm underhoof for the pulling of our caravan?”

I laughed, but gently. “Rom, I did tell you that the Princess Luna spent two hundred years figuring these things out. Her title as High Commissioner of Equestrian Roads is not simply a title. She worked, in harness or by the magic of her own horn to learn how to create many sorts of roads, each suited to different purposes and kinds of land. She paid equal attention to the waysides for the convenience of the dray ponies who use the roads. See? Just over there, is a ready supply of clean water. Even the spacing and kinds of trees give both shade and shelter in bad weather.”

Sando was not paying attention to that. He was marveling at the road itself. “Marchhare, how is this road made? This is no mere layer of gravel. It is somehow locked in place.”

“That is right, Sando. First, the way is prepared by digging down to solid sub soil. Heavy larger stone is laid for a foundation and small rock poured and packed about it to half its depth. Smaller but still substantial cobbles then cover the foundation and also get half covered with locking gravel. This top surface is laid over that base and solidly packed. After that, the road is watched closely for ruts, holes or other problems and they are fixed promptly.

Maina observed, “These Royal Roads are a true marvel of this land of Equestria, if the rest of the system is as good as this.”

Casting a practiced eye at the road, I commented, “Most is better than this. This has had only indifferent maintenance. You will see.” In unwitting prophecy, I added, “We are going to be using these roads a lot for a while.”

We took the time to fix a nice meal before hitting the road.

Nore did little happy-skippy dance steps while pulling beside me. “It almost feels like the caravan is floating!” she exulted. “These roads are amazing!”

I was making for Haulmarket. They had a fair scheduled and I was guessing that it was still going to be put on. The town only lost a bit of commons and a few fields. They were going to need the income of the fair for cleanup, if nothing else.

It was not long before we found the first fair notice posted on a wayside note board. Haulmarket fair was still on and only two days of Pulling away.

Just outside of the town, we came to the fair turnoff. The pony there to steer exhibitors to the fairground nearly had an attack when he saw Rom’s band. Even my dear Nore, the smallest of the horses, was big enough that he had to look up to talk to her.

To his credit, he only asked the proper information and steered us down the correct way.

The layout director took one look at us and suggested, “You say you gonna do traditional dances and stuff? Go set up down there at the end of the midway. Make a big cul-de-sac ring out of your booths. You can do your dances in the middle of it.”

We parked the caravans in an open ring. Rom directed, “We can just put out the rain flys for booth roofs. Malit, do we have enough boards to set up counters? Nore, you are so good with boxes, can you make us some safe cash boxes?”

Things that we had were swiftly set up. Rom politely asked the fair set up director, “We have heard that you have flood damaged commons. There are trees and such washed onto it. We have need of some boards which we can split out of the flood wrack. We could also set up a big charcoal burn to help you clear the area for future use. Would that be acceptable?”

The director shrugged, “Don’t see why not, but anything to do with the commons has to go through the Council. I can’t say either way.”

Council Pony Foulip declared, “Big charcoal burn? That would be worth lots of bits! You keep your claw hooves out of that commons! We will let it by contracts and make us good money!”

He sent a pony around selling cheap boards for counters and such. Maina took one look at them and snickered, “Those are the sort of wood that you work from? No wonder your wheels are so bad!”

Malit and Nore, with Sarel’s help, solved the problem of booth parts by picking tall, overgrown grasses from both commons and fairground. Nore worked it over into fine woodlike boards, both light and strong.

Nore, pointing proudly at our beautifully appointed booths and said, “It was lucky for us, really, that the pony selling lumber for making booths had such shoddy wood. It made us look at using grass-wood, like we do for instruments and caravan sides and tops! Our booths look better than any of the others that are set up so far!”

Glancing up the Midway, I nodded. “That is certainly true! It looks like we are ready for tomorrow’s fair. What is for dinner?”

Like a conjurer doing a trick, Nore and Sando produced trays with an array of sweet nettle and clover buns. They had three dipping sauces for them. Along side, to complete things was a perfectly huge pot of tea!

We were all gathered around eating our sweet buns and drinking the tea when Council Pony Foulip strode up self-importantly and declared, “Fair don’t open till tomorrow! You can’t go selling that stuff yet!”

Maina looked up at him and said, “Sell what? Ordinary food like this? This is just our dinner. It is better than a pony made wheel but not much. What we sell for the fair will be good!”

I could see his mouth watering at our dinner. “No, Foulip. You may not have any of our dinner. Go home to eat, make your own, or buy your dinner from a restaurant. As you pointed out, earlier, we can’t sell it yet and you have been rude.

“Royal Road Law allows us privacy in our camp, which this is until fair opening tomorrow.”

We finished up with the food. The mares broke out the instruments. We had THREE lyres now. Nore had managed to slip another one past my scrutiny. This one was pretty big. It had a deeper, sweeter voice than any of the others, so far. There were several sorts and sizes of flutes to work with too.

The regular evening dancing and singing began.

Shortly, I noticed something. We had watchers. Ponies were gathered all about, where they could hear and see. They were drawn by the loud trills, exotic music, and the brilliant sashes swirling in the firelight.

If it was an omen of things to come, it was good one. The day of the fair dawned clear and fine. Nore, Malit and Sarel took the center of our cul-de-sac with Rom and Sando playing flute and lyre.

I was busy at the snack booth. I set out straight nettle and other baked travel rations, with dipping sauces. I ground nettle cake flour and Phapa helped to shape and bake the dough. Maina was busy making up toppings and tea. Nore had made up a lot of her paper like stuff into cone shaped cups for tea.

Business was brisk. That is putting it mildly. We had to open a second chest of travel rations well before noon! The mares were taking turns at single dances, so that they could rest.

Nore was resting in the food booth to be close to me. I liked that too, truth be told. I watched her serve a cup to a cute little filly with bows in her mane and forelock.

A big pony hoof struck the cup from the filly’s grip! Foulip demanded, “You gets your snacks up at my booth. Got spring water and my secret recipe hay twists!”

The filly started to cry, “Don’t have no coppers left! You spilt my drink! You owes me my drink!”

Nore, face grim, reached out and touched Foulip’s shoulder lightly. He squalled in pain as his hoof dangled uselessly.

I gave my wife an amazed look. A constable charged up.

Foulip started to yap, “Arrest that … thing! She assaulted me! Look at my leg! I done nothing to her and she attack me!”

The constable was not entirely stupid, to my delight. He asked Nore, “Ma'am, what did happen here?”

Foulip cut across, “I told you! Now haul her off!”

He turned and slapped manacles onto Foulip. “Sir, I will arrest you if I have another interruption while I am asking my questions.”

Nore, nodded at the constable’s action and said, “What happened was a violation of fair rules. Unless I misunderstood what they are. It is an offense to interfere with the trade of other booths, exhibits or performers. He assaulted the little filly here, knocking her fresh bought drink from her hooves. He tried to send her away from our booth. It looked like he was about to physically strike her. To defend the young one, I used the Gyptian Death Touch on his shoulder. You came to investigate.”

“Gyptian Death Touch? Is he going to be OK?”

“He will be fine, Constable. He will recover in about an hour. If I wanted to kill him I would have touched him near his heart or up higher on his neck.”

The constable crouched down to be on the filly’s level and asked, “Did it happen the way that she told me or the way that other pony told me?”

Blubbering a bit, she replied, “He spilled my tea drink. He say I got to buy water from him but I got no more copper.”

The constable nodded and told her, “I am sorry about your drink. I am going to take him away. It is all that I am allowed to do.”

TO BE CONTINUED

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#WELCOME TO EQUESTRIA!#Origin of the Rom part 2 #MLP Fan Fiction #Written by De Writer #Part 7 of 8

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readbookywooks · 8 years ago

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Tyrion

The queen was not disposed to wait on Varys. "Treason is vile enough," she declared furiously, "but this is barefaced naked villainy, and I do not need that mincing eunuch to tell me what must be done with villains."

Tyrion took the letters from his sister's hand and compared them side by side. There were two copies, the words exactly alike, though they had been written by different hands.

"Maester Frenken received the first missive at Castle Stokeworth," Grand Maester Pycelle explained. "The second copy came through Lord Gyles."

Littlefinger fingered his beard. "If Stannis bothered with them, it's past certain every other lord in the Seven Kingdoms saw a copy as well."

"I want these letters burned, every one," Cersei declared. "No hint of this must reach my son's ears, or my father's."

"I imagine Father's heard rather more than a hint by now," Tyrion said dryly. "Doubtless Stannis sent a bird to Casterly Rock, and another to Harrenhal. As for burning the letters, to what point? The song is sung, the wine is spilled, the wench is pregnant. And this is not as dire as it seems, in truth."

Cersei turned on him in green-eyed fury. "Are you utterly witless? Did you read what he says? The boy Joffrey, he calls him. And he dares to accuse me of incest, adultery, and treason!"

Only because you're guilty. It was astonishing to see how angry Cersei could wax over accusations she knew perfectly well to be true. If we lose the war, she ought to take up mummery, she has a gift for it. Tyrion waited until she was done and said, "Stannis must have some pretext to justify his rebellion. What did you expect him to write? ‘Joffrey is my brother's trueborn son and heir, but I mean to take his throne for all that'? "

"I will not suffer to be called a whore!"

Why, sister, he never claims Jaime paid you. Tyrion made a show of glancing over the writing again. There had been some niggling phrase . . . "Done in the Light of the Lord," he read. "A queer choice of words, that."

Pycelle cleared his throat. "These words often appear in letters and documents from the Free Cities. They mean no more than, let us say, written in the sight of god. The god of the red priests. It is their usage, I do believe."

"Varys told us some years past that Lady Selyse had taken up with a red priest," Littlefinger reminded them.

Tyrion tapped the paper. "And now it would seem her lord husband has done the same. We can use that against him. Urge the High Septon to reveal how Stannis has turned against the gods as well as his rightful king . . . "

"Yes, yes," the queen said impatiently, "but first we must stop this filth from spreading further. The council must issue an edict. Any man heard speaking of incest or calling Joff a bastard should lose his tongue for it."

"A prudent measure," said Grand Maester Pycelle, his chain of office clinking as he nodded.

"A folly," sighed Tyrion. "When you tear out a man's tongue, you are not proving him a liar, you're only telling the world that you fear what he might say."

"So what would you have us do?" his sister demanded.

"Very little. Let them whisper, they'll grow bored with the tale soon enough. Any man with a thimble of sense will see it for a clumsy attempt to justify usurping the crown. Does Stannis offer proof? How could he, when it never happened?" Tyrion gave his sister his sweetest smile.

"That's so," she had to say. "Still . . . "

"Your Grace, your brother has the right of this." Petyr Baelish steepled his fingers. "If we attempt to silence this talk, we only lend it credence. Better to treat it with contempt, like the pathetic lie it is. And meantime, fight fire with fire."

Cersei gave him a measuring look. "What sort of fire?"

"A tale of somewhat the same nature, perhaps. But more easily believed. Lord Stannis has spent most of his marriage apart from his wife. Not that I fault him, I'd do the same were I married to Lady Selyse. Nonetheless, if we put it about that her daughter is baseborn and Stannis a cuckold, well . . . the smallfolk are always eager to believe the worst of their lords, particularly those as stern, sour, and prickly proud as Stannis Baratheon."

"He has never been much loved, that's true." Cersei considered a moment. "So we pay him back in his own coin. Yes, I like this. Who can we name as Lady Selyse's lover? She has two brothers, I believe. And one of her uncles has been with her on Dragonstone all this time . . . "

"Ser Axell Florent is her castellan." Loath as Tyrion was to admit it, Littlefinger's scheme had promise. Stannis had never been enamored of his wife, but he was bristly as a hedgehog where his honor was concerned and mistrustful by nature. If they could sow discord between him and his followers, it could only help their cause. "The child has the Florent ears, I'm told."

Littlefinger gestured languidly. "A trade envoy from Lys once observed to me that Lord Stannis must love his daughter very well, since he'd erected hundreds of statues of her all along the walls of Dragonstone. ‘My lord' I had to tell him, ‘those are gargoyles.' " He chuckled. "Ser Axell might serve for Shireen's father, but in my experience, the more bizarre and shocking a tale the more apt it is to be repeated. Stannis keeps an especially grotesque fool, a lackwit with a tattooed face."

Grand Maester Pycelle gaped at him, aghast. "Surely you do not mean to suggest that Lady Selyse would bring a fool into her bed?"

"You'd have to be a fool to want to bed Selyse Florent," said Littlefinger. "Doubtless Patchface reminded her of Stannis. And the best lies contain within them nuggets of truth, enough to give a listener pause. As it happens, this fool is utterly devoted to the girl and follows her everywhere. They even look somewhat alike. Shireen has a mottled, half-frozen face as well."

Pycelle was lost. "But that is from the greyscale that near killed her as a babe, poor thing."

"I like my tale better," said Littlefinger, "and so will the smallfolk. Most of them believe that if a woman eats rabbit while pregnant, her child will be born with long floppy ears."

Cersei smiled the sort of smile she customarily reserved for Jaime. "Lord Petyr, you are a wicked creature."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"And a most accomplished liar," Tyrion added, less warmly. This one is more dangerous than I knew, he reflected.

Littlefinger's grey-green eyes met the dwarf's mismatched stare with no hint of unease. "We all have our gifts, my lord."

The queen was too caught up in her revenge to take note of the exchange. "Cuckolded by a halfwit fool! Stannis will be laughed at in every winesink this side of the narrow sea."

"The story should not come from us," Tyrion said, "or it will be seen for a self-serving lie." Which it is, to be sure.

Once more Littlefinger supplied the answer. "Whores love to gossip, and as it happens I own a brothel or three. And no doubt Varys can plant seeds in the alehouses and pot-shops."

"Varys," Cersei said, frowning. "Where is Varys?"

"I have been wondering about that myself, Your Grace."

"The Spider spins his secret webs day and night," Grand Maester Pycelle said ominously. "I mistrust that one, my lords."

"And he speaks so kindly of you." Tyrion pushed himself off his chair. As it happened, he knew what the eunuch was about, but it was nothing the other councillors needed to hear. "Pray excuse me, my lords. Other business calls."

Cersei was instantly suspicious. "King's business?"

"Nothing you need trouble yourself about."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"Would you spoil my surprise?" Tyrion said. "I'm having a gift made for Joffrey. A little chain."

"What does he need with another chain? He has gold chains and silver, more than he can wear. If you think for a moment you can buy Joff's love with gifts—"

"Why, surely I have the king's love, as he has mine. And this chain I believe he may one day treasure above all others." The little man bowed and waddled to the door.

Bronn was waiting outside the council chambers to escort him back to the Tower of the Hand. "The smiths are in your audience chamber, waiting your pleasure," he said as they crossed the ward.

"Waiting my pleasure. I like the ring of that, Bronn. You almost sound a proper courtier. Next you'll be kneeling."

"Fuck you, dwarf."

"That's Shae's task." Tyrion heard Lady Tanda calling to him merrily from the top of the serpentine steps. Pretending not to notice her, he waddled a bit faster. "See that my litter is readied, I'll be leaving the castle as soon as I'm done here." Two of the Moon Brothers had the door guard. Tyrion greeted them pleasantly, and grimaced before starting up the stairs. The climb to his bedchamber made his legs ache.

Within he found a boy of twelve laying out clothing on the bed; his squire, such that he was. Podrick Payne was so shy he was furtive. Tyrion had never quite gotten over the suspicion that his father had inflicted the boy on him as a joke.

"Your garb, my lord," the boy mumbled when Tyrion entered, staring down at his boots. Even when he worked up the courage to speak, Pod could never quite manage to look at you. "For the audience. And your chain. The Hand's chain."

"Very good. Help me dress." The doublet was black velvet covered with golden studs in the shape of lions' heads, the chain a loop of solid gold hands, the fingers of each clasping the wrist of the next. Pod brought him a cloak of crimson silk fringed in gold, cut to his height. On a normal man, it would be no more than a half cape.

The Hand's private audience chamber was not so large as the king's, nor a patch on the vastness of the throne room, but Tyrion liked its Myrish rugs, wall hangings, and sense of intimacy. As he entered, his steward cried out, "Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King." He liked that too. The gaggle of smiths, armorers, and ironmongers that Bronn had collected fell to their knees.

He hoisted himself up into the high seat under the round golden window and bid them rise. "Goodmen, I know you are all busy, so I will be succinct. Pod, if you please." The boy handed him a canvas sack. Tyrion yanked the drawstring and upended the bag. Its contents spilled onto the rug with a muffled thunk of metal on wool. "I had these made at the castle forge. I want a thousand more just like them."

One of the smiths knelt to inspect the object: three immense steel links, twisted together. "A mighty chain."

"Mighty, but short," the dwarf replied. "Somewhat like me. I fancy one a good deal longer. Do you have a name?"

"They call me Ironbelly, m'lord." The smith was squat and broad, plainly dressed in wool and leather, but his arms were as thick as a bull's neck.

"I want every forge in King's Landing turned to making these links and joining them. All other work is to be put aside. I want every man who knows the art of working metal set to this task, be he master, journeyman, or apprentice. When I ride up the Street of Steel, I want to hear hammers ringing, night or day. And I want a man, a strong man, to see that all this is done. Are you that man, Goodman Ironbelly?"

"Might be I am, m'lord. But what of the mail and swords the queen was wanting?"

Another smith spoke up. "Her Grace commanded us to make chainmail and armor, swords and daggers and axes, all in great numbers. For arming her new gold cloaks, m'lord."

"That work can wait," Tyrion said. "The chain first."

"M'lord, begging your pardon, Her Grace said those as didn't meet their numbers would have their hands crushed," the anxious Smith persisted. "Smashed on their own anvils, she said."

Sweet Cersei, always striving to make the smallfolk love us. "No one will have their hands smashed. You have my word on it."

"Iron is grown dear," Ironbelly declared, "and this chain will be needing much of it, and coke beside, for the fires."

"Lord Baelish will see that you have coin as you need it," Tyrion promised. He could count on Littlefinger for that much, he hoped. "I will command the City Watch to help you find iron. Melt down every horseshoe in this city if you must."

An older man moved forward, richly dressed in a damask tunic with silver fastenings and a cloak lined with foxfur. He knelt to examine the great steel links Tyrion had dumped on the floor. "My lord," he announced gravely, "this is crude work at best. There is no art to it. Suitable labor for common smiths, no doubt, for men who bend horseshoes and hammer out kettles, but I am a master armorer, as it please my lord. This is no work for me, nor my fellow masters. We make swords as sharp as song, armor such as a god might wear. Not this."

Tyrion tilted his head to the side and gave the man a dose of his mismatched eyes. "What is your name, master armorer?"

"Salloreon, as it please my lord. If the King's Hand will permit, I should be most honored to forge him a suit of armor suitable to his House and high office." Two of the others sniggered, but Salloreon plunged ahead, heedless. "Plate and scale, I think. The scales gilded bright as the sun, the plate enameled a deep Lannister crimson. I would suggest a demon's head for a helm, crowned with tall golden horns. When you ride into battle, men will shrink away in fear."

A demon's head, Tyrion thought ruefully, now what does that say of me? "Master Salloreon, I plan to fight the rest of my battles from this chair. It's links I need, not demon horns. So let me put it to you this way. You will make chains, or you will wear them. The choice is yours." He rose, and took his leave with nary a backward glance.

Bronn was waiting by the gate with his litter and an escort of mounted Black Ears. "You know where we're bound," Tyrion told him. He accepted a hand up into the litter. He had done all he could to feed the hungry city—he'd set several hundred carpenters to building fishing boats in place of catapults, opened the kingswood to any hunter who dared to cross the river, even sent gold cloaks foraging to the west and south—yet he still saw accusing eyes everywhere he rode. The litter's curtains shielded him from that, and besides gave him leisure to think.

As they wound their slow way down twisty Shadowblack Lane to the foot of Aegon's High Hill, Tyrion reflected on the events of the morning. His sister's ire had led her to overlook the true significance of Stannis Baratheon's letter. Without proof, his accusations were nothing; what mattered was that he had named himself a king. And what will Renly make of that? They could not both sit the Iron Throne.

Idly, he pushed the curtain back a few inches to peer out at the streets. Black Ears rode on both sides of him, their grisly necklaces looped about their throats, while Bronn went in front to clear the way. He watched the passersby watching him, and played a little game with himself, trying to sort the informers from the rest. The ones who look the most suspicious are likely innocent, he decided. It's the ones who look innocent I need to beware.

His destination was behind the hill of Rhaenys, and the streets were crowded. Almost an hour had passed before the litter swayed to a stop. Tyrion was dozing, but he woke abruptly when the motion ceased, rubbed the sand from his eyes, and accepted Bronn's hand to climb down.

The house was two stories tall, stone below and timber above. A round turret rose from one corner of the structure. Many of the windows were leaded. Over the door swung an ornate lamp, a globe of gilded metal and scarlet glass.

"A brothel," Bronn said. "What do you mean to do here?"

"What does one usually do in a brothel?"

The sellsword laughed. "Shae's not enough?"

"She was pretty enough for a camp follower, but I'm no longer in camp. Little men have big appetites, and I'm told the girls here are fit for a king."

"Is the boy old enough?"

"Not Joffrey. Robert. This house was a great favorite of his." Although Joffrey may indeed be old enough. An interesting notion, that. "If you and the Black Ears care to amuse yourselves, feel free, but Chataya's girls are costly. You'll find cheaper houses all along the street. Leave one man here who'll know where to find the others when I wish to return."

Bronn nodded. "As you say." The Black Ears were all grins.

Inside the door, a tall woman in flowing silks was waiting for him. She had ebon skin and sandalwood eyes. "I am Chataya," she announced, bowing deeply. "And you are—"

"Let us not get into the habit of names. Names are dangerous." The air smelled of some exotic spice, and the floor beneath his feet displayed a mosaic of two women entwined in love. "You have a pleasant establishment."

"I have labored long to make it so. I am glad the Hand is pleased." Her voice was flowing amber, liquid with the accents of the distant Summer Isles.

"Titles can be as dangerous as names," Tyrion warned. "Show me a few of your girls."

"It will be my great delight. You will find that they are all as sweet as they are beautiful, and skilled in every art of love." She swept off gracefully, leaving Tyrion to waddle after as best he could on legs half the length of hers.

From behind an ornate Myrish screen carved with flowers and fancies and dreaming maidens, they peered unseen into a common room where an old man was playing a cheerful air on the pipes. In a cushioned alcove, a drunken Tyroshi with a purple beard dandled a buxom young wench on his knee. He'd unlaced her bodice and was tilting his cup to pour a thin trickle of wine over her breasts so he might lap it off. Two other girls sat playing at tiles before a leaded glass window. The freckled one wore a chain of blue flowers in her honeyed hair. The other had skin as smooth and black as polished jet, wide dark eyes, small pointed breasts. They dressed in flowing silks cinched at the waist with beaded belts. The sunlight pouring through the colored glass outlined their sweet young bodies through the thin cloth, and Tyrion felt a stirring in his groin. "I would respectfully suggest the dark-skinned girl," said Chataya.

"She's young."

"She has sixteen years, my lord."

A good age for Joffrey, he thought, remembering what Bronn had said. His first had been even younger. Tyrion remembered how shy she'd seemed as he drew her dress up over her head the first time. Long dark hair and blue eyes you could drown in, and he had. So long ago . . . What a wretched fool you are, dwarf. "Does she come from your home lands, this girl?"

"Her blood is the blood of summer, my lord, but my daughter was born here in King's Landing." His surprise must have shown on his face, for Chataya continued, "My people hold that there is no shame to be found in the pillow house. In the Summer Isles, those who are skilled at giving pleasure are greatly esteemed. Many highborn youths and maidens serve for a few years after their flowerings, to honor the gods."

"What do the gods have to do with it?"

"The gods made our bodies as well as our souls, is it not so? They give us voices, so we might worship them with song. They give us hands, so we might build them temples. And they give us desire, so we might mate and worship them in that way."

"Remind me to tell the High Septon," said Tyrion. "If I could pray with my cock, I'd be much more religious." He waved a hand. "I will gladly accept your suggestion."

"I shall summon my daughter. Come."

The girl met him at the foot of the stairs. Taller than Shae, though not so tall as her mother, she had to kneel before Tyrion could kiss her. "My name is Alayaya," she said, with only the slightest hint of her mother's accent. "Come, my lord." She took him by the hand and drew him up two flights of stairs, then down a long hall. Gasps and shrieks of pleasure were coming from behind one of the closed doors, giggles and whispers from another. Tyrion's cock pressed against the lacings of his breeches. This could be humiliating, he thought as he followed Alayaya up another stair to the turret room. There was only one door. She led him through and closed it. Within the room was a great canopied bed, a tall wardrobe decorated with erotic carvings, and a narrow window of leaded glass in a pattern of red and yellow diamonds.

"You are very beautiful, Alayaya," Tyrion told her when they were alone. "From head to heels, every part of you is lovely. Yet just now the part that interests me most is your tongue."

"My lord will find my tongue well schooled. When I was a girl I learned when to use it, and when not."

"That pleases me." Tyrion smiled. "So what shall we do now? Perchance you have some suggestion?"

"Yes," she said. "If my lord will open the wardrobe, he will find what he seeks."

Tyrion kissed her hand, and climbed inside the empty wardrobe. Alayaya closed it after him. He groped for the back panel, felt it slide under his fingers, and pushed it all the way aside. The hollow space behind the walls was pitch-black, but he fumbled until he felt metal. His hand closed around the rung of a ladder. He found a lower rung with his foot, and started down. Well below street level, the shaft opened onto a slanting earthen tunnel, where he found Varys waiting with candle in hand.

Varys did not look at all like himself. A scarred face and a stubble of dark beard showed under his spiked steel cap, and he wore mail over boiled leather, dirk and shortsword at his belt. "Was Chataya's to your satisfaction, my lord?"

"Almost too much so," admitted Tyrion. "You're certain this woman can be relied on?"

"I am certain of nothing in this fickle and treacherous world, my lord. Chataya has no cause to love the queen, though, and she knows that she has you to thank for ridding her of Allar Deem. Shall we go?" He started down the tunnel.

Even his walk is different, Tyrion observed. The scent of sour wine and garlic clung to Varys instead of lavender. "I like this new garb of yours," he offered as they went.

"The work I do does not permit me to travel the streets amid a column of knights. So when I leave the castle, I adopt more suitable guises, and thus live to serve you longer."

"Leather becomes you. You ought to come like this to our next council session."

"Your sister would not approve, my lord."

"My sister would soil her smallclothes." He smiled in the dark. "I saw no signs of any of her spies skulking after me."

"I am pleased to hear it, my lord. Some of your sister's hirelings are mine as well, unbeknownst to her. I should hate to think they had grown so sloppy as to be seen."

"Well, I'd hate to think I was climbing through wardrobes and suffering the pangs of frustrated lust all for naught."

"Scarcely for naught," Varys assured him. "They know you are here. Whether any will be bold enough to enter Chataya's in the guise of patrons I cannot say, but I find it best to err on the side of caution."

"How is it a brothel happens to have a secret entrance?"

"The tunnel was dug for another King's Hand, whose honor would not allow him to enter such a house openly. Chataya has closely guarded the knowledge of its existence."

"And yet you knew of it."

"Little birds fly through many a dark tunnel. Careful, the steps are steep."

They emerged through a trap at the back of a stable, having come perhaps a distance of three blocks under Rhaenys's Hill. A horse whickered in his stall when Tyrion let the door slam shut. Varys blew out the candle and set it on a beam and Tyrion gazed about. A mule and three horses occupied the stalls. He waddled over to the piebald gelding and took a look at his teeth. "Old," he said, "and I have my doubts about his wind."

"He is not a mount to carry you into battle, true," Varys replied, "but he will serve, and attract no notice. As will the others. And the stableboys see and hear only the animals." The eunuch took a cloak from a peg. It was roughspun, sun-faded, and threadbare, but very ample in its cut. "If you will permit me." When he swept it over Tyrion's shoulders it enveloped him head to heel, with a cowl that could be pulled forward to drown his face in shadows. "Men see what they expect to see," Varys said as he fussed and pulled. "Dwarfs are not so common a sight as children, so a child is what they will see. A boy in an old cloak on his father's horse, going about his father's business. Though it would be best if you came most often by night."

"I plan to . . . after today. At the moment, though, Shae awaits me." He had put her up in a walled manse at the far northeast corner of King's Landing, not far from the sea, but he had not dared visit her there for fear of being followed.

"Which horse will you have?"

Tyrion shrugged. "This one will do well enough."

"I shall saddle him for you." Varys took tack and saddle down from a peg.

Tyrion adjusted the heavy cloak and paced restlessly. "You missed a lively council. Stannis has crowned himself, it seems."

"I know."

"He accuses my brother and sister of incest. I wonder how he came by that suspicion."

"Perhaps he read a book and looked at the color of a bastard's hair, as Ned Stark did, and Jon Arryn before him. Or perhaps someone whispered it in his ear." The eunuch's laugh was not his usual giggle, but deeper and more throaty.

"Someone like you, perchance?"

"Am I suspected? It was not me."

"If it had been, would you admit it?"

"No. But why should I betray a secret I have kept so long? It is one thing to deceive a king, and quite another to hide from the cricket in the rushes and the little bird in the chimney. Besides, the bastards were there for all to see."

"Robert's bastards? What of them?"

"He fathered eight, to the best of my knowing," Varys said as he wrestled with the saddle. "Their mothers were copper and honey, chestnut and butter, yet the babes were all black as ravens . . . and as ill-omened, it would seem. So when Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen slid out between your sister's thighs, each as golden as the sun, the truth was not hard to glimpse."

Tyrion shook his head. If she had borne only one child for her husband, it would have been enough to disarm suspicion . . . but then she would not have been Cersei. "If you were not this whisperer, who was?"

"Some traitor, doubtless." Varys tightened the cinch.

"Littlefinger?"

"I named no name."

Tyrion let the eunuch help him mount. "Lord Varys," he said from the saddle, "sometimes I feel as though you are the best friend I have in King's Landing, and sometimes I feel you are my worst enemy."

"How odd. I think quite the same of you."

#ClashofKings

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