Debt To Faceless Men: Part 2 (Rated MA)

Of the three men sitting at the table, one was massive Braavosi merchant with skin as black as coal and a buttocks so large it needed two chairs to support it. He was slapping at his belly with one hand, pouring wine messily down his throat with the other, letting the majority of it miss his lips and soak his braided beard, dyed purple and orange. What escaped his whiskers was absorbed into his silken robe of lilac and maroon, and he didn't seem to notice or care about the stains that were growing larger on his chest with each sloppy swig. His companion seated next to him was a twig in comparison, though equally flamboyant in appearance. Dressed in silken finery with a rainbows array of colors and jewels of jade, aqua and ruby graced each of his finger. He had the face of a buzzard, dark eyes with a long hooked nose, thin pink lips and prickly white scruff covering his sunken cheeks. His old age was undeniable, though his head was still full of black hairs, weaved into a braid so long that he could wrap it about his neck as one might wrap a scarf. When he grinned, his smile revealed a mix of gold and silver false teeth with a sparkling red jewel on his incisor. The smile was always followed by a wheezing laugh that reminded one of either a madman, a dying man, or both.

Across from merchant and his associate, was a broad chested man of fifty or so, who the youth took for the captain. His thick beard hadn't yet gone completely over to gray, but was well on its way with only a few strands of black left within it. His attire wasn't near as luxurious as his Braavosi friends, in fact, he looked a ragged man in comparison; A simple dingy white linen shirt beneath a faded leather jerkin with a thick collar. Too much wine had turned his cheeks red and slurred his speech, but he seemed jolly and coherent enough, even as he swayed gently in his seat.
“So I grabbed the bastard by his neck,” he was saying between laughs as the youth approached the trio, “and I said to em, Im'a count them coins again, and if they come up short even a penny you'll come up short a head before I set sail again, be sure of that. Gwahaha. And wouldn't ya know it, I look down to find the bastard done pissed himself and all over my new boots. So I gave his neck another squeeze and said, for your sake best add another five stags before I get to counting. Haha.”
The fat Braavosi burst out in hysterics, choking on his wine and spilling even more on his robes, while the skinny one held his sides not knowing which hurt worse, the laughs or the fits of coughing between them. The captain was wiping a tear from his eye when he looked up to see the youth standing beside him.
“What have we hear?” he asked through a chortle, “Cant you see this here is the men’s table boy? On with ya, less ya make Zhorin here jealous with that fancy hair of yours.”
The skinny man snorted, running a bony hand down the length of his braid. “Only a westerner would envy hair of gold. Braavosi prefer their gold on coins, not on the head of some flowery scented boy with a woman's face.” Zhorin spoke in his native tongue, and his mocking smirk turned swiftly to surprise when the young man responded in Braavosi as well.
“And a westerner might mistake that braid of yours for a rope old man, and think to wrap it tighter around your neck then you would find comfortable.” Zhorin puffed his chest, showing more of his frailty then his bravery. “Best watch your words stranger, some men here might take them as threats. Men who don't take threats lightly, men who could buy a sword to cut your neck as easily as buying a loaf of bread.”
“I would not know. Where I come from, if one were to be too loose with their tongue, any man of honor would make him answer for those words with his own sword,” the youth tapped his finger on the hilt of his sword, “less he be named a coward. It's a weak and fearful man that must turn to a sell sword to do his dirty work.”
Zhorin answered the insult only by curling his greasy lips inward to lick at them.
“You talk too much boy.” the Captain interrupted, “less you have business here I suggest that ya move on. I won't be kept from my drink by a pretty boy and his puffed up words.”
“my business is with you sir. I seek passage on the Busty Gal, I hear your the man to arrange that.”
“I ain't no sir boy-”
“Locbridge, Timmon Locbridge of Silverhill.”
“Timmon locbridge, Timmon the talker serves ya better with that mouth of yours. Aye, the Busty Gal is my ship, but it won't serve you none. I already got me a pretty boy on-board, don't have no needs for another; less ya have somethin tight and wet beneath them breeches o'yours. The men might appreciate a lil comforting on them long nights. Otherwise, bugger off and find yourself another captain. Might be a Penthoshi or two here that wouldn't mind a pretty young lad to keep their beds warm.”
the fat man bellowed, dumping down the last of his wine before waving the Inn keep over for another.
“Here...” Timmon pulled a pouch from beneath his waistband and tossed it towards the captain, who's eyes widened with delight when he heard it jingle upon hitting the table. “Something better then cunt, and enough to purchase as much of it as any man would care to taste.”
The captain scooped up the pouch, weighing it in one hand. Even the Braavosi seemed intrigued, each one watching the Captain as two dogs might watch their master waiting for him to drop a few scraps for them to fight over.
“That mouth of yours get ya into a mess you can't handle boy? If so, you can shove this coin right up your pretty arse. I won't have some Braavosi brutes look'n to shove a sword through my belly for help'n a craven runoff on what he's got due.”
“None enough to leave me sleepless. I seek a woman. She waits for me in King‘s Landing, though I fear she will not wait much longer, hence my urgency.”
“Give me coin,” The fat man spoke in a mix between Braavosi and broken westerosi. “I get you a dozen fine women, who will all wait for your unto their last breaths, if you wish it. Good woman, jewels in the flesh, serve you better then any western shrew who know nothing of pleasuring a man. Yes, give me coin, and good Galios will make it so.”
“I am sure I could find my share of good whores, good Galios, if that were what I sought, but the woman I seek has something to give more valuable then flesh.”
Galios shrugged, “Your loss, more for good Galios.”
“I knew such a woman once.” The captain proclaimed, tossing the pouch from hand to hand. “Long legs, full breasts and eyes like sapphires to steal a mans heart. Aye, I was young as you lad when first we met. She was a Myrish gal, with skin as soft as a babies and lips sweeter then wine. One night before I was to set sail, we spent all the late hours wrapped in each others embrace we did. She said she'd wait for me as well. Next I saw her, she had tits that dragged on the ground, her face looked like a rotting squash and six babes were trail'n after er’ skirt tails. May be that you come to find the same fright wait'n for you in Stormsend.” He belched, “None of my concern either way.”
Soggy Jon tucked the coins away into a pocket sown into the inside of his jerkin. “We sail at noon, with or without ya. Might be you'll be sleep'n with the crabs in the hold, but I'll find a place for ya. Wouldn't sleep well knowing I left a young man longing for his... waiting maiden.”

Weeks had passed since that conversation in the smoky inn on the canals of Braavos, and after a quick stop in Pentos to unload a few crates and bring on more wine, cheese and bread, they were but a two days from King‘s Landing. When they first reached the Blackwater, they had passed a monstrous Galley with ninety oars on either side, and eight enormous black canopies with a red, three headed dragon on its forward mass. The men aboard looked as hardened as steel, watching the Busty Gal row past from the decks, staring down at its crew with emotionless eyes that reminded Timmon of the statues in the Temple of Black and White. “News from the kingdoms?” the captain yelled to them, though none aboard answered. He spat in their wake, “Grim bastards, that lot.” 
Timmon watched as it sailed away, wondering where such a ship was headed, and despite its size, why it sailed alone. “War galley,” he said to the Captain, his palms clutching the rails, “never seen one that size sail without a dozen more in tow.” 
“Aye, couldn’t say what that’s about. Maybe that there’s more float’n round here somewhere, spread out.  Long as they ain’t sail’n after me, don’t give a piss what they’re up to.” 
The Captain stretched his arms and took in a deep breath of crisp sea air before shaking his head and walking off. “You know the kingdoms boy,” he yelled over his shoulder, “there’s always a war to fight somewhere.”
Timmon watched the galley until it was but a dot on the horizon, then returned to pacing of the deck. 
The sun was on its decent, and the cook was dropping the last ingredients into a large, bubbling stew pot when Pretty Lad caught Timmon on deck, a stinking mop in one hand and a dingy rag in the other. “Did you see that war galley?” he asked excitedly, “I’ve never seen one that big.” 
“I would have to be blind to not have. A beast of a ship.”
“She flew the colors of house Targaryen.”
“Of course she did, you really think the king would trust any other banner flying on a ship that large so close to the capitol shores?”
Pretty lad leaned on his mop, his mind drifting into some fantasy. “I’ve always dreamed of what it would be like to have been born a Targaryen, flying above the kingdoms on the back of a dragon.” He frowned, “Guess they’re dreams wasted now. All but a few survived the dance of dragons, and the ones that did are dead or dying themselves.” 
Timmon shrugged. “I doubt it matters to Aegon much. His mother mounted dragons, raised them to spit fire, fed them the flesh of as many foes as they could consume, and in thanks she was devoured by one.”
Pretty lad shook his head in disagreement. “No, the Targaryens are the blood of dragons, he would not let his own dragon die, despite what happened to his mother. It would be like.. I don‘t know.. watching your own kin die. Besides, I heard he has hatched more eggs. Could you imagine, an army of dragons returning to the skies?”
Timmon smiled at his naivety. “Yes, and I could see how one might think it wondrous if it was themselves who held the reigns; but what about the people beneath their wings, and the poor bastards left in their wake?… Believe me boy, when your fields and home are engulfed in flames, your livestock devoured, and your family running and screaming and crying in the shadow of a angry dragon, you might see them differently. They’re monsters, earth scorchers and man eaters. True, monsters still exist, more each day, but the ones without wings are far easier to deal with.”
As the words sank in, the enchantment in Pretty Lad’s eyes turned to uncertainty. Timmon gave him a pat on the shoulder in condolence, “Never forget boy, one mans dream is often another man’s nightmare. Now, best get yourself a meal in you before the rest of the crew have at it.”
“Won’t you eat too?”
“No, wine will serve me. The cook has not been kind to my stomach as of late.”
“Is he ever?” pretty boy mused before scurrying off.

Truth be told, it was so much the food that had Timmons stomach in knots, but the increasing chop of the sea. These were the first rough waters the Busty Gal encountered throughout the voyage, oddly enough. Heavy winds and rains had moved in without much warning, causing waves beat on her hull relentlessly, knocking her from side to side, assaulting her with savage gusts and hail. More then once Timmon was sure it would swept over the rail, only to have the ship right itself at the very last second and send him shuffling towards the other side as if he were performing some strange drunken dance. The crew was used to it, and moved about as easily as they had back in the calm waters of Braavos, but Timmon lacked his sea legs and slipped and stumbled with every other step, and his hips and ribs were bruised and tender from so many knocks against the railing when he wasn’t clinging to it for stability. 
Though kings landing was visible in the distance, the captain insisted on dropping anchor a few hundred yards from port until the storms passed, less they be dashed against the rocks and founder before any goods or men could disembark. More then a dozen other vessels had chose to do the same, the smaller ones seeming to dip lower into the sea with every wave as water filled their hulls faster then it could be bailed out. Of those anchored ships, seven had vanished into the deep by the time the waves subsided enough to carry onward.  Maneuvering through the maze of broken masses and sunken wrecks proved an equally challenging and nerve wrecking experience, a challenge that added an eighth ship to the list of losses; fortunately, none were the lucky Busty Gal.  
By the time they reached port and tied off, a mid-day sun had returned to the sky, bringing with it a muggy heat that left every man glistening in sweat. The docks were jammed with crews and crates, sellers and beggars, and a slew of stowaways waiting nervously in chains. Mixing among them were seasoned whores flaunted their well used goods, while captains and shipmates whistled, and groped for a slap to the face or a come hither smile. King’s guardsman, clad in gold, walked the causeway giving everyone a grim eye, but taking no real action aside from breaking up a fight or two, or waking the slumbering drunk with a kick, only to have them stumble away and pass out on some other guards round. 
Timmon observed the controlled chaos from the rails, trying to recall how long it had been since he last saw the harbor of King’s Landing. It was too long to recall in great detail, though what he could, remained the same as it was now. The stench was quickest to rouse his memories; While Braavos smelled of Spice and perfume, Kings landing was a mix of shit and soot and laborer sweat. It reminded him, there had never been a filthier or more magnificent jewel of a city than King’s Landing; a nastily treacherous gem in the crown of the seven kingdoms.  
Soggy Jon was popping the cork on his second bottle of win when he joined Timmon, resting his gut on the wood rail . He opened his arms to the expanse of shops and slums, brothels and Inns, temples, and guards towers and manors before them. 
“Well, King’s Landing welcomes you boy, in all its rat infested glory.”
“Its been some time. Not much has changed It seems.”
“Don’t let it fool ya boy, change is always a breeze away around here, some bigger then others, but changes non the less. Right now, somewhere out there, there’s a hundred men each planning to make their own changes to the city. Couldn’t tell ya if its for better or worse…. guess it all depends on any given man’s desires.”
The captain took a swig from his bottle and placed his heavy hand on Timmons shoulder. “And you boy,” he said, wine potent on his breath, “it’s a woman you desire as I recall. What changes do you expect her to have made?”
“I wouldn’t know. We have never met, in truth.  I don’t even know her name or what she looks like. All I know is she has a letter for me.“
The Captain looked puzzled. “A letter?  Someone sent you half way across the world, risked your life on an open sea, has you track down a stranger without so much as tell’n ya the color of their eyes, all for a bloody letter?”
 Timmon shrugged, “Its an important letter.”
“For that much trouble, bloody well better be. Or, could be someone ached to get rid of ya, and you was damned foolish enough to take such a line of shit.”
The captain raised his bottle, “Well, here’s to ya anyway boy.” he toasted, before taking a more than generous swig. “May the gods guide ya to wherever in the seven hells it is your going.” With that he wondered off, muttering something unintelligible and laughing at Timmon’s disorientation. 
Timmon scanned the causeway, searching without a clue as to what he should be searching for, aside from one girl out a many, with no way to identify her. 
“This man will find a woman to greet him with a letter of great importance.”
The words he remembered. True to those words there were plenty of women, hundreds and more of all ages, shapes and sizes. Some held tight to other men’s arms, or the wriggling hands of children; others held baskets, babes and canes, flowers and crates and buckets of water or waste or both, breads or meats and much in between, but none he saw held anything in the resemblance of a letter, least not that he could see from on deck. 
He worked his way down the gang plank and into the crowd, bumping shoulders with those too busy or drunk to care, and left the Busty Gal behind him without so much as wink goodbye.