The Kings Who Cared

Chapter I: A Duck and a Crow

Duck had never wanted to be called Duck. Duck had never wanted many things for that matter, and he felt that he had truly wanted very few things as well. But the fact remained that he had not wanted the moniker which he had accidentally bestowed upon himself. Any knight worth their blade had a second name he'd told himself, and "Duckfield" had sounded as good as anything else might be. If he'd known then that he would grow so used to being called "Duck" that he would think of himself as Duck, then mayhaps he'd have thought a bit more strenuously on his second name.

Sometimes, Duck imagined that it had been wolves on that field rather than ducks. Wolffield didn't roll of the tongue quite so well, but he'd be willing to take that in exchange for being called "Wolf" instead.

Still, Duck fancied himself a skilled hand at smithing, and a more than passing fair swordsman. Clearly, he had not been the only one, otherwise he would never have been knighted in the first place. If he'd never been knighted, well, his life would have been a mite less interesting.

The cost for his interesting prospects, then, was the knowledge that he was the brawn of their endeavor. If something needed to be moved, Duck was the man tasked with it. If someone needed to be moved (six feet under, mostlike), then Duck was the man for that as well. When a missive needed to be passed along to the Spider through one of his little birds (why birds? If the man was a spider, shouldn't it be a fly or somesuch?), then that meant Duck was the man for the task.

After all, everyone else was particularly vital in their own way. Griff was a more than capable swordsman, and could fulfill his role in the meantime. That wounded Duck's pride somewhat, but he hadn't been born with much in the first place. It was only expected for a commonborn man to act as such, at the least.

Braavos, in particular, was a journey he was always willing to make. Some pisspot of a village on the arse-end of the Rhoyne was one thing, but Braavos? Braavos was a destination he looked forward to. No matter how many times Duck sailed under the great Titan and heard its roar, he always found himself giddy. Like he was the near child he'd been when he left Westeros for the "decadent" lands to the east.

Surely, this would be the time that his luck won out. He'd catch the eye of one of the Courtesans and live like a magister for a few days before heading back to his obligations. Without his squire, Duck was released from having to live as a shining knight. Griff didn't want any bad habits bleeding over, after all. Well, there probably wouldn't be any courtesans, but he could still find a nice, affordable woman. And if he didn't do that, then he could surely find other ways to get his blood running.

Namely, wander around after dark with his sword in his hand and wait for a hotblooded young bravo to give him a good time.

Finding the "little bird" had been a simple enough affair. Few paid any attention to Westerosi traveler grabbing at the skirts of a serving maid. That she had a prominent scar on her face was of little consequence to a man in need of feminine company. So of course, fewer still noticed when he slipped the envelope down her sleeve. She gave him a playful swat, but the knowing smirk she wore told him all he need know. Duck left an extra coin after he downed his wine and returned to the streets.

Duck spent his day wandering the streets, piecing together what he could of the Secret City's own Bastard Valyrian. He could survive in Braavos if he was forced to, but he'd rather not. What little he'd learned in the Golden Company wasn't quite enough for him to live without care. Still, he heard enough to keep himself entertained. The Sealord had had a bout of illness, but was recovering. Khal Drogo was gathering the largest Khalasar the world had ever seen. King Robert was dead, killed by a boar (or a resurrected Rhaegar Targaryen, if some versions of the tale were to be believed).

Duck was still somewhat stunned that King Robert (Duck could never refer to him as simply "The Usurper" like Griff, after all, he was the King Duck had known for most of his life) was truly dead. Sure, the man had lived life few lived for long, but they had not thought themselves lucky enough to count on his early demise. Everything that had happened since was yet more good fortune.

As he walked, Duck noticed something of a trend. At first he heard the occasional mention of the Ragman's Harbor. This didn't seem beyond the ordinary to Duck, as the Ragman's Harbor was the only harbor in Braavos that was open to foreigners. Foreign news or peoples always carried interest to some. Duck still remembered the first time he ever saw an Ibbenese man, so he understood. But as the mentions of the Ragman's Harbor became more common, so too did the whispers of a "hand" and something or someone in black.

Duck hadn't spent several years fighting (and smithing) in the Golden Company because he wanted to live an ordinary life. If he had wanted that, then he never would have left Bitterbridge in the first place. So when the possibility of something of interest arose, he felt a solemn duty to seek it out. In truth, he had a duty to inform Griff of anything amiss, so he felt no qualms about playing at rumormonging.

Arriving in the Ragman's Harbor somewhat later than intended (having stopped for a time to watch the ending of a street mummers' show, as the heroine was particularly buxom), Duck swiftly saw that it was more populated than was its usual. It was easy enough for a man with as sharp an eye and ear as he to figure the origin of the chatter, so Duck made his way to the northern end of the Harbor where he knew the particular tavern sat. Sure enough, while Pynto's smelled of piss, that was not out of the ordinary. The fact that the piss seemed more human than cat was of interest, as was the high amount of foot traffic.

Being a tall man with a sword at his hip was of great benefit when it came to shouldering his way through the crowd of men and women of every stripe, color, and origin. It was slightly less useful when it came to maneuvering through the truly countless cats that called Pynto's their home. After sidestepping a particularly unfriendly Tom, Duck caught sight of a thin man clad all in black at the center of the crowd. The man was aged. He had to have seen more than forty namedays, and probably even fifty if the streaks of grey through his black hair were to believed. He had a severe look to him, and he kept one hand on the hilt of his blade even as he held the top of a wrought iron cage with the other, his dark eyes scanning the crowd.

From his vantage point, Duck couldn't see what exactly the cage contained, so he squeezed past a broad Summer Islander and a green haired man and woman that could only have been Tyroshi. The man in front of him now was at least short enough that Duck could see over his balding head. Finally, he could see the source of all the commotion.

Duck's Braavosi had not failed him, it turned out. For there was indeed a "hand" as he thought he'd heard some mention. It was a particularly rotted hand, and it was black as pitch. He didn't see what was so worthy of gossip in this hand. He'd seen plenty of cut off hands in his life, and he'd never bothered putting them in a cage and showing them off to others.

Then the hand jerked, scraping its way to the other end of the cage. Several women screamed, and time seemed to slow. A thousand thoughts whirled in his head as he looked from the man in black to the hand and then back again, his breathing labored.

Fuck the courtesans, actually. And the bravos too.

Ser Rolly Duckfield had some news to deliver.