Niflheim's abode
patreon
BtM Chapter 18: Smallfolk I
🕑 Added 2024-04-13 18:42:18 +0000 UTCThe man whistled a famous ballad as he opened the tavern doors.
As if it was destined by the gods, a bard flicked his lute to the same tune, singing along.
“The Dornishman’s wife was as fair as the sun; her kisses were warmer than spring…” The minstrel crooned.
He finished whistling along, the melody washing along with the crowds humming.
The tavern could be described as cozy and dimly lit, with wooden tables and chairs, a crackling fireplace, shelves lined with dusty bottles of liquor, and patrons chatting and laughing, echoing the sound of clinking glasses and mugs.
One of their many clients shouted from one of the tables at the corner. "Tobias! Come 'ere, ye thick-headed sod!" While his words were harsh, the tone behind them was undoubtedly jovial.
The newly named Tobias’ face lights up in recognition as he swiftly walks up to the group.
"Harlan, ye old lout, didn't reckon on seein' yer sorry mug today, did I?" He looks to the other men sitting around the table. “Good day.” He greeted.
There were four people including Harlan sitting there. Each one of them had weathered faces tanned from working outdoors, with strong jawlines, unkempt hair, some covering it by a simple cap. Their eyes hid under bushy eyebrows, weary yet observant.
They wore simple tunics and breeches and sturdy leather shoes.
Harlan, the biggest and oldest of the bunch, stood up and shook Tobias’ hand; the young man could feel callouses on his palm, indicative of a history of hard work.
"Would ye take a gander at that?" Harlan appraises him from head to toe. "Seems as though little Toby's climbed up in the world!"
Indeed, the former Kingslanding boy had matured under the purple cloaks; his old malnourished frame had filled up with good food and hard labor. His hair was cut short, as was customary from their members, while his face was clean and shaven.
He also wore a simple tunic and leather boots, but compared to Harlan’s used and unclean ones, his were new and tidy, the purple pendant hung over his neck and the sword attached to his hip making his identity as one of the prince’s men clear.
"I just showed some gumption," He answers. "The rest of ye were too timid to seize the chance." Tobias takes the liberty to grab a spare chair and sit next to the group.
Harlan guffaws, giving Tobias a hearty pat on the shoulder. "Aye! But the Prince's grace - though belated - has blessed us all equally! Now we can all put bread on the table."
Most men who heard his loud proclamation raised their cups in assent. “”Hear hear!”” Some echoed.
It was true, before his conquest, the prince regularly sent heralds and servants in order to recruit men from the city, he targeted all men equally, if they had good health and were willing to work, he’ll take them.
At first they were thought to be simple laborers, news reached the city that many roads and a canal were being built, not only that, but they were built much too quickly. Rumors were abundant at that time, saying that working for the prince was backbreaking labor, much too gruesome and certainly not worth the effort.
Tobias was one of the few of this city’s inhabitants who saw an opportunity for a better life, he wasn’t a Flea Bottom orphan, but he was the fourth son of a tanner, and his family barely had enough to feed him scraps.
At first, people ridiculed him for going, he even took a beating from his father, and his sweet, sweet mother was filled with worry over his safety.
And when he finally got to work, he also felt dread. Not only were they expected to build roads, but also learn how to march, dig, put on armor, use a sword or a pike alongside a shield? He didn’t sign up to be a soldier after all.
But the rumors were misguided after all, not only did they feed them plenty, but they had plenty of rest.
Not that it was easy work, not at all, they were expected to put effort beyond their usual, but they were never told to do what they couldn’t, and as they dealt with bandits and outlaws, they got used to the soldier life.
There were Septons who taught reading and writing for a modest fee, and Tobias even managed to send some silver stags back to his family.
Then he went to Dorne, fought in the conquest, and found himself back to this city as a hero for his people.
“One beer!” He gestured toward one of the barmaids.
The lass made to give him a cup, but was interrupted by a man who manned the bar, he approached Tobias with a smile and a wooden tankard and handed it to him.
"The first one's on the house for a man of the prince," he said.
“Much obliged.” Tobias smiled to the man, taking a big gulp.
His eyebrows went to his forehead at the pleasant coldness of the drink.
The man grinned. "We've been using them new ice chips from the north. Folks are happy to pay double for chilled ale, and another double for chips in their tankards," he said. "It's been a boon for business."
Tobias laughs, lifting his tankard to the sky. “Cheers then!”
The members of the table follow, each one drinking from their cup.
Harlan slams his stein to the table. "Spill it, Toby! What's your fate lookin' like?"
"Ye know me," he says. "I'm a Kingslander till the day I die, so I joined the golden cloaks."
"Speaking of the gold cloaks," another comments. "Did ye hear about Selmon? I heard ‘e's rotting in the black cells."
His mate scoffs. "Good riddance, that man had his way with me niece, he's been causing trouble in the city for years."
"Aye," Tobias says. "I ‘eard he got nabbed by one of our own, trying to squeeze coin out of a poor merchant at the docks." Our own implies one of the purple cloaks, of course.
"But ain't he Prince Daemon's man?" Harlan questions. "Won't he be bothered by it?"
Tobias scoffs. "Neither the prince nor the hand can do a thing about it," he says. "The Crown Prince runs the city now, and whatever he says, goes."
Harlan chuckles. "I've been grateful for his grace every day of late." He says.
“”Aye.”” His friends echo.
Tobias simply smiles and nods. "And what about you lot?" he asks. "How's life been treating you?"
"We're toiling up on Visenya's hill," One of them replies. "It's tough work, but we get our fill of food and a roof over our heads, so we ain't grumblin'."
“Really?” He says. “I heard the prince’s working on some tourney ground.”
“Aye.” The other says. “The officers be calling it the Coliseum.”
"You should see it, Tobias," Harlan says. "It's as grand as the Dragonpit, but not as deep, so it won't take a century to build."
"Plus, his liquid-rock makes it much easier," Harlan adds.
Tobias worked with the liquid rock before. “Doesn’t it?!” He says. “I tell you, before Dorne when I first saw it…”
Then he spent the rest of his evening chatting with old friends and trading stories.
_________________________________________________________________________
He rode his Dornish destrier with ease, the lightness of his leather armor allowing the horse to move even faster.
He approached a Dornish man, older but determined, he carried himself with confidence borne out of experience.
“Ser Quentyn!” He exclaimed.
“Gerris.”
Quentyn was a soldier for the Martells during the prince’s conquest; he caught the latter’s eye for his skill and caution in the battlefield, and was rewarded for it by a knighthood, as no noble will give a commoner the time of day.
Captain of the rangers or not.
He eyed his commander’s onyx leather armor with envy, he not only received a knighthood, but as the commander of the rangers, he and nine others were rewarded with dragon leather armors, ten times as though as cowhide yet half as heavy, it was worth double its mass in gold.
“Did you see their base?” Quentyn question.
The man nodded. “They only had a wooden fence and a couple of guards, I wager we could break through the wooden barrier easily.”
The Rangers were tasked with patrolling the Crownlands and ridding them of bandits, over the last couple of weeks they did just that, their cavalry only force allowing them to move through the new roads with unparalleled speed.
A hundred light cavalry was enough to cover most of the roads In groups of ten, they acted as scouts, searching for bandit holds and criminal bases, once they did they’d report back, and depending on the situation they may get help from the purple-cloaks in ridding the Crownlands of their threat.
“How many men in total?”
“I only counted five and thirty.”
Quentyn nods. “Good, then five and ten would be plenty.”
He turns to the organized camp to his right. “Gather you belongings and ready yourself, you will lead the attack at night.”
__________________________________________________________________________
The plan was simple, Gerris chose men who were proficient with a bow, they were to sneak on the guards and kill them from a distance. And before the gatekeepers could react they would charge through the wooden gates into the enemy camp.
It was reminiscent of Prince Baelon’s strategy at Wyl, but since their opponents were untrained, undefended bandits, a simpler approach would equally work.
Five of his men dismounted their horse and slowly inched toward the guards, they steadily notch their arrows and aim, looking toward Gerris for a signal.
Gerris nods in assent, and the archers let their arrows loose.
One misses, but the rest catch their targets, out of the four guards next to the gate three got hit in vital areas and perished, while the last one screamed in agony as an arrow lodged itself to his knee.
The rest didn’t need a signal, as the archers ran back to their horse, the ones atop horses charged swiftly through the flimsy gate, holding their lances and swords firmly.
Gerris beheads the last guard on the way, as he hears the rest of the camp haphazardly waking up.
They made short work of the rest; the bandits were former farmers and serfs only, so they had neither the equipment nor the skill to resist.
One of the many previous archers approached Gerris, holding a decapitated head.
“That’s their leader, I recognize him.” He says. “Lord Stokeworth put a bounty on his head, fifty gold dragons for sacking one of his villages.”
Gerris glances at the head. “You killed him?” The man nods. “Then you get five and thirty, the rest will be split between us.”
The man nods happily, 35 gold dragons are more than enough, and the rest should be enough to placate the rest and avoid their jealousy.
“Drinks on me, boys!” The man exclaims, holding the decapitated head to the sky.
The rest of the men cheer, each one of them relaxed amidst the blood and gore of the scene, rummaging through the ruins for anything valuable or useful.
It was but one normal day for the Rangers.
_________________________________________________________________________
His calloused hands gripped the lines fiercely, tying a familiar knot against the bollard.
Life was getting busy for one Kevan of Kingslanding; he was a dockworker in the capital like his father, and his father before him, who came here at the time of King Aegon I, one of the first to do so.
It was though work, but it put food on the table. Previously, he always had a problem with the previous harbor master, who pocketed the gold and cut their wages, whilst taking bribes from questionable merchants and ship captains.
So Kevan had to nixer, taking additional jobs that brought even more weight on his shoulders.
But not lately, ever since the good prince took over, he got rid of the corrupt harbormasters and promoted loyal subordinates, he expanded the ports and hired more personnel, but most importantly he gave back their full wages, allowing them to work with full bellies and big smiles.
“Ooof.” Another dockworker put down a wooden box next to Kevan. “Oi, Kevan, to the bathhouse next?”
“Aye.” Kevan answers. “When I’m done today I’ll find you there.”
The man nods. “See ya then, I’m done for the day.”
The bathhouses were the prince’s new attraction; they were cheaper than a tavern and Kevan’s wife found herself more agreeable to his advances when he came back clean and tidy.
So he and his friends spent a lot of their free times there, and with his better financial situation he gave enough of an allowance to his wife to do so too.
Now she looked more beautiful than ever. Kevan didn’t visit a whorehouse since.
One of the sailors approached him, interrupting his work.
"Pardon me, young lad," he says. "Might ye be interested in a job?"
Kevan looked up to the man. “I’m afraid no.” He answers.
The man was tall and intimidating, with his teeth coated in metal, giving him a scary aura.
He lifted the left side of his coat, revealing a glinting piece of metal. "I'm afraid it's not a choice," he said.
Kevan scoffed. “Look around, you lout.” He gestured toward the many golden cloaks. “Ya can’t do shit with them lots around.”
“Watchmen take our gold, they won’t see nothin’”
Kevan laughed. “Not since the prince, they don’t!”
The sailor snarled, but before he could do anything they heard a loud voice. “Oi! Is something the matter?” A goldcloak seemed to have noticed their interaction. “This man bothering you, Kevan?”
Kevan idly stared at the sailor. “Aye, said he been looking for some people to do his shady work, won’t take no for an answer.”
The gold cloak nods and grabs the sailor by his arm. “Alright, sailor, you’re going with me.”
Kevan ignores the sailor’s complaints as he was dragged away, continuing with his work as if nothing happened.
