Snippet #1492267

"First time in Qohor?" Reuben questioned, skipping about as he followed Lionel through the streets of the free city. Lionel resisted the urge to kick him, but it was difficult. Reuben Snow, orange-haired and skinny, was a bastard from Pyke who had tagged around Lionel since the Firestorm left Blackwater Bay. He was a cheerful, amiable, and cheeky boy of five and ten, and could never shut up. Lionel would have thrown him overboard a long time ago if it weren't for Reuben's expertise in all areas of dealing with a ship. The boy was a good teacher, even if he did get on Lionel's nerves.

The first week on the Firestorm had been a bit of an awkward one for Lionel. Just like a wildcat out of the forest, Lionel had to struggle to adapt to his new environment on the ocean, amongst the sailors. The first day or two had been full of humiliating screw-ups on board, the least of which involved tangling up the sails so badly that Leliana couldn't stop laughing for an hour. The situation was not made any better by the fact that none of the men aboard the Firestorm were loyal to him- Lionel knew the game of power well, and he understood that he was now well beneath Ser Quincel and Leliana. But he learned quickly, and in the course of the next two months, had become as an efficient sailor as the rest of them- and more importantly, had become one of them. Lionel had never been the sort of leader that men loved, but he was good at earning respect. And respect entailed loyalty. Eventually, the sailors had grudgingly voted to let Lionel assume command of the Firestorm, and he'd slid easily into the position of power.

"Ship needs a flag," Toothless Royce had told him over the meal table. "What do you say, catboy? Got any ideas for a design?"

Lionel had shrugged. "Whatever you're fond of- skulls and crossbones will do."

"So we're pirates now." Toothless Royce responded.

"What, did you think we were part of the king's fleet?"

Royce shrugged. "Fine by me. I've got a box of cloth scraps, I'll have the flag up on the morrow. Good?"

"Yeah, just one more thing." Lionel grinned. "Put a bloody crown on it."

Reuben skirted around a tall, bearded man hastily, dancing back into step next to Lionel. "The bandits around here are merciless. Watch your purse, Bastard King."

Back in the Red Keep, Lionel had always been Prince Lionel Damian. Now, the sailors were referring to him by all sorts of names. Most still used Kinslayer, but the term had lost its negative connotation. It was clear that Queen Morgana had never been well-loved amongst the Greyhardts; Lionel's tales about the cold bitch, told over tankards of ale, had elicited much laughter. He had lost the name Damian the moment he was known to be a bastard; in the Seven Kingdoms, a bastard born in King's Landing was given the surname Storm. By rights, he was Lionel Storm now. No one referred to him as Damian anymore, but there were those who jokingly referred to him as Catboy, and even more who called him the Bastard King- especially after he'd made his intentions for the Seven Kingdoms clear.

It had taken a while for Lionel to persuade the sailors of his plan's feasibility, Ser Quincel most of all, but the Firestorm had finally accumulated a following, a decently-sized fleet of ships from every banner, consisting of sailors from the Free Cities of Myr and Braavos. None of the Free Cities had done well under the regime of House Damian. King Henry was possessed of an isolationist mindset, unwilling to risk the economy on foreign markets. As a result, relationships with the Free Cities had declined since times of 3old. Ships from Westeros were regarded with a remarkable degree of hostility, as they had discovered when t hey first docked at Myr. But word had spread through the Free Cities since that little scandal- word of the bastard Storm King and his growing army. Enemies of the crown had joined him willingly out of a desire to get a piece of the Seven Kingdoms, and each day the rumors became stronger, his supporters became greater. Even in Westeros, there were those who supported Lionel- House Tyrell had promised to give Lionel their secret aid, and they were a force to be reckoned with. Myr and Braavos had already pledged him his support…and now Lionel had brought them to Qohor, intent on forging a contract with the Bloody Mummers.

The Brave Companions, better known as the Bloody Mummers, were one of the oldest companies of sellswords in Westeros, and their reputation had not improved over the course of hundreds of years. From what Lionel was told, they were still the same bloodthirsty, savage, greedy, unscrupulous fighters they had been since the time of Aegon the Conqueror. The Bloody Mummers and the Bastard King. Perfect.

Only through a long string of contacts had Lionel been able to secure a meeting with Jans Siran, the leader of the Brave Companions. They had agreed to meet at the Bleeding Heart tavern in the port city, a bar that was public enough for Lionel's comfort and yet not so public that their conversation could be overheard. Lionel had decided only to bring four others- Ser Quincel, Reuben, Royce, and of course, Leliana. In case the conversation went sour, he was fairly confident that the five of them could fight their way out. If he brought anymore, their meeting would be too conspicuous. Even if half the population of the Free Cities secretly supported Lionel, there was still a royal arrest warrant on his head- and Lionel wouldn't put it past the Bloody Mummers to trade him in for a handsome monetary reward. He could only hope that they would honor their contract with him over betraying him to his father.

Of course, it wasn't like Lionel was actually planning on paying the Bloody Mummers. He was as much a Beggar King as he was a Bastard King. His fleet, if one could call it that, had no more riches than the average pirate crew. But if everything went right, if their meeting went the way Lionel had planned, the Brave Companions would soon be joining his growing army.

At the very least, Lionel hadn't been clapped in irons yet. If his father's guards were looking for him, they'd have a difficult time recognizing him now. His once-handsome face had been marred by Dante's blade; a two-inch long scar ran from the bottom of his empty eyesocket towards the bridge of his nose, half of which wasn't hidden by the black eye-patch Lionel had taken to wearing. Although he was still clean-shaven, Lionel hadn't cut his hair since the day of the tourney. It hung jaggedly over his eyes, the longest strands touching his upper back. With his lean, gaunt frame and hardened build, Lionel barely resembled the pampered, arrogant prince of House Damian.

"Look, there's a temple," Reuben said, pointing rather redundantly to a painfully obvious white temple down the street. "How about you marry Lady Leliana there? I'll be your priest."

Lionel ignored him. Reuben had said the same thing in Myr and Braavos. Lionel hadn't yet technically married Leliana, although he easily could have on the Firestorm. However, for some reason, he wasn't willing to do that just yet. He wouldn't bind Leliana to a one-eyed beggar who had nothing to his name. He wasn't going to force her to stay with him for life.

Not until he'd taken back the Iron Throne.

The Bleeding Tavern drew into sight, a worn-down shack of a tavern that was for the most part empty. Lionel would have preferred a more packed space; the more conversation there was, the less there could be heard. But they were meeting on Jan's terms, not his. He was going to have to comply with whatever the Bloody Mummers wanted.

"Be ready to whip your blades out if it comes to it," Lionel told the other four, pushing the door of the tavern open.