Snippet #1496430

"Of course we are," Jans responded to Maryn. "At least these men don't go around getting piss-ass drunk like the rest of you. We need sober men to fight this war, unless you want to stumble into King's Landing with a bottle in your hand and a sword in your head."

Unlike the other Mummers, Jans was not fond of getting hammered. He tended to destroy things when he did, and it was never much fun to pay the compensation. It was also key to maintaining control over the Brave Companions. Sellswords did not pay much respect to a man they'd seen slumped across the floor the night before, even if that man was seven feet tall.

"Put that mug down and get your gear together, Maryn. Tell your friends to stop drinking, too. We're sailing out tonight, as you seem to have forgotten."

~

Isabel, huh? Lionel couldn't help grinning at Leliana's response. It was probably blackhearted of him to think that way, but he couldn't help but feel amused at the thought of Isabel in the hands of a huge brute like Jans. Something tells me Lady Greyhardt isn't going to like that too much. Jans was right. Leliana had become crueler, but somehow Lionel liked her better this way.

"Do you?" Lionel smiled as Leliana ran her fingers through his shaggy black hair. Lionel had always worn it fairly long, but in the absence of a good barber on the Firestorm- despite the cabin boy's claims, he was not about to trust Reuben with a pair of scissors-Lionel had simply let it grow. "The Dothraki never cut their hair as long as they win every battle. So far, I haven't been defeated."

He resisted the urge to hit himself when she noticed his bleeding hand. Should've wiped it off first… "It's nothing, I just scraped it a nail," he lied immediately. He doubted that Leliana would take the crone's words any more seriously than he had, but he didn't want to bother her.

And then he realized that the marks on his hand were very obviously teeth marks. Even Raban tells better lies than that.

"Some old woman stopped me on my way downstairs, tried to tell my future from the taste of my blood." Lionel rolled his eyes, hoping that Leliana shared his skepticism. "Apparently I'm going to sit on the throne for a moment without actually being king, die with Ada and Rab singing over my bloody body, and father two children while I'm at it. Well, in a different order, of course," he added, realizing how ridiculous that sounded. "Ah, at least she only bit my little finger, I don't use that very often."

Jans was getting closer now; the Mummer had pushed his way through half the crowd, and it was clear that he was heading towards the two of them. There's not much time left. Half because he wanted to change the subject and half because he wanted to take advantage of their time alone while they still had it, Lionel spent the next two minutes kissing Leliana, drinking in the taste of her lips, the texture of her hair, every last detail so that the memory would stick firmly in his mind. Gods, he could stay like this forever…

You will die for the true king of Westeros. He pulled away suddenly, an unexplainable lump of dread forming in his throat. He swallowed, trying to force it away. Just an old woman. Just a bat-shit crazy, stupid old woman.

"There you are." A huge hand landed on both of their shoulders, wrenching them apart. Lionel glanced up to see Jans' grinning face, which looked- hopefully- sober. "I would suggest finding a room upstairs, but you might walk in on Ammon and whoever it is he's dallying around with now."

"Are we staying in Qohor for the night, then?" Lionel asked. They had originally planned to sail out that day, but it was getting dark.

To his slight surprise, Jans shook his head. "I don't need more people knowing of this than there should be, and we'll want to head out before too many of these idiots stagger home drunk. They can sleep it off on the ships, although you might want to watch out for a drunken brawl or two."

"The sailors can deal with that," Lionel replied. "We'll start for the dock."

"Sure, yeah, leave me to have a hell of a time waking up these fools." Jans sighed prodded an unconscious man slumped against the counter. "Perhaps the free ale wasn't such a good idea."

"No, it's fine." Lionel grinned. "Now they like me."

~

"In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws…"

"Sing another line of that bloody song and I'll knock you into the water," Lionel grumbled, glaring daggers at Reuben as he walked across the deck. Reuben shot Lionel a look so woeful it was almost comic, and then promptly started up a lewd jingle about a fisherman's wife. His singing voice didn't improve, but Lionel's mood did- but only slightly.

Dealing with drunken sellswords was a task no one should be forced to go through. After an hour and a half of running down the streets of Qohor, dragging along drunks, Lionel now had a bite mark on his left hand to match the one on his right. Some stupid Mummer had set his bloody dog on him…It was well past midnight before the ships left the harbor, sailing smoothly across the Narrow Sea. And then there was the issue of drunken brawls to deal with…Lionel had come to the conclusion that if the Mummers could do to Lord Greyhardt's troops what they could do to each other, then conquering the North wouldn't be a problem.

There had been a short council meeting involving Lionel, Leliana, Jans, Quin, and a representative from Myr and Braavos each. The route they finally decided on would be a long one. They would sail around Sunspear, stopping at Highgarden along the way to see what forces they could rally from Lord Jon Tyrell. After that, they would resume coasting along Westeros until they reached Pyke in the north. Jans had suggested stopping in Highgarden and continuing on land the rest of the way, but that would mean leaving the ships behind, which was crucial to a successful naval attack on Pyke. Ser Quincel, of course, had disliked every plan set forth. Lionel suspected that he wouldn't be happy unless he returned Leliana to Winterfell and chopped his own head off.

Exhausted, Lionel wandered the deck of the Firestorm. There was only one person he wished to talk to at the moment, and she was standing near the helm, thankfully without any blonde-haired lizards in sight.

"I'm beginning to hate whoever first thought of the Mummers," he grumbled, sliding an arm around Leliana's shoulder. "Was it Reuben? I think it was Reuben. By the Stranger, I'm going to strangle him some day." He broke off, realizing that he was rambling.

After the Mummers, the quiet of the calm sea beneath the stars was a relief. Lionel contented himself with the warmth of Leliana's body next to his, just the knowledge that she was there. Her very presence comforted him in a way that he'd never have dreamed was possible. He had spent eighteen years viewing other humans as nothing more than tools to get what he wanted, never once seeing them as beings who could feel and think the same way he could. They'd been pieces, just pieces on the board, but somehow Leliana had become more than that. I would forfeit the game for her. That realization should have bothered him, but for some reason it didn't.

"Here's an idea," he murmured into Leliana's ear, pulling her closer. "Let's get married in Winterfell. When we take Pyke, the north will be as good as ours. I'll be the King in the North, and that's the better half of Westeros besides. Crushing Casterly Rock will be easy then, it'll be like child's play. Poor little Isabel can be your bridesmaid- we can marry her to Jans for entertainment, I'd prefer that to a dancing fool. And for our anniversary, I'll give you my father's head on a spike." Lionel grinned. "How about it? Marry me?"