Chapter 35: Chapter 35: A Message from the Lovely - 116 AC
A/N: Chapters that are in this volume will be a bit shorter due to it being interludes. most of them won't have the POVs of Clement, and a lot of exposition.
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On a brisk morning, a knock echoed through the oak doors of Gormond's chambers, rousing him from slumber. With a throbbing headache from the previous night's revelry, he groaned at the interruption. Taking his time to gather his wits, he settled upon the edge of his bed. Yet, his contemplation was abruptly cut short as the intruder, none other than his seldom assertive brother Bartimos, burst in unannounced, prompting Gormond to flinch in surprise.
"What brings you here so early?" Gormond inquired, his voice still thick with sleep. "Whilst I acknowledge your lordly privilege, a courteous knock would suffice next time, dear brother."
"Duly noted." Bartimos said with amusement. "A missive came for you."
"Well you don't have to deliver it to me personally." Gormond stood up, and walked toward his brother, his hands asking for the missive. "From where?"
Bartimos simply handed over the small scroll. "From the Grey Gallows. But the one who wrote it was from Lys."
Gormond's brow furrowed suspiciously as he perused the contents. After a moment's silence, he closed the scroll and tore it asunder, the remnants fluttering to the floor like delicate snowflakes.
"This is quite a surprise." Gormond murmured. "Did you read it?"
"You should go." Bartimos ignored the question, and instead focused on the matter. "Take Arthor with you. He'll have his eleventh name-day soon. Let this be a gift to him."
"The Stepstones are becoming more dangerous these days, brother. I cannot take him with me." Gormond sighed.
"He'll have you." Bartimos argued.
Gormond just chuckled, sitting back to his bed again. "You don't need me here anymore, I presume?"
"I told Clement to stay here, to be with his family. Now I am telling you to be with your family." Bartimos said. "But not here. You're to govern the Grey Gallows, Ser Phineas seems more and more overwhelmed by the constant raids going on there. I am sure you can contribute better there than here."
"Very well." Gormond hummed. "Then I'll sail with a quarter of our fleet here. Am I allowed?"
"You are allowed." Bartimos affirmed, offering a reassuring pat on his brother's shoulder. "Best of fortune to you."
And with that, Bartimos left the room, leaving Gormond to his lonesome. The knight just stared at the torn up parchment on the ground, before sighing deeply, standing up to get ready for the day.
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The wind swept through Arthor's cloak as he stood calmly at the bow of the ship, taking in the scenery before him. The scent of the sea permeated the air, though Arthor found himself unable to recall how long it had been since he last stood in this very spot aboard a ship—was it three years ago? Four? The passage of time eluded him. Yet, one thing remained certain: he had sorely missed the sensation.
It was evident that the scenery would soon transition to the rugged expanse of the Stepstones' shallow rocky waters as they drew nearer. The sky above was clear, seemingly blessed by the gods for their southward journey. As the ship navigated the transition between shallow and deep waters, its sail shortened, now positioned at half-mast.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps approached from behind, prompting Arthor to turn. It was his father, Gormond, who wordlessly rested a hand upon Arthor's shoulder, mirroring his son's contemplation of the unfolding panorama.
"Are you greensick?" questioned Gormond softly.
"No, father." Arthor shook his head. "I rather enjoy sailing on the seas."
"Is that so?" Gormond hummed. "Good for you, then."
"Do you not enjoy it?" It is now Arthor's turn to ask.
"When you are on a ship, in the middle of deep seas, you are no longer in control of your own life." Gormond simply answered. "We're nearing The Grey Gallows. Are you ready to meet your mother?"
Arthor didn't answer. Instead, the boy looked down at the wooden planks below, and sigh deeply. "I can't even remember her face. What is she like?"
"In many ways, like you. Or like any Stormlanders." said Gormond. "Black hair, beautiful black eyes, strong willed."
"Why didn't she…" Arthor hesitated for a moment.. "Why has she never visited us?"
"She visits us now, isn't she?" Gormond stated.
"And yet we are the one sailing. Not her." Arthor argued.
Gormond chuckled, ruffling the raven haired boy playfully. "Your mother cannot travel far. She has eyes watching over her."
"For the wrong reasons, I suppose." Arthor narrowed his eyes. "Eyes from men that vie for her?"
Gormond's playful ruffling of Arthor's raven locks ceased abruptly, his countenance turning serious. "Arthor, men wage war for power with swords and shields upon the battlefield, but women employ different tools altogether. You would do well to remember this, lest you find yourself ensnared by the machinations of an ambitious woman in the future."
With that, Gormond withdrew his hand from Arthor's shoulder and turned away, leaving the young man to his thoughts once more.
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A raven-haired woman stood near a window in a chamber, observing the laborers outside as they toiled diligently. They were engaged in tasks ranging from unloading goods at the burgeoning port of the small island to conducting commerce in the newly constructed town center. Her keen eye discerned the diverse origins of the island's inhabitants; among them were men reminiscent of Braavosi, women possessing the allure of Lysene courtesans, and youths hailing from various corners of Westeros and Essos. Yet beneath the veneer of cultural and ethnic differences lay a shared history of bondage; once slaves confined to pens on neighboring islands, they now walked as free men and women, regardless of the value placed upon their newfound liberty.
A knock at the door interrupted her contemplation, prompting her to compose herself. Moments later, the door swung open to reveal two figures she recognized: one a familiar presence she had yearned to see, the other a stranger whose sight stirred even deeper emotions within her. A thin smile graced her lips as she greeted them silently, knowing words would fail her.
"My lady," the elder of the pair greeted her warmly, his smile far broader than she could manage. "It brings joy to my heart to behold your face once more."
"It likewise warms my heart to see you," she responded simply, her mind struggling to conjure a familiar endearment for the man.
He nodded in understanding, nudging the youth beside him forward as if to encourage him to greet her as well. The boy complied, offering a nod and a whispered, "Mother."
The woman felt a lump form in her throat, swiftly regaining her composure. "Arthor," she addressed the boy, her voice steady. "You have grown into a sturdy boy."
The boy remained silent, his gaze fixed upon the features of the woman before him, a face he had never before beheld. To him, she was a stranger—an unsettling reality that she, too, acknowledged all too well.
Observing the tension etched upon the woman's countenance, the elder gentleman laid a comforting hand upon the boy's shoulder, rousing him from his reverie. The lad regarded his father, who, with a glance, conveyed a need for him to vacate the room promptly. With a resigned exhale, the youth acquiesced, slowly extricating himself from the chamber.
Now, only the man and the woman remained. Husband and wife, though the significance of those titles seemed diminished.
"You appear healthy," remarked the man, Gormond. "Johanna, I had presumed that—"
"I've heard whispers," interjected the woman, her gaze drifting from him to the window once more. "The Triarchy plots against you and your house. They've poured an unusual sum into slavers these recent years. More vessels for their fleet, more arms."
Gormond found himself incredulous at her words, closing the distance between them with measured steps. "Is that why you sail to this isle? To discuss matters of politics? No other motive?"
"What more is there to say? I've obtained what I sought here," Johanna countered. "You know my station, my standing. We knew the risks when you enveloped me in your house's mantle."
"A mere glance, a few words," Gormond urged, using his fingers to draw her attention. "Is that your desire? Or do you fear?"
"Fear what?" she whispered, her dark gaze meeting the clear blue eyes of the man before her.
Gormond fell silent for a beat. "He does not harbor resentment," he murmured. "He is confused."
"I am but a stranger to him," she argued. "Perhaps it's best that it remains so."
"I disagree," Gormond countered. "And strangers must engage to become acquaintances. You cannot dispel your status by mere observation."
"What would you have me do? Become a mother after all these years?" she challenged.
"You could try," Gormond mused. "It's never too late."
At his words, Johanna withdrew from his grasp, retreating from her stance.
"And what of you?" she inquired. "Found paramours to warm your bed?"
"None that lingered," Gormond replied. "Any of your admirers discovered us?"
"Does it truly matter?" she questioned. "My current occupation doesn't condemn such liaisons as when I was a lady in the Seven Kingdoms."
"I suppose not," Gormond chuckled.
"And your nephew?" the woman continued. "I heard Claw Isle welcomed a dragon."
"Yes." Gormond nodded. "Scales of glimmering violet, with stripes of white. My nephew is having a hard time accepting the name that his daughter had given the she-dragon. Lady Dusk, she named the beast, though most of us just call it Dusk."
The woman looked amused. "Lady Dusk? A name for a child's pet."
"Is that what not the dragon is?" Gormond smirked.
"What about his wife? Does she find Claw Isle dull?" questioned Johanna again.
"You've never been there. How dare you accuse Claw Isle of being dull?" Gormond raised his brow teasingly. "She is happy enough. Usually the princess flies from King's Landing every month or so. But ever since she moved to Dragonstone, the visits have been sparse."
"The princess moves to Dragonstone?" Johanna acted surprised.
"Daemon tried to make a nest himself there after the royal wedding." Gormond hummed. "The princess simply talked some sense into him, and claimed the island for herself. It's her right, no one argued, of course."
"I doubt that that is the case." the woman chuckled. "Where is the prince now?"
"I am not sure. Perhaps still in Dragonstone. Perhaps he flew over to Essos." Gormond shrugged. "If anything, you should be the one who knows these kinds of things, not me."
"I'm a courtesan. Not a spymaster." she rolled her eyes.
The man merely chuckled, though he quickly quieted down and looked towards the floor below. "You should talk to Arthor. He'll understand, and he will like you."
"Will he?" she hummed.
"You will never know when you never try it." Gormond sighed. "Go. Or I will drag you to him."
"Forceful. As always." the woman chuckled, slowly walking towards the door. "Fine. but heed my warning on the Triarchy."
"I am to be a steward here for a couple of years. I'll send a raven to Claw Isle as well." Gormond nodded. "Oh, perhaps a visit to my chamber in the evening?"
The woman abruptly stopped, turning to him, giving him a sultry smile. "Gladly."
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