Pre-Chapter A/N: More chapters on my patreon (https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga)— same username as here and link in bio.
—108 AC—
"Your father has written me to beg my presence in this war of his in the Stepstones. He desires for Stormlander blood to be shed in his war against the pirates, corsairs, and sellsails that plague those cursed islands," Boremund said, looking over at me from across the dinner table. I looked up, nodded, and kept eating. Manfred had returned to being the one who sparred with me the majority of the time, and so I found myself tired as seven hells by the time dinner came around. I didn't have the energy to dance with words like the Great Lords did.
"Nothing to say, boy?" he finally asked after minutes without a reply.
"Nothing, my lord. You are a wise and fair lord, so you know best whether to help the Kingdom with its goals or not."
"The Kingdom? Pah. More like House Velaryon."
"If you insist so, my lord. I will defer to your greater wisdom on the matter." Whether he joined the war or not, we would win. Daemon's participation just about ensured it, and I knew Boremund Baratheon after years within the man's court. One thing he despised was beggars. He'd say no if he felt he was being begged just for the hell of it.
So it was probably the case that the only way to keep him interested in joining the war was to make it seem like I truly did not care whether he did or not. That would make him more confident about our chances, and thus more likely to commit his men to the bloodbath that was to follow. The truth was that no matter how Boremund liked to assume otherwise, he was just as cowardly and opportunistic as the other Great Lords. Just that he hid his tendencies behind bluster, a booming voice, and a war hammer the size of my midsection.
"The Stepstones? Those pirates will piss themselves at the first sight of a good Stormlander charge," Manfred said, taking a large swig of his ale. Bastards could rise high in war. I'd all but confirmed that Manfred was Boremund's other son. Boremund's more present son. Boremund's favoured son, in some ways even.
"A war in a foreign land for a foreign cause? Sounds like folly to me. What concern of ours is it that Velaryon cannot ship in his silks and perfumes?" Borros scoffed. He had returned most recently a few weeks ago, and even though I was to be his squire, he had seldom said more than a word or two in my direction. Boremund had to have known what he was doing when he did it. Borros resented Manfred for being the Bastard with their father's favour, and Boremund had gone ahead and placed me under Manfred's wing first thing. I wondered whether I would be the first squire in history to never even be countenanced by his knight. It made my hopes of earning a knighthood slim in the short term as well. So I did need House Baratheon involved in the war.
"I do believe my father has promised to pay the transportation, marshalling, and upkeep cost of any army that joined the pacification," I said casually.
"That would be the bare minimum, considering that this is his war we are fighting, wouldn't it?"
"A war for all of Westeros. The Stepstones pirates don't discriminate between ships flying Velaryon flags or those flying Manderly or Redwyne flags," I pointed out.
"Except that it was neither Manderly nor Redwyne who appealed to the King for leave to invade the islands, did they? No, it was Velaryon. And Velaryon wrote to me for his help. Like it or not, this war is yours," he said. I nodded my head, ceding the point even if I was far from in agreement with him. I just knew that there was no point arguing on that point. Boremund was not the type of man that took being disagreed with well, so I made sure to save it for the most important points.
"Now that that is settled, we will expect proper compensation from the bounty of the Stepstones." I nearly scoffed but buried it with a cough. Was this man actually an idiot? What bounty of the Stepstones? The isles were barren, storm-washed stones with naught on them but pirates and idiots.
"I think we can arrange a suitable percentage for your people's involvement," I said with a smile. Even 100% of 0 was still 0. I knew that he knew that the Stepstones were barren and worthless except for their position, but someone like him could not understand the importance of controlling a vital shipping lane like the Stepstones, so he was probably thinking there was some treasure there that Corlys was willing to bleed men for and wanted his share of it. With that context, it was not hard to see why he would have thought so, to be honest. Westerosi Lords waged war for one of three reasons—pride, land, and power. He couldn't imagine a war waged to make trade, of all things, easier, especially when you considered just how little trading House Baratheon did.
"Good, now we're speaking the same language. You will head out with Borros and five thousand of my personal levies to Tarth, where your father's ships will be waiting to ferry you over to the Stepstones for the fighting about to begin. Now, do not forget that you are still my son's squire. Your father's war or not, you will be representing House Baratheon there, and not House Velaryon, at least until my son deems you worthy of a Knighthood," he said next before digging into his mutton with relish, not even paying me any further attention. I nodded and turned back to my own food.
Neither Manfred nor Borros had paid us much attention once it was clear where the conversation was going. They didn't care much about the terms under which House Baratheon fought in the Stepstones, only about whether they did or not.
—
Marching in an army was harder than it seemed. Both harder and more annoying, to be honest. One thing was the rain. The rains were constant here. Wake up, it's raining. Lunchtime, it's raining. Time to sleep, it's raining. It was the most prevalent issue, but one of the easiest to get used to. Manfred had made me spend whole days training in the rain, so it was not the main factor that annoyed me. No, that was the mud. Marching in the mud was a slog— I spent my time making sure I didn't slip and got my footing right. The whole thing was a workout on its own, and then there were the obligations.
Manfred was off doing whatever, and so I'd found myself assigned to his original knight—Borros, who rode at the head of the caravan. Borros, who made me wash and polish his armour day in and day out. Borros, who wore a long cloak in the mud and expected me to wash it at the end of every day and somehow have it ready to go for the next one. Borros, who insisted they spar at dawn in the morning and then spent half an hour kicking me about the place until he got bored and then fucked off to begin his daily pastime—drinking.
There was literally only one silver lining to this whole thing—Igneel. Borros was scared of the dragon, and he did a poor job of hiding it. Sure, when I dismounted and became mortal, he could heap indignities upon me without pause: "Wash my cloak, Laenor. Shine my boots, Laenor. I have vomited in my helmet, Laenor, come clean it." Over and over again. But when I was next to my first and oldest friend, Borros became as mute as the wind. All he could do was whisper and grumble.
So that meant I slept next to Igneel every night. It also came with the advantage of not having to sleep in the mud. The first night of that had been far from enjoyable. Now that Igneel's fire had grown hotter and he could spew much more of it, it was child's play for him to turn the ground he slept on into clay, and it was on that clay, propped up against his wing, that I slept on a daily basis.
Now was one of the few times during this mess of a march that I was doing neither of those two things—marching through the mud or resting on Igneel's back. Instead, I was left with the ignoble duty of setting up camp—read: having the levies set up camp while I watched them do it, fully aware that Borros would inevitably find something about the camp to complain about and then clap me over the ear. Last time, the tents were facing the wrong direction in his masterful opinion. An opinion that was fully shit because they were tents, and we were in the fucking middle of the Stormlands. No one was going to ambush us, and even if they did, it wouldn't matter because I had a comprehensive rotation of scouts. The night before that, he had grilled me on the scouts, and then the night before that one, he had decided that the latrines I'd had the levies dig were too shallow.
Some of his criticisms were valid—somehow the latrines had filled up with shit before the night had even been halfway through, and I'd had to have people digging new ones in the rain, under a cloudy sky with the only source of light being the campfire that Igneel was kind and helpful enough to keep lit with his flames.
This time, I made sure the latrines were dug enough that the tallest man in the camp could not see out of them, and then half again as deep. Four different latrines. The latrines were for the men-at-arms and levies. Knights, Lords, and little sprogs of Lords like me got the privilege of using chamber pots and then having them tossed into the latrines when we were done. It was a shitty job for whichever servant drew the short straw. Ha. Shitty job. Hadn't even intended that one. It just happened. Latrines, and then campfire, and then tents after the campfire had been lit. I'd learned my lesson from the very first night when some of the tents caught fire from being too close to the campfire.
Now, I was getting good enough at directing it that I was even beginning to get fancy, having all the tents pitched up into neat little rows to make walking between them less tedious and to reduce some of the natural inefficiencies that came with a camp this size—like getting information from one point to another. In about two hours, the camp was set up, and Borros passed me with a sniff. He said nothing. Nothing at all.
"Oy. What's this prissy nonsense with the tents?" he asked suddenly after he'd gone steps beyond me.
"Organisation, Ser Borros. It helps the camp followers know where to go and makes things more efficient," I said, and even though there was some distance between us, I could barely react in time to lean with the punch that sent me to the floor. I was up in a second. Staying on the floor was an invitation for Borros to start kicking. I'd learned that lesson the second time.
"Also makes it easy for any cunt with a knife and a dream to go about killing everyone important. None of this fancy shit next time, you hear me?" he asked.
"Yes, Ser Borros," I said, voice monotone as most of my attention was spent holding Igneel off from burning the man to ash. Grandnephew or not, I doubted Boremund would be very forgiving if I killed his son over a punch.
"Good. Now let's go to bed. Lord Tarth will be expecting us first thing tomorrow," he said and began to march off to his own tent. At the same time, I retreated in the opposite direction and began to make my way to Igneel. Thankfully, Borros was yet to mention enforcing the tradition of Knights and their Squires sleeping in the same tent. Part of me was certain that at least a good portion of that tradition had been sexual in nature. I mean, in canon, Loras had squired under Renly, and that wasn't the only thing he ended up doing under the Baratheon Lord. Thankfully, this one was not keen to follow in his descendant's footsteps—could I even say that? Since Renly didn't exist yet, it was more like Borros wasn't setting an example for Renly to follow. Whatever it was, my knight wasn't trying to fuck me, and wasn't that just a weird sentence to think?
I trudged over to Igneel's chosen roost for the night and delighted in the warm air that surrounded him. He infused the air with warmth with each breath of his and banished the chill of the Stormlands night with his very presence.
"Yes, yes. I know. You want to burn him. But as I've told you a million times, that would be the kind of drastic reaction that gets us a bad rep," I said with a smile as I walked over to him and began to rub his scales. He grunted against my side and I leaned against him, allowing his tail to push me towards his side where I began taking off my soaked clothes. I still had to wash Borros's cloak, but that was easy enough. After the first few nights, it had begun to resist attempts to return it to its gleaming gold and was now a vaguely sick-looking shade of brown. He was yet to complain—probably not sure there was any chance I could have done better. Even a professional washerwoman would have had issues doing it. At least that was what I bribed all the camp followers to tell him when he asked.
I fetched some rainwater in a bucket then dumped Borros's cloak in it. Next, I took some of the soap—or the sludge that passed for soap in this world—and added it to the bucket and the cloak. Then I left it there and went back to Igneel to prepare for bed. If Borros could fuck with me at will, then I could fuck with him just as surely. I just had to be careful about how I did it. Most of the Kingdoms served the Seven, and the relationship between a Knight and his Squire was sacred. Literally every book—even the book of the Stranger—had something to say about the relationship. When I woke up, I'd wring it out and take it to him. Smelling of soap, but not much cleaner.
--
If there was one thing Borros did better than Manfred, it was training, funny enough. He was a better fighter than the man literally given the title of Master-at-Arms, and that meant that whether he intended it or not, I was getting better faster than I ever had. In our first spar, he'd knocked me on my arse in less than a minute. Now it took him closer to five to overpower or outmanoeuvre me enough to get the victory, and while I hadn't yet gotten to the level where I could do much more than ward off an inevitable defeat, that was only a matter of time.
Still, today was clearly not that day, as I weaved to the side to avoid a kick that threatened to send me wheezing to the floor. My counter-stab at his leg was blocked with a shield and a sneer. His mace came around again, and I ducked underneath it, not bothering to even try blocking with my shield. In fact, the shield was only still in my grip because the last time I'd tried fighting without it, Borros had gone red with rage, talking about how I must have a death wish of some sort. Ser Ben explained that it was the kind of bad habit that got you killed.
Even if dodging was better than blocking when it came to Borros, it was still better to block an attack than get my chest caved in. That was beside the point as Borros came charging in once again. This time, I spun in a half-circle to avoid him and went for his back before a backhand came from nowhere and tossed me off my feet. I rolled with the attack and found myself stumbling to backpedal away from a mace that would have put me in a world of hurt for a day or two.
The next thrust with his mace was met with me hitting the weapon to the side with my shield. A parry, not a block, as I'd come to learn, was one of the only ways to keep myself safe in the face of the Baratheon Knight's attention—redirecting the force rather than absorbing it. I moved then, blade aimed for his neck, the gap in his armour there meaning this one would hurt. He moved backwards, and my blade kissed nothing but the air. I landed a second later and quickly found myself staring up at the sky. The bastard had swept my feet out from underneath me.
"Almost acceptable," he said, before offering me a hand up. He pulled me up and I found myself staring at one of his rare smiles. Borros had enjoyed that fight, at least.
"Ser Baratheon, ships spotted," one of the camp runners came over to us, saying.
Borros looked over at me, looking at me from head to toe. "Go change and make yourself presentable. Lord Tarth is not the type to forgive a slight—real or imagined." It went without saying that looking like I'd just rolled with a few pigs would not be received well by the Lord of the Sapphire Isles.
A/N: Here we go with the next chappy! Just some transitions as we move from introductions to the Stepstones. Next four up on patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga)(same username as here and link in bio), support me there and read them early.