Chapter 32

6th Month 267AC

Rogaem was a more than comely man. So comely, it would have been difficult to think of him as a man to begin with.

Then again, this was Lys, Ryam had yet to come across anyone that wasn't at the very least, homely. It seemed as if no unattractive people called Lys home apart from the sailors and slavers that he had seen at the port.

Tall, pale silver gold hair that seemed to shine in the sun light with deep purple eyes. His was was slim and somewhat feminine. Everything about him told Ryam that the blood of Valyria ran strong in him. Much like everyone else here really. Once again, the further they moved away from the docks and the ports, the less that he could see any other hair colour apart from gold or silver or a combination of the two.

If it wasn't for the fact that he wore the clothes of man, Ryam would have mistaken Rogaem for a woman. The purple eyeshadow that he wore to highlight his eyes did not at all help him with the first impressions.

I wouldn't be surprised if he liked swallowing swords at that.

Harry ever being amiable was busy talking to their guide as he led them through the streets of Lys. "As lovely as Lys is, I have to say, all this white is rather dull."

Rogaem smiled some as he replied, his voice full of pride for his home. This confused Ryam, for he was sure that the choker he wore marked him for a slave. Why would he be proud of this unholy place and everything that it stood for?

"On the contraire, sers. The white adds to the beauty, especially with the flavour of assorted colours."

"On the roofs." Ryam said absentmindedly, looking up at the domed roof of one those very same white washed buildings. "Apart from them, everything else is white. Is there a reason for this?"

"White is purity." Rogaem replied. "It serves as a symbol of the purity the blood that runs throughout every Lyseni in this very city. That...and the fact that the white stone and marble you see is abundant on our humble island. Best make use of it." The slave finished with a slight playful smirk.

At the very least, Ryam could agree that the blood of these Lyseni was very pure in respects of Old Valyria.

He would also have to agree that when men had come to given this city, Lys the Lovely, they were right in doing so. Every building was of white washed stone and marble, of such masterful building that it could be mistaken that they were all crafted through the use of one's own hands.

The white of the stone and marble was gently dossed with gentle colours of purple, bright blue, gold and reds. It wasn't an explosion of garish colours that he had seen in Tyrosh, but it certainly was a set of colours that went to make a statement.

As Rogaem led them through the large paved roads of the city, lined with palm trees that gave shade from the sun that hanged over heard, they passed a multitude of vendors selling their wares. Some hawkers saw them and approached to sell their goods, but they didn't stop for anyone.

"Your master could have very well sent for horses for all of us." Ryam said, voicing the complaints of his own feet. The shoes that he were wearing had not been made for the walking that he was in.

Rogaem inclined his head slightly as he apologised. "Apologies, good knight of Westeros. At the moment, all of the horses in our stable are of use. The Master is a very busy man, who frequents many places. The horses need their rest as well."

Ryam's companion, Harry took interest in the subject as he tried to garner more information about the man that they had been dispatched to meet. "Your master, what sort of man is he?"

"A good man." The slave replied. "He treats others well, even those of my like. I warn you good sers, if trouble is to be brought upon the master, it will be met most fiercely."

"No trouble will be brought upon your master. We just merely want to talk to him."

That was a lie, in truth. Ryam and Harry had been dispatched by their prince here to deliver a letter. They did not know the contents of the letter, as Aerys had wrote it right in front of them and sealed it within an envelope soon after.

How low House Reyne has fallen. He mused to himself. Once we were feared and respected. Now I'm a glorified mail man.

At the very least, this task was one of many that got him out of that viper's nest that was King's Landing. Although that may be an over exaggeration in truth. All of the vipers did seem interested in coming after him and only him.

"I'm surprised no-one is glowering at us." Harry commented, out of the blue.

Ryam realised that Harry had dropped from the side of Rogaem to come along beside him, the slave continuing to lead the way in front of them.

Over the past five years, Harrold Wendwater had come into being. He was never going to have the powerful build of the heroes of old, but he made up for it with a sinewy strength hidden underneath his lean and lanky frame.

That annoyed him. That the squire that he had used to tower over was now half a head taller than him. Another joke the gods like to play with me.

Looking around he did notice that no particular looks were being sent their way. Apart from looks of curiosity from the Lyseni and their slaves or among the sellsword guardsmen. "Perhaps they don't know who we are."

"We are speaking in the Common Tongue, Ry. I'm sure they know who we are. Or some of them anyway." He finished with a shrug.

He couldn't help but laugh at that. "That's true. It's not like the crown's policies have effected Lys in any meaningful way. Their trade is mostly that of flesh. Something no self respecting Westerosi would ever concern themselves with."

"You would be surprised at what men will do in the pursuit of gold, Ryam. We aren't children anymore."

"No. No we are not." He then noticed that the slave that was acting as their guide was holding back a smile. He didn't like that. "Got something to say, Lyseni?"

He jumped a little from the tone the question had been asked, but he shook his head quickly in denial. "No, no. It's just that, yes, Lys has no quarrel with the Sunset Kingdoms as of now, but things have been getting...difficult, as of late I hear."

Harry had his interest piqued. "Really, now?"

"You do not know?" Rogaem asked with a scoff before shaking his head and saying something in the Lyseni dialect of Valyrian. Both Ryam and Harry shared a look, both having the feeling that something unduly called for had been said about them.

Ryam touched at the sleeve of his blazer, at the hidden blade underneath. Harry saw the action and shook his head with a roll of the eyes.

The blade was small, but long enough and thick enough that he could move up behind Rogaem and press it into his back. That would probably show the Lyseni pillow slave to at the very least, show respect to his betters.

"We are simple messengers in Prince Aerys' service." Harry speaking up again after a moment. "There's somethings we don't need to know."

"Clearly there are some you should, if your actions are inviting another war with Tyrosh."

Ryam frowned in thought. Tyrosh? That was silly. The Nine had been smashed in the Stepstones, there was no need for war between Tyrosh and the Seven Kingdoms. And we are not as weak as we used to be.

"It is said that Alequo Adarys' grip on power in the city is slipping." Harry told the slave.

Ryam snorted, adding to his friend's statement. "I doubt he'll even last till the end of the year. The Tyroshi are a greedy lot. And someone will have the greed and ambition to replace the Silver Tongue on his throne."

And like that he had answered his own question. The people of Tyrosh were known for their greed and it was said it was rare to find an honest Tyroshi. Sometimes, in the past, the Conclave and their Archon to suit their never ending greed for gold, would unleash some of it's navy on the Stepstones to prey on both the merchants and pirates alike.

In truth, piracy in the Stepstones had been increasing over the years. He had seen enough of more and more of the Royal Fleet being dispatched to the Stepstones to try and pacify the area, but whenever the fleet returned back home, like cockroaches, the pirates would spring up once more to prey on the merchants and their wares.

Could it be? Does Tyrosh have a hand with the recent bouts of piracy in the Stepstones?

If so, not only would Tyrosh be inviting the wrath of the Iron Throne, but also the other Free Cities as well. That was just folly. Especially considering that the Nine had lost much of the power that it used to wield. Some of it's number had found themselves dead, whilst those that had been found the kingdoms they had been fighting for, found themselves beset by enemies on all sides.

If Tyrosh was truly responsible for the piracy in the Stepstones, then Alequo Adarys would find himself alone in the case of war. Ryam had the line of thought that the other Nine would not come to the aid of the Silver Tongue.

Perhaps, for even all of the gold in the world.

xXx

The Editor

The bells always rang at the crack of dawn.

It was always like this. Every morning started like this. In fact, the bells rang at the crack of dawn, then once more at midday, then dusk and then midnight. Once, the great bells had rung every other hour until people started complaining about the sound that the prince then changed it the current policy.

It worked far better for him and everyone else.

And once more, at the sound of the bells, Jory Wright would wake himself to begin his day.

He would wake up then head to the communal bath house of the apartment that he lived in, talk with his fellows that lived in the same building before drying himself and then heading back to his apartment. He lived on the top floor of the building, and thus, taking the stairs was more than enough exercise to keep him healthy and fit.

By the time he had returned, his wife would have made breakfast for both him and their daughter. It used to be that she would set the table out for four, for their oldest son Mark, but Mark had impressed and done him proud in his studies at the Royal School.

He had always been a big, strong boy, it was little wonder that he was squired to a son, the knight. He thought, puffing out his chest slightly in pride. If father can see him now. He would be proud.

"We'll be learning about Queen Alysanne today." Alys, his daughter said, playing with her food. "Septa Lysa said so."

Mirri didn't like the playing that Alys was doing and admonished her. "Your food is for eating, not playing Alys."

Alys shrunk into her seat. "Sorry mama." But she quickly perked up again. "Papa, do you know about Queen Alysanne?"

Jory smiled. "Of course dear. Your obviously knows about Queen Alysanne."

Her eyes glistened. "That's good then. Septa Lysa also said she will give us homework about the queen." She stuck out her tongue in a show of childish disgust. "I don't like homework. You'll have to help me."

Jory laughed, but he thought he did his best to hide his nervousness at the subject. For in his past as a scribe, he had copied from many history books. About the Seven Kingdoms. About the Targaryens. About many things.

He certainly knew of Queen Alysanne, but it was going to be a tad bit difficult to recall of every single thing she had done.

Not long afterwards, Mirri had sent Alys to her room to get her towels for they were going to head to the baths themselves, and from there, she would take Alys to the school. Mirri sat beside me shaking her head. "All this learning...what will it do for her in the future? I worry about that."

"Things are different now, my love." He said, kissing her brow. "The king wants as many learned men and women as possible. Even now, at the Herald, I work alongside many womenfolk. I admit, times sure are strange, but like with Mark, we have to grab every opportunity that comes our way."

Mirri was a lovely woman. Some might say that Jory had married far below his station considering that his family had belonged to the Guild of Scribes ever since King's Landing was found. But he had fallen for her, the day that he had seen her serving in that tavern.

He tried not to think about the many men that she had more than likely been with before they had been joined as one in a sept.

After that, he made for the Herald's offices.

Jory lived a fair distances away and to arrive in a timely manner, he could have called upon a pedicab. At this time of the morning, not many of them would be in use, and at the same time, it also meant that not many of them would be out and about on the streets to look for potential customers.

Therefore, ever since he bought it, he cycled to work.

Once again, it was an excellent way to keep himself fit and proper.

The bicycle was once more another sign of the sheer ingenuity of their young king. Made of wooden frame attached to two wheels, the bicycle was cheaper than a horse. The only thing that could raise the price for it was the type of wood used to make the frame and wheels.

He had even seen some that looked like they were made out of metal.

It was said the costliest of the bicycles made out of wood was that of the ironwood variety. Tough, strong, and less likable to break, he had seen the price for one such bicycle and had balked. Far too much money to spend on someone of his salary.

The bicycle had revolutionized how people went about. Long went the days that unimportant men like him and many others had to walk to get where they wanted to go. Now, it was safe to say and maybe not all that wrong to say that every men in King's Landing owned a bike.

Perhaps even the entirety of the crownlands.

The office building of the Royal Herald was located on the Street of Fleet. The building itself stood taller than the other buildings around it, and grander as well. In colours of black and red and ornate dragons guarding the main entrance.

Jory Wright was proud to work at such a respectable place. Bring about the very first newspaper in all of Westeros. No, in the entire world.

It was said that their courier ships even went as far and wide as Volantis. Not surprising really, some of their segments included business that was happening across the narrow sea, mostly for the merchants who had a vested interest in news from abroad. And news that was a little more reliable than one heard in the local wine sinks.

Paper boys with this weeks edition stuffed into rough-spun bags marched past him in an orderly manner, talking and laughing amongst themselves. Some of them would go on to personally deliver the Herald to subscribed readers or hawk the newspaper in popular town squares and streets.

He smiled in the direction of his secretary as he reached his office. "Morning Bella."

The young woman rose from her seat and bowed. "Morning, Mr. Wright."

"What's my day looking like?"

Bella picked up a small book and began to flip through it's pages. "Light, ser. You are free till a little after midday, then afterwards, you have a meeting with the other editors and the editor-in-chief." She then frowned. "You also have a meeting with Yorrick."

Oh by the gods, not him. Yorrick was a good journalist, always finding some sort of story, but the man had a habit of chasing after stories that were best left alone. It was a surprise to Jory that he was still breathing. "I thought he was in Duskendale?" That was the last thing he had told him. He had said his contacts had been giving him hints about a great story that would shake King's Landing or the very crownlands themselves.

"No. He returned just before the weekend. Actually, just a few hours after you had finished for the day."

"I suppose I can't just say I'm ill and go home, can I?"

She smiled at him then, apologetically. "No, ser. I'm afraid you can't."

After that, the day went about as normal for him as possible.

He looked over the stories that the various journalists that worked for him had submitted. He would be the one to choose which ones were going to be printed in the next edition. When he found the ones worthy to be printed off, he would then check them for any spelling errors.

It was unlikely, considering that nearly all of the staff of the Herald had been in the Guild of Scribes before it found itself unceremoniously disbanded, but it never hurt to be sure.

The printing press was a marvellous device, but that device had been the bane of the Guild of Scribes of King's Landing. At first, they hadn't known what was happening when the market suddenly found itself flooded with copies of the Seven Pointed Star.

One of the guilds main incomes was copying out books and other such items. The holy book being one of their main demands by both lords and rich townfolk alike.

The guild masters had ignored this and reasoned it as merely that the Faith had worked quick in writing out new copies of the holy book. But they never stopped coming. The Faith kept printing out more books than the market could copy, forcing the price of the holy book down from gold dragons, to silver stags and then coppers.

Before they had known it, they had started losing much of their business when it came to publishing to their competitor that was somehow able to flood the market with books at such a rate that it was simply impossible for it to be done by hand.

That was when Prince Aerys had come to them.

Jory stopped writing for a moment and shook his head. You would call a prince a king? True, he had not been a prince then, but he was now a king. May King Aegon rest in peace among the seven heavens.

King Aegon had done good for all the guilds, and it seemed as if before he had become a king, Aerys had been doing so as well, barring that garish business with the Guild of Shipwrights.

"We need more stories!" Hugh Bookman boomed, pacing the room. "Those little shits down in Oldtown with their Oldtown Standard are trying to cut into our market. I won't let them, and neither will the lot of you."

Jory pressed even more into his seat than he was already doing. All the meetings had been like this ever since other establishments much like their own began to be found by the scribes of the other kingdoms. To date, there was the Oldtown Standard, Lannisport Times, The Daily Duskendale, The Fairmarket Enquirer and The Northern Mail.

Every single one of these papers were beginning to cut into their monopoly. Five years ago, they were the only establishment of their kind, being able to spread the news throughout all of the crownlands. Then the new clipper ships extended the size of their potential market to the rest of the kingdoms and across the narrow sea.

The rumour was, Hugh was going to petition the king to at least give them a charter to protect their profits.

Hugh pointed a stubby finger at Harrison Bookes. "You!' Harrison might as well have been a hamster with the squeak that he had made. "What in the bloody seven hells are you doing? You are in charge of sports! Where the fuck is the news of the tourneys!? No-one in the bloody Seven Kingdoms cares about those bloody ball sports! They want to know which knight is knocking which other bloody, stupid highborn of his rocker!"

Bookes to his credit was able to control himself to answer back. "Honestly, ser, it's just so difficult. There's so many tourneys in the reach to cover, and along with the other sports that happen in King's Landing like rugby, I don't have enough space for my segment."

"I don't give a flying fuck!" Bookman roared. "If you have to, cut down on that ponderous shit and put in the fucking tourney results! And you!" He then changed the target of fury to another poor unfortunate victim.

All Jory could do was wait for his turn.

Hugh was an excellent editor, having been one of the most prominent guild masters of the Scribes, he had been able to take the Herald to the heights that it enjoyed now. But personally, he was like some sort of demon cast out from the seven hells to work underneath.

All Jory wanted to do was relax after the bollocking he had received from Hugh, but when he entered his office, he found Yorrick, peering out of his office window. When he closed the door, the man near half jumped.

Jory frowned. "What's wrong with you man? Out with it, I don't have the patience for it today." He said as he rounded his desk and dropped into his chair.

Yorrick rushed towards the table, grasping for something in his pack before bringing out a stack of papers and slamming them on the ground. His eyes were wild as he talked. No, as he hissed. "I have it man. News that could shake the very start of our gracious King's reign."

Jory grabbed for one of the papers and began to read through it. "What the fuck are you talking about, Yorrick?"

Yorrick looked around madly, leaning forward before he half spoke, half whispered. "The Darklyns."

His stomach had been dropping with each line he had been reading on the papers in front of him. "...This is dangerous. What you have here is very dangerous."

"Very." Yorrick repeated, licking his lips. "A good man died giving me this." He slapped the table in excitement. "But gods be damned, if this isn't news, I don't know what is."

Jory thought of his family. If this was true and he allowed for this to be printed, a lot of attention would be brought upon him and his family. "I have to take this to Hugh."

"No!" The man wailed. "He'll say no. I know he will. You can't. Please." He begged.

Jory shook his head as he rose up from his seat. "I have to."

And so, with Yorrick in tow, they took it to Hugh Bookman.

And Hugh was not impressed. "This is utter, trifling garbage." He said, ripping the papers into pieces before throwing them into his brazier. "Treason? The Darklyns? For what reason?"

"For gold of course." Yorrick answered bravely. "What other reason should they have?"

"I won't be having that tone with me, boy." Hugh said sternly, his full attention levelled on Yorrick. "You have always been a source of trouble. No more, I say." He pointed one thick finger at him. "You're fired. Get your ugly lard out of my building."

"It's the king's building actually." Yorrick remarked with a certain testiness.

Yorrick was escorted out of the building by some of Jory's colleagues that would not have liked to clean up a bloody mess in Hugh's office. That left Jory and Hugh alone.

Hugh shook his head as he lit up a paper than had sourleaf tucked inside. "Madness, I tell you. Utter madness. The Darklyns have been loyal to the Targaryens ever since the time of the Conqueror." He shook his head before eyeing Jory. "No word shall be spoken of this. You understand Jory?"

Jory nodded. "I do, ser."

"Good." He waved him away, a brusque dismissal. "Be gone with you. Back to work."

And Jory went back to work. Forgetting about Yorrick and his talk of treason.