CHAPTER XI
A Rat at the RoundtableName was Thomas once...too big a name, that, too stiff, too fancy, like putting a feather in a pig's arse and calling it a swan.
Thomas, he thought, shaking his head, that ain't me.
Tom, that's what stuck. Tommy, if you were close. Spotted Tom, if you were stupid.
He worked the cleaver slow, bone under blade, flesh parting with a sticky slap...the meat was fresh, a little too fresh. Funny thing to do, some might say: captain of a company, hacking ribs and haunches like a common cook when he ought to be barking orders, polishing steel, counting coin. But he was a simple 'un, really...a butcher's son, learned under Da back in Flea Bottom before the rope got him. Poaching in the Kingswood, they said. Wild pigs, wild friends, wild mistakes. Da swung. His mates too.
Tom didn't. He ran.
Sneaky little rat, they called him, pimpled one at that. Looked the part too, back then...half-starved, all elbows and nerves. He never liked the name, Rat, but he was one, and he knew it. A rat with a cleaver now.
He grunted, shifting the slab on the block. Wasn't pig, this bit...it was thicker, tougher, a bit too red. Didn't matter.
He was eating good these days, and sleeping even better. Better than most lords, he'd wager. Never thought he'd come this far really, from sawdust bread and cabbage piss to roast pork and honey wine...and here in the savage lands of Essos no less.
Maybe he was meant to be a king.
Cleaver came down hard- THUNK- bone split clean.
Maybe not a proper one, but close enough...a king of knives, filth, grit, sinew, whatever's left when you scrape the bottom and call it power. A rat king, if there ever was one.
Of course, he'd never say that out loud. Not in front of the two-headed fuck… that one didn't like jokes.
Tom chuckled, wiping his hands on a greasy cloth as bits of gristle clung to the calluses. He reached for the head… eyes still open, mouth agape- the bastard looked surprised. Maybe he thought it'd be different, calling him Spotted Tom like that was clever, like he was still just a rat-boy from the alleys.
Tom snorted and tossed the head into the bin.
Some poor bastard in camp'll eat well tonight. Might even lick his fingers. Might say it's the best meat they've had in weeks.
They'd be right.
He carved off another strip and whistled low.
"Spotted Tom, eh? Not so funny now."
He found himself walking through the tents line now, though he didn't quite remember deciding to move. Mors was beside him, rattling on about logistics or gods knew what else...supplies maybe, or firewood, or where to stick the piss trenches this time. Tom's head hurt just listening. Maybe once his heart calmed down a bit, it'd all start making more sense.
He gave a nod, or thought he did. Didn't really matter either way. The smart parts, the numbers and counting, that was Mors' work. Always had been. Meros, officially, his second in command or whatever they called it- but no one called him that except parchment lickers.
To him he was Mors… just Mors.
Tom handled the other end. Fighting. Bleeding. Deciding when to kill and when to let someone sweat a little longer.
His fingers twitched. The tent rows were crooked again...stakes off, canvas sagging like a dying pig's gut. Uneven spacing. No line discipline. Just looking at it made something crawl up the back of his spine like ants under the skin.
Mors must've seen it. He always did.
"It'll be fixed, Captain," the old man said. Not ser. Thank the Seven for small mercies. At least one soul in camp still knew what to call him.
"Put 'em on ditch work," Tom muttered. "Latrines, maybe chopping firewood too. If they've got that much energy to pitch a tent wrong, they've got enough to swing an axe straight."
The old bastard gave a noise halfway between a grunt and a chuckle. "Feelin' merciful today, are ye, Tommy?"
Tom shrugged, biting down a smile. "Aye, well. Had a good morning."
Mors gave him that look...half fond, half tired...the sort of look a dog gives a pup who's just pissed in the fire. Then he reached over and ruffled Tom's hair like he'd done since the days Tom didn't come up past his elbow.
And he could. Tall fucker stood two heads over him and half again as wide. Older too, grey streaking through that thick black beard like ash on a forge. One of the few men in the whole damned company Tom ever let close enough to touch him without flinching.
Truth be told, Mors was the reason he'd made it this far at all. Took in a pimpled rat with quick fingers and faster feet and turned him into something that could pass for a captain. Raised him proper...or close to it. More than Da ever did, gods rest his drunken arse, too busy getting himself hanged for poaching to teach his boy anything worth knowing.
Mors tilted his head toward the camp's center, toward the big tent with the red canvas. "His Grace is here. Waiting in the command tent."
Tom blinked. "My command tent?"
"Aye."
"…Since when you calling that mad fuck His Grace?"
Mors just scratched his jaw and didn't look at him. "Since he killed a destrier with a punch."
Tom stopped walking.
"Fuck off."
But Mors didn't laugh, didn't grin, didn't even blink.
He'd been there. Sent off that day with some missives and coin, told to bring back news. Came back with eyes a shade darker and voice a little flatter. No flair for stories, Mors...never had it. Didn't even call knights ser unless they earned it, and now here he was calling Maelys His Grace without blinking.
The whispers had started that day and hadn't stopped. Ran through every camp like wine at a feast. The Golden Company lads muttering under their breath. Lashare's men too, and they didn't even owe Maelys a spare fuck to give. Said they saw it happen, saw him twist a man's head clean off like popping the cork on a wineskin... his own kin at that.
Tom didn't know if he believed it. Still didn't. But Mors had seen it, and Mors didn't talk shite.
He found himself straightening up a little as they got close. So did Mors. Not even on purpose...it just happened. The air felt heavier around the tent, like something was waiting just behind the canvas. Even the flap looked stiffer, like it knew who was sitting inside.
Tom snorted under his breath. "Mors, don't tell me you're scared of him. All seven feet of you, pissing yourself like a green boy."
Mors didn't answer. Just grunted and thumped his head forward with one broad hand at the back when he was mouthing off stupid.
Ow.
He rubbed the back of his head and shot Mors a glare as he ducked into the tent.
Inside, it was warm with leather sweat and war stink...red canvas holding in too much air, too many tempers. Maelys had made himself at home. Didn't ask, didn't nod, just settled in like the place owed him for breathing.
All these years beside him, and it still didn't get easier.
The second head didn't help.
It lolled like a half-spoiled melon on his neck, jaw slack, eye always half open. Not staring, but always there.Tom didn't want to look. Gods knew he didn't. But the eye dragged yours like a fishhook every time. Like it knew.
He tried not to think about it.
Small fish meeting big fish. And fuck, what a big fish Maelys was. All torso, thick as a feast table, shoulders like siege towers. Arms knotted with more vein than man. Maybe the rumors were true after all. Maybe it really wasn't just a horse he'd punched to death.
Tom kept his mouth shut.
The table was his. Once. Sturdy oak, rough edges, carved corner from where he'd dropped a dagger during some stormy march, years back. Two boots rested on it now. Mud-caked. Heel worn down to the stitching. He didn't need to look up.
He knew whose.
"Lashare," he muttered.
The smirk was already there, curling out like a knife. "Tommy. We were waiting on you."
He lounged like a man who'd pissed in the soup and dared you to drink. Boots up, arms behind his head, grin all teeth and spite. The kind of smirk that asked for a slap, and knew it wouldn't get one. Not here. Not now.
"Get your filthy boots off my table."
The bastard wiggled, singsonged-
"Worried I'll scuff your perfect little war table, Captain Spotless?"
Tom stepped forward, slow. "Uncomfortable's not the word. Just don't think a stump would suit you for a leg."
That landed.
Lashare's grin twitched, eyes narrowing a hair. "That a threat?"
Tom shrugged, hand drifting near the hilt. "Maybe."
"And I don't think Samarro'd appreciate you following in his footstep."
He just had to rub it in. Samarro was a sore spot for Lyomond… in more ways than one. Didn't need to be said out loud...Tom's smirk did the work for him, and he could see it land. Burrowed under that thin skin like a splinter gone septic.
The fucker.
Lashare was on his feet fast, dirks out from his sleeves with a snarl. "What did you-" He stepped forward teeth bared, eyes murderous.
Mors drew quiet and solid beside him, already done with the conversation. He was used to this...him saying the wrong thing on purpose, riling men who'd kill over less. But Tom wasn't some runt hiding behind steel. No- he stood there steady, jaw tight, shoulders squared, just waiting for Lashare to twitch the wrong way. Daring him- Wanting it. One more step and he'd bash his fucking head in. The air had thickened with the canvas breathing, men not. Then-
"ENOUGH."
It hit like a whip crack.
Maelys hadn't moved. Didn't need to. His silver mane spilled wild over his shoulders, eyes steady, mouth flat. Like a father catching his boys squabbling near the fire...only this one would break bones, not bread.
"Enough?" Lashare bit out scathing but less.
Maelys didn't repeat himself.
Tom eased his hand off the mace, but his neck still itched.
Something had shifted in the tent. Not just the air...the order of things. Like standing too close to a storm. You could smell it coming, even if the lightning hadn't struck yet.
The second head twitched. Just slightly.
He hated how small he felt then. All the years, all the blood- still not enough. Not against this.
Tom said nothing. He'd stood in a hundred tents like this, but never one where silence felt more like war than peace.
You never knew with the kinslayer. His heart beat slow...not calm, but forced stillness, like playing dead before a bear. One moment he's quiet. The next, your neck's broken.
The silence hung thick.
Maelys hadn't moved. He rarely did. Just sat on that battered stool, arms resting heavy on his thighs, like the whole damned war hung there.
Tom cleared his throat.
"I've been looking over the books," he said, breaking the still. "Contracts are thinning out. Volantis pulled back last week. Qohor won't return word. Even Lorath's closing its purse… and we've bled for them."
Maelys didn't look at him.
Lashare scoffed, flicking a loose strand of hair from his eyes. "Maybe they're just sick of your pimpled arse Tommy or maybe they finally heard what's really in your stew pots."
Tom ignored him, not risking it.
Mors shifted beside him, arms crossed, face hard and still. "You know what it smells like to me?"
Tom tilted his head. "Rot?"
"Revenge," Mors muttered. "We've been carving up the Disputed Lands like pigs on a rack. Myr, Lys, Tyrosh... they've lost farms, garrisons, and rivers. They can't fight us head-on, so they pay others to do it."
Tom reached into his pouch and drew something out.
A broken quarrel. Barbed, black iron. Compact fletching. He set it on the table with a soft clink.
Lashare frowned. "Braavosi?"
Tom nodded. "Three of them pulled from our boys near the Rhoyne crossing. All clad with same helms and same armor… a queer thing really- no banners, if you don't notice the stamp of crabs on those fucking crossbows."
Mors grunted. "Could be a coincidence."
"Could be," Tom agreed. "Except we've been ambushed three times in a fortnight. Always the same arms. Same gear. Same silence from our allies."
"What about Samarro?" Mors asked.
Tom's jaw tightened. "Stopped answering two weeks back. Not a raven, not a runner. Just gone."
Lashare leaned back. "Dead or bought. Not sure which would be worse."
Tom ignored him. "And there's a name I've heard. Not confirmed, but it keeps coming up."
"Something to do with those crabs you keep mumbling about?" Mors echoed.
"It's a sigil, maybe. But not one I've seen on any chartered company. And those crossbows? Myr doesn't make them. Neither does Lys."
"They're Braavosi!" Lashare said, tone sharper now.
"Aye," Tom said. "And that's the part I don't get. We made sure not to hit any of their trade lines nor any of their ships. Braavos doesn't give a shit about the Three Daughters. Never did. Always looked down their noses at them...calls 'em squabbling whores."
Mors nodded. "So why arm their cause?"
"There's a name floating behind this. Not loud. Just beneath.. whispers."
He swallowed.
"Celtigar."
Lashare blinked. "From Westeros?"
Tom nodded. "Caspian Celtigar. A young lord- has the look...silver hair, sharp face, eyes like- Valyrian… and a shipyard fat with Braavosi coin."
"Never met him."
"No one here has," Tom said. "But the timing lines up. He arms half the sellswords that turned on us. New crossbows. Uniform armor. Logistics too clean for chance... and they're all turning up in the wrong places at the right time."
"You're guessing."
"I'm observing. Samarro stops answering birds. Contracts dry up. Mercenaries we shared campfires with start gutting our outriders. All using the weapons he sells."
Lashare sneered. "So a pretty boy noble with too much gold and too little cock decides to meddle, and now we're losing our purse?"
"More than meddling," Tom said. "He's the common link. The companies hitting us? All outfitted with the same crossbows. The same blades. They're not just mercenaries. They're paid to fuck with us, bleed us, break us before we gather too much steam."
"Never heard of him."
"Nor had I," Tom said. "Not until recently. But the name keeps showing up. Whispered, not directly but hinted at. 'The Pale Hand.' 'The Crossbow Prince.'"
Lashare spat. "Sounds like a fool."
"Maybe," Mors muttered. "But if he's behind this? If he's the one who's been feeding coin to Braavos, turning the other sellswords against us… then he's no fool."
Lashare raised a brow. "You think he's coordinating it?"
"I think someone is. Someone who knew what we were building here. Someone who saw what happens if Maelys wins."
There was silence… then Maelys stirred.
His voice, when it came, was flat. Measured and distant. "The boy has sense."
They turned.
Maelys didn't look at any of them. Just pushed a marker across the map with one thick finger. His mane of silver hair fell around his shoulders, half-shadowing his face.
"The Three Daughters bicker and scrape over who gets to reclaim what territory we took, the fools. Hmm… too much infighting- their coin dries up. The Disputed Lands are ripe, and that's why we've carved so deep, but Braavos? Braavos doesn't move unless they gain."
Tom nodded. "Exactly. There's no reason for Braavos to care about us gutting Myr or taking villages near the old Volantene border. Unless someone made them care."
Maelys smiled. It wasn't kind. his hand...dragging a finger slowly across the map, tracing the river delta.
"The boy is smarter than I thought," he said. Voice soft. Almost impressed.
Tom's lips thinned. "Or he's just got enough coin to buy smart men."
Lashare snorted. "And we're just supposed to sit here, licking wounds?"
"No," Tom said. "We strike," Tom offered. "Draw them out. Show the others we're not cornered. I can take the Ironspur and three ships, raid near the Salty Step. If they're there, they'll bite."
"They'll gut you," Lashare said flatly.
Tom shrugged. "Let 'em try."
He glanced again at Maelys.
"Someone's trying to kill this campaign before it grows teeth. This isn't just Myr getting jumpy. Someone paid Braavos to care. That someone wants us dead in the cradle."
Lashare spat. "And succeeding."
CRACK.
The fool flew backward. His chair shattered. Blood sprayed from his mouth where Maelys' gauntlet had caught him across the jaw.
The tent stilled.
Maelys' chest heaved once, then settled.
He looked down at his bloodied knuckle.
"…He was talking too much."
Lashare groaned, coughing teeth.
Mors didn't move. Tom didn't either.
Then Maelys spoke again, calm as still water.
"When Old Mother arrives… I won't have you barking like mongrels in front of her."
He stepped out, brushing the tent flap aside.
The only noise in the tent was groans of a broken jaw.