The servant girl seemed stupefied for a few moments, her eyes widening like those of a cornered animal. I found that interesting—most servants would have kept their gaze firmly fixed on the floor, yet this one stared directly at me, if only for a heartbeat before composing herself. Quick to adapt, this one. I turned my attention to the Lannister man in his crimson armor that seemed too pristine for a real soldier. More like a peacock than a warrior.
"Anything else?" I asked, noting how he shifted uncomfortably beneath my gaze
"L-lord Tywin," the man began, his voice almost stumbling across his words, "says to hurry."
I rolled my shoulders, feeling the pleasant ache of muscles because of that dammed bed. "I told him it would take a week, so it's going to take a week. Otherwise, have someone else do it."
The man's face tightened, a vein pulsing at his temple. "You—"
Before he could finish, Tychos moved quickly seemingly to fast for the knight to take notice of. His spear dropped to rest against the man's throat, the tip dimpling the flesh just enough to make its point without drawing blood.
"Speak another word," Tychos said, his accent thick as honey but his meaning clear as spring water, "and you'll choke on it."
The Lannister man's face paled, seriously were all Westerosi common men like this, if so it was going to be disappointing. He nodded hurriedly, sweat beading beneath his brow. As he turned to leave, I caught the muttered curses—something about "Essosi savages" and "uncivilized sellswords."
"Well, I'll be going in," I said to my guards, noting the fatigue that lined their faces. Two months on the road had worn us all thin, though none would admit it. "You guys go on to get some rest."
"I seriously don't understand why Phoenix keeps placing you guys in front of my abodes," I added, running a hand through my hair. It was growing too long again. Perhaps I'd have it cut before we set out for this Riverrun place, then again maybe not.
Syran straightened, his armor clanking softly as he adjusted his stance. He was always the more formal of the two, he was like most Myrmidon in that way for some reason all of them were quite formal whenever they were in my presence.
"Captain, it is our duty to protect you—" he began, his voice carrying that solemn tone that always made me want to throw something at him.
"Yeah, yeah," I interrupted, waving my hand dismissively. "Just go get some sleep, you shits. You're no good to me dead on your feet."
Syran looked as if he wanted to argue further—the stubborn fool never knew when to back down—but Tychos placed a weathered hand on his shoulder and squeezed, though I wasn't sure if Syran could feel it through the armor.
"We will, Captain," Tychos responded.
"Good," I said, turning back and closing the door behind me with a firm push. The heavy oak settled into its frame with a satisfying thud, shutting out the rest of this cursed castle.
My chambers were spacious by a anyone standards. A large bed dominated one corner, its sheets already rumpled from my brief rest. A hearth stood cold and empty along one wall—I hadn't bothered to light it, this castle already looked burnt enough as is, I didn't have to add to it.
My eyes settled on the servant girl. She stood awkwardly by the desk, clutching the stack of books and maps the Lannister man had thrust upon her. Her appearance was that of any common servant, simple roughspun clothes, the sort of garments meant to endure hard work and frequent washing. Her hair was chopped short in an uneven cut that suggested she had done it herself with a dull blade. Despite her attempts to tame it, several strands stuck out at odd angles, giving her that wild, animal-like appearance that had likely earned her the nickname.
And yet there was something about her which belied this station of hers. It made me curious, and curiosity had always been both my strength and my weakness.
"Do you know my name?" I asked, moving toward the center of the room where a simple wooden table stood with two chairs. I gestured for her to take a seat.
"No," she answered, her voice steady as she placed the stack of books and maps on the desk. Her composure was impressive for one so young.
"My name is Achilles," I said, watching her reaction carefully. "As for where I come from, you most likely know it's from Essos. Where exactly, I myself have no clue. One of my first memories was in Meereen, though, so let's say I'm from there." It was true, Phoenix had always been by my side, he even said he was there during my birth but my memories only stretched as far as when I killed my first man, when I was four. "How about you?"
She hesitated for just a moment, her eyes flicking toward the door as if gauging the distance. "Everyone calls me Weasel," she finally said, her voice giving away little.
"Fine then, Weasel," I said, thinking the name was quite apt. "You told me you could read, right?"
"I can, my lord," she replied automatically.
I frowned for a second, she seemed to take notice of it quickly enough.
"Achilles," she corrected herself.
Smart child.
"Your father taught you, you said." I moved to the window, looking out over the bleak expanse of Harrenhal's courtyards.
"That is right," she affirmed, watching me with those calculating eyes.
"What was his profession?" I asked, turning back to face her. The light from the window cast half my face in shadow, a trick I had learned long ago to make myself seem more imposing.
"He was a stonemason," she said without hesitation.
I raised an eyebrow, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice. "Aha, a stonemason who could read—talk about prodigious."
"He was," she said with a smile she herself hadn't seemed to take notice of.
"Well then," I said, moving toward a closet that had been filled with clothing—simple garments. "Let's see how well your father taught you."
I grabbed a white silk shirt and pulled it over my head. I really didn't like to wear shirts while sleeping; they always ended up wrinkled and I didn't like the look of them.
I moved over to the desk where she had laid out the papers and maps, unfurling one that showed the entirety of Westeros. The continent sprawled across the parchment like some malformed beast, narrow at the bottom and growing fat as it stretched northward.
"Okay then, let's begin," I said, gesturing for her to come closer. "Explain to me the regions of Westeros."
"Uhh, well," Weasel began, approaching the desk cautiously. Her finger hovered over the map, tracing invisible boundaries. "Westeros is divided into nine kingdoms: Dorne, the Reach, the Crownlands, the Stormlands, the Westerlands, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Iron Islands, and the North."
She pointed at each region as she named it.
"Right now we are in Harrenhal, which is up here in the Riverlands," she continued, tapping a spot on the map. "The lake next to us is God's Eye, and the town which borders Harrenhal is called Harrentown."
I nodded, committing the locations to memory.
"Wait a moment," I interrupted, a crucial detail suddenly occurring to me. "Who exactly are we fighting in this war?" It was embarrassing to admit, but I hadn't really been briefed properly. The messenger who had come to hire us in Braavos had spoken only of gold and glory, basically his words were. Come kill the people we tell you to and you'll make money.
"Your main threats are the Starks," Weasel explained, her voice taking on a more formal tone as if reciting from memory. "Their sigil being that of a direwolf."
"So that's what he meant by young wolf," I muttered to myself, remembering the cryptic warning from the dammed faceless.
"Who are you talking about?" Weasel asked, her curiosity seemingly genuine.
"That isn't important," I said, dismissing the question with a wave of my hand. "So where exactly is this Stark camp located?"
Weasel began to look through the paper. After a few moments, she pulled out a document, reading a few lines before reciting them to me.
"They are encamped in Riverrun after defeating Lannister forces that were laying siege to it, and capturing Jaime Lannister in the process."
I leaned closer, studying the sketch. "And why exactly were Lannister forces laying siege to this Riverrun?"
Again, Weasel searched through the papers, this time taking longer to find what she was looking for. Finally, she pulled out a detailed map of what appeared to be a river system.
"According to this, Riverrun is one of the three forks which control the Trident, which is this system of rivers with three main forks: Red, Green, and Blue," she explained. "Riverrun is on the Red fork and is the main seat of House Tully. Although the other two forks are also held by House Tully, they are in control of other noble houses who have sworn to them. The most important fork is the Green fork, as it has a strategic point—that being the Twins."
I nodded, beginning to understand the lay of the land. Rivers were always key to warfare—they provided water, transport, and natural barriers all at once. "Okay then. That's good enough. Are there any papers on the Stark camp exactly?"
Weasel looked through a few more papers, her small hands moving with surprising efficiency. "Yes, here it is," she said at last, pulling out a document with a list of names and numbers. "The Stark camp is led by Robb Stark, son of Eddard Stark, recently crowned King of the Trident. He leads forces of around twenty thousand men, most of which belong to the Houses of the North."
"Twenty thousand," I repeated, impressed despite myself. "Quite a number. How many do the Lannisters have?"
Weasel spent several minutes searching through the remaining papers. The room fell silent except for the soft rustle of parchment and the distant sounds of men training in the yard below.
Finally, Weasel looked up. "I may have missed it, but there doesn't seem to be any information."
I ran a hand along my jaw, feeling the stubble that had begun to grow during our journey. "Hmm, so he doesn't really want me to know his forces. I guess that makes sense, especially with my reputation." The Old Lion was cautious, as all good commanders should be. He was hiring me to rescue his son, and to later on kill his enemies, not to join his war council.
Weasel looked up at me with a questioning expression but kept her silence. Smart kid.
We spent the next few hours poring over each paper, examining maps, troop movements, and what appeared to be reports from scouts and spies. I learned of the geography of the Riverlands, the alliances of the various houses, and the strengths and weaknesses of the Stark forces. It was tedious work, but necessary if I was to formulate a plan to extract the Kingslayer from his captivity.
"I'm hungry," I declared, stretching my arms far above my head to release the tension that had built up from hours of hunching over maps, I had let Weasel take the sole seat of the desk, since it felt dickish to seat while a kid stood up and read for me. My joints popped satisfyingly, reminding me that I wasn't as young as I once was, though I'd never admit that to anyone. "We will stop here for today."
Weasel nodded and began to gather the papers scattered across the desk, her movements methodical and precise.
"Wait, don't gather the papers," I instructed, placing a hand on the desk. "We'll just have them here. Also, there is one more thing before you go. I believe in paying for someone's time, just like that Old Lion is paying me. I should pay you for yours. So, what do you want?"
She looked up at me then, and I saw something shift in her eyes. The mask slipped, just for a moment, and I caught a glimpse of something fierce and untamed beneath—like those of a wolf, not a weasel.
"You said you were from Essos, right?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
"Indeed I am," I confirmed, curious where this was leading.
The room fell quiet once more, only for a moment, and yet it felt quite heavy for some reason. Finally, she spoke.
"Have you ever been to Braavos?"
A/N: Sorry for the late chapter release, their was a power outage across all of Spain so I couldn't really write and upload lol. Either way here it is I hope you enjoyed it, also if I could get a few reviews that would be awesome (I know it's too soon to get a good feel for the fic but an author can wish right?). Either way author out.