HOSTER | GERION
Fuck. Hoster groaned through his tightly clenched teeth. He cursed inwardly, enduring the wave of throbbing pain in his right shoulder. The pain from the sword slash felt hot, as if a piece of glowing iron was deliberately pressed and left to burn his skin on a grill.
Inside the dim tent, the late afternoon air turning to evening felt very cold. The damp wind slipped through the gaps in the tent fabric. The light from three candles clustered on a wooden folding table created long dancing shadows.
His wound had actually been treated by the Maester a few days ago. The torn flesh had been cleaned, roughly stitched, and covered by white linen wrapping his shoulder to part of his chest. The binding was so tight that his right arm was currently slightly numb and could not function fully. Hanging uselessly at his side.
They had defeated that bandit group again. However, Hoster knew his age was no longer young. He was too tired after days in the saddle, and at one fatal moment, his guard dropped. He let someone slip from his blind spot and wound him.
Now, his bandages needed changing because fresh blood was seeping through again, staining the linen a dark red. Because Hoster had ordered the Maester to go heal other soldiers whose wounds were more severe, he had Petyr Baelish take over this task.
Besides, he was quite capable of small things that didn't require much brute force.
"Slowly, Boy," hissed Hoster, hardening his jaw.
"Hold on, My Lord. Your wound is not that dry yet. The stitches are still vulnerable," said Petyr with a very calm voice. The young man stood beside him, his face illuminated by candlelight.
"The blood around here is dirtied by sweat and dust," continued Petyr. "We must clean it thoroughly and apply more salve so it does not rot."
"Just do it, do not talk much," Hoster squeezed his eyes shut. "May the foul bastard who did this rot in the deepest hell. Bastard!"
"I have no doubt that will happen, My Lord. Considering you yourself beheaded him after he wounded you," Petyr replied lightly. He took a clean cloth that had been dipped in warm water. Petyr began to clean the wound, rubbing the remnants of dried blood at the edges of the reddened slash.
The touch made Hoster wince softly, his body tensing. His hands clenched into fists.
Petyr's hands danced among the wounds with careful precision. "This is a very unfortunate mistake, My Lord. You are a Lord leading thousands. Many lives and families depend on you, the Seven must surely hate the person who did this to you."
"You and your words..." Hoster sighed roughly, opening one eye. "Just pray that those bandits are prepared for the wrath of the Seven Gods. We have stopped enough of them in this region. Hundreds of them we have sent to the Wall and to King Rhaegar. So, certainly their plan to gather somewhere will not happen."
Hoster swallowed saliva that tasted bitter. "That is good. Very good. Because I swear, I desperately miss the abundant hot water for a bath in Riverrun. I miss my featherbed. Here, everything feels very sickening to me right now."
"Raise your arm a little, My Lord. I must clean the underside," said Petyr, ignoring his complaints.
Hoster obeyed. He raised his right arm a few inches. That small movement sent a flash of blinding pain to his neck.
He hated this very much. Hated the feeling of helplessness. Every day of his life, Hoster Tully had always held control. He controlled his army, he held the future of the Riverlands in his hands. So, when faced with a situation like this, sitting half-naked and shivering, he felt fragile and useless.
Petyr took a small container from the table. Inside was the medicinal salve from the Maester.
The boy used a small wooden spatula to apply the foul-smelling medicine onto Hoster's open wound. The smell immediately stung Hoster's nose. The aroma was rancid, like a mixture of wet moss, and something sweet yet rotten. Whether it was made from leaves or what sap. Why must a medicine meant to heal smell like poison?
Hoster watched as Petyr applied it. The salve also seemed to have started changing color. Hoster remembered clearly that a few days ago, it was deep green. Now? The color was faded, more pale grey.
Petyr took a very large dollop of the salve, slathering it along the entire length of the wound, which instantly made Hoster frown due to the uncomfortable stinging mixed with cold sensation.
"Can you apply less of that damn mud, Petyr?" reprimanded Hoster. "The smell is very pungent. It bothers my nose every time I inhale. Makes my head dizzy."
Petyr didn't stop his movements. The boy's hand remained steady spreading the salve over Hoster's torn flesh.
"The Maester instructed that this is the appropriate dose for a wound this deep, My Lord," Petyr smiled thinly. "If you reduce it just because you cannot stand the smell, this will lower its healing effect. We do not want this wound infected, do we?"
"You say that easily because your nose doesn't have to inhale it all the time, Boy," Hoster snorted resignedly. "But I swear by the Seven, that the smell feels more pungent day by day. The color is also strange. Did the Maester put it in a dung heap or mix it with ash when I wasn't looking?"
"That is only your mind and exhaustion speaking, My Lord," Petyr chuckled softly, taking a fresh clean linen and starting to wrap it around Hoster's shoulder. "The smell is exactly the same as the first time the Maester brewed it. You only became more sensitive because of the pain."
Hoster didn't answer. He was too tired to argue about salve. Petyr might be right. Pain often played tricks on an old man's mind. After Petyr finished tying the last knot and cleaning his hands with a rag, the young man looked at Hoster who was still leaning back limply.
"Would you like me to bring warm water to drink, My Lord? Or perhaps a glass of mulled wine?" offered Petyr politely.
"No," Hoster shook his head. He pointed with his chin. "I need you to fetch the letter on that table. The letter that just arrived."
Petyr followed Hoster's gaze.
"That is a letter from Catelyn," he continued. "Still neatly sealed with red wax. I haven't had the chance to open it because I was busy. I will read it now, and after that, you will help me write the reply. My right hand right now is as useless as a piece of firewood for writing."
Petyr obediently nodded. He walked to the end of the table, taking the scroll in question. Petyr's eyes stared for a moment at the wax seal bearing the Lannister lion. Hoster couldn't see Petyr's expression because the young man had his back to him, but Petyr's shoulders seemed to tense for a second before he turned and came back.
Petyr handed over the letter, and Hoster signaled with his head to break the seal. Petyr broke the wax with his thumb, then gave the opened paper to Hoster. He took the letter with his left hand, bringing it closer to the candlelight, his eyes squinting adjusting to Catelyn's handwriting.
"Father," Hoster began reading silently.
"May you be in good health and protected by the Seven when reading this. Because you are now often moving from one camp to another to hunt those bandits, I had to ask the Maester first, if there were any ravens left for the current destination. Fortunately the Maester always has them and is very helpful, even if it takes longer to find them."
Hoster smiled. "I hope you do not push yourself too hard there. You are no longer a young man who can sleep on wet rocks. I know how things are out there, even though I am now mostly just in the chambers and gardens."
"I have eyes and ears always open in this court. Conditions in the city are indeed worsening due to the flow of refugees, and I do not know when this will truly improve. Jaime is always out from morning to night. He also always looks very tired, his clothes dusty. In this castle, everyone is busy with their respective work."
"To pass the time, I have mostly just been with Queen Cersei lately. We sit in the garden, and I often play with her son, Prince Aegon. The child looks very cute and chubby, with his silver hair. Seeing the little Prince... it makes me wonder and dream... what my child will look like when born later."
Hoster stopped reading for a moment. His heart swelled. He continued reading the last paragraph.
"If everything has improved and those bandits are gone, come home soon, Father. Get a proper rest, and eat more decent food. The food in camp must taste bland and hard, right? Jaime often tells me about it while laughing when reminiscing about when he was still a squire for Ser Tygett."
"Perhaps later... after my baby is born and strong enough to travel, I can also visit you. I honestly am a little sick of the smell and noise of King's Landing. I desperately want fresh air, and the first thing that crosses my mind is Riverrun. It seems I underappreciated the beauty and tranquility of our home when I was a child. I want to write more, tell you many things, but I realize that now is not the right time. You must be tired too."
"So I will end it here. May the Seven keep you."
"Greetings and full of love, Your daughter, Catelyn Lannister."
Hoster gripped the edge of the paper tightly. His chest was now filled with a strange and suffocating swirl of feelings. He hated this emotional reaction. The thick nostalgia, the deep longing for his daughter, for the sound of Catelyn's laughter in the halls of Riverrun. This feeling sickened him because it couldn't be eliminated just by shouting orders. This feeling made him feel old and sentimental.
Hoster took a long and deep breath, filling his lungs with cold air. He consciously stopped all emotions that were about to spill over and ruin his facial expression. Here, standing just a short distance from him, was Petyr Baelish staring at him in silence. Hoster Tully would never show weakness in front of his subordinates, let alone a ward.
Folding the paper stiffly with one hand, Hoster placed it back on the table. He looked at Petyr Baelish.
"Don't just stand there like a statue," ordered Hoster firmly. "Get ink, quill, and a fresh sheet of paper, Boy. Prepare yourself."
With Petyr obeying wordlessly, pulling up a small stool and preparing his tools, Hoster thought of the words he would convey. Once the boy held the pen, and the tip hovered over the paper, Hoster began speaking.
"Your father is currently carrying out an unavoidable duty, Cat," Hoster dictated the opening sentence. He heard Petyr's pen scratching over the paper, copying his words.
"It is engraved in our family words, isn't it? Family, Duty, Honor. We cannot avoid it even if we want to bury ourselves in comfort. We have great responsibilities to undertake to keep this realm intact."
Hoster stared at the dimly dancing candle flame. The yellow light reflected in his eyes. He said all that slowly and clearly so Petyr wouldn't be overwhelmed while writing.
"And honestly, Cat, conducting this pursuit is quite easy. You don't need to worry about me. I have been through much worse things before. I am still as solid as a rock..."
Hoster paused, took a breath, continued. "It is a very good thing for you to spend time with the Queen. She is your good-sister, which in the bonds of marriage, is family. Maintain that relationship. So, at least you will not be too lonely in a court full of strangers."
Hoster smiled thinly, imagining his pregnant daughter.
"And for the child in your womb... I have not the slightest doubt that the child will be born with the most perfect features. You and Jaime have that. Unrivaled handsomeness and beauty. Blood cannot lie, Cat. I have no doubt that the child will be the pride of two great Houses..."
The scratching sound of the pen on the paper suddenly sounded different.
Hoster glanced over. Petyr's handwriting, looked drastically slowed down when he dictated the part about Jaime and Catelyn's baby. The tip of Petyr's pen seemed pressed too hard onto the paper, leaving thicker ink trails than usual. Petyr's grip on the quill looked so rigid that his knuckles tensed.
"Keep writing," Hoster reprimanded softly.
Petyr took an inaudible breath, loosened his grip, and resumed writing at a normal speed. "Done, My Lord."
"Good." Hoster leaned his head back again. "In closing... I cannot wait to see you again, Cat. If the situation permits and your body is strong enough... visit Riverrun. The door to your home will never be closed to you. Do not hesitate. Your father loves you."
…
The room looked messy, as if just hit by a small storm. Clothes scattered on the uneven wooden floor, and an overturned chair in the corner. Pale morning light entered through the cracks of windows tightly closed by a thick, dusty curtain.
On a creaky bed in the middle of the room, there was a thick wool blanket that looked to be covering something. That something rolled, then groaned softly.
It was Gerion Lannister, his eyes opening slowly, trying to fight the heavy drowsiness and piercing ache. He stared at the ceiling of his room made of dull wooden boards in the morning silence, his brain still spinning slowly searching for a sliver of spirit.
His head throbbed, hot, and also ached.
He shouldn't have drunk too much last night. He knew his body's limits, but a Lannister's ego sometimes clouded common sense. The effects were only felt now, as the sun rose, and he absolutely hated this.
Trying to get up, Gerion shoved the blanket aside roughly. He sat on the edge of the bed, wearing only thin trousers, and scratched the back of his slightly itchy neck. He stood up swaying slightly, took a clay jug on the small table beside the bed, poured water into a cup, then drank it in large gulps. The water was cold, and slowly chased away some of the remaining fog.
After feeling a bit more stable, he grabbed his shirt lying on the floor, put it on haphazardly, left the room, and walked down the narrow wooden stairs to the public latrine on the lower floor.
Midway down the stairs, he crossed paths with a fierce-faced Braavosi man hurrying up. Their shoulders touched roughly. The man growled, but Gerion just ignored him, too tired to start a brawl early in the morning.
In the urine-smelling public latrine, Gerion quickly unfastened his trousers. He closed his eyes while exhaling a long breath as he emptied his bladder. The uncomfortable feeling from holding his urine after drinking beer for so long finally faded, it felt very satisfying when he released it.
Finished with his business, Gerion scooped water from a wooden barrel and splashed it directly onto his face and tangled hair. The cold from the water truly woke him up now. He rubbed his face roughly, stared at his wet and slightly pale reflection in a puddle, then smirked. Still handsome, he thought narcissistically.
He walked out, down the hallway, and arrived at the inn's spacious, low-ceilinged common room. This was where guests usually gathered, ate, and gossiped.
Gerion took an empty table near the dead fireplace. Waving a hand at the innkeeper's boy wiping a table across the room, he signaled his order. He had been renting a room here for seven days, so the boy must have memorized by heart what he usually ordered for breakfast.
While waiting, Gerion stared outside. The inn's double doors were left wide open, displaying the damp streets of Braavos. The hustle and bustle of the outside world could be heard clearly. Braavos basically never truly went quiet or slept. This was a city where every fisherman, sailor, and merchant sought coin before sunrise, and sold tirelessly in the fish markets and water canals.
Someone stepped up, then walked approaching his table. It was his subordinate and distant cousin, Donnell Lannister. Donnell was a few years older than him, had darker blond hair and a much stiffer demeanor.
"You look very tired, Gerion." Donnell chuckled while pulling a chair and sitting across from him. "I heard from the guards that you accepted a drinking challenge from those people last night and drank like a thirsty pig?"
Gerion smiled thinly, leaning his back against the wooden wall.
"I couldn't let those fat merchants demean the Lannister name, could I?" dodged Gerion, defending himself. "When there's a challenge, especially one wagering gold and pride, I accept it. And look, I came out as the victor. They all fell under the table before midnight. And where were you last night? Why weren't you here to witness my glory?"
The man in front of him had indeed disappeared during the party. Gerion actually had several other Lannister guards who went with him; they were currently around the inn, keeping watch. But those guards were all boring and uninteresting to talk to about trivial things.
Gerion suddenly remembered his old friend. Prince Oberyn Martell had gone home a few years ago, returning to Oldtown to avoid suspicion. A pity. Gerion really enjoyed their adventures together in Essos.
"I have real work here. Something called responsibility," said Donnell with a slightly reprimanding tone. "The monthly report I must send to Ser Kevan needs to be summarized in a few days. So I ventured out since yesterday afternoon, visiting markets, ports, looking for the latest information, ship movements, and so on. I do not want to be labeled an incompetent envoy at work."
"Impressive, impressive. Very honorable and very boring," joked Gerion, tapping the table lightly. "But you didn't secretly visit one of the famous brothels while looking for 'information'?"
"I really wanted to, honestly," Donnell smirked mischievously. "However apparently I can control my lust very well lately, so the temptations of those Braavosi whores didn't affect me. My purse is thankful for that."
The innkeeper's boy approached their table. He placed a large wooden cup filled with thick frothy ale in front of Gerion.
Seeing that, Gerion's body instantly froze. His stomach suddenly churned. Damn. He did order ale as a starter drink every morning, but today, his stomach wasn't ready to receive the same poison.
He shook his head quickly, pushing the ale cup across the table, handing it to Donnell who accepted it happily.
Gerion turned to the innkeeper's boy who was about to turn around. "I want a cup of warm water instead."
The boy nodded in understanding and ran back to the kitchen.
Then Gerion turned to look at Donnell, trying to refocus. "So, let's talk seriously. Did you find anything interesting while digging for information at the port? Because the news had better be worth it. You missed a very lively party with annoying foreigners."
Donnell lowered his ale cup. He leaned forward, his voice lowering into a whisper.
"Of course it's worth it," said Donnell. "I heard these rumors from the mirror merchants. This news just arrived brought by a fast-sailing sea ship. Do you know that massive chaos is happening in Myr?"
"What kind of chaos?" Gerion frowned, his dizziness starting to be replaced by curiosity.
"Word says that several merchants were murdered in their own homes. Dead due to chaos caused by their slaves."
Gerion's eyes widened slightly. "How is that possible?"
Donnell shrugged. "Well, I don't know the exact details, information from the sea is always fragmented. But think about it, Gerion, how is it impossible? They have more slaves than the population of free men in the city itself. Maybe ten to one. I am sure in the past there must have been small ripples like this. But certainly, the time span since the last one has been too long, so the news happening now is causing a great uproar throughout the port."
Donnell sipped his ale again, then continued. "So, furthermore... now I hear to quell the riots, the mercenaries in Myr slaughtered back. Many slaves were captured, tortured, killed, and beheaded in the city square. Their heads spiked on spears along the streets. That's to make the remaining slaves more disciplined, they say."
Right as Donnell finished speaking, the inn boy returned. The young boy placed a wooden plate of food, two thick pieces of toast smeared with salted butter, and three soft-boiled eggs still emitting steam, complete with a cup of warm water.
Gerion stared at the food. The sight of the semi-liquid egg yolk now mixed with the image of severed heads in his mind. His gaze did not shift from the plate.
"You are quite skilled at choosing conversation topics to make someone lose their appetite, aren't you?" quipped Gerion.
"You yourself wanted the information." Donnell chuckled softly, feeling no guilt at all.
Gerion snorted softly. His hand reached for a small knife, his brain starting to connect invisible dots from the information.
Recalling again, he remembered a warning letter from his brother, Kevan, a few months ago. Kevan suggested that Gerion should not leave Braavos in these current times. Besides the ongoing trade war heating up between Westeros and the Free Cities, this might be the cause and effect of those things.
Now, Gerion was not truly directly involved with the ongoing intrigues. He knew that sending too many details only via sea ravens could be very dangerous; letters could be intercepted by spies. Besides, he was on another continent.
So, to find out more about his family's strategies, he usually waited for an envoy or ship captain from Lannisport to bring verbal messages.
The last time the envoy came, he received information that King Rhaegar and Tywin strongly assumed that merchants in Essos were the ones financing and causing massive riots in Westeros, especially in the Riverlands.
Cutting his toast to distract his mind, Gerion devoured the first piece. He tasted the salted butter melting on his tongue. He then cut a piece of egg and chewed it too. His stomach felt a little better.
Seeing Gerion had started eating, Donnell drank his ale again, then chuckled, trying to break the previously tense atmosphere.
"Anyway," said Donnell enthusiastically. "I went to a very good eatery near the eastern port district last night. The food there is incredibly delicious, you know? The owner of the place is apparently a merchant from Yi-Ti who settled here... so well, their faces and eye shapes are quite unique, their language is weird too. But the cooking... Gods, you must try it."
"I have eaten a whole grilled fish before, by a chef from Yi-Ti as well," Gerion nodded, his mouth half full of bread. "Indeed very delicious. Their spices are strong."
"Ah, you surely haven't tried this one dish, Gerion. This is a food I have never seen before in all of Westeros!" Donnell looked increasingly excited, his hands moving mimicking something. "Chewy, the shape is long like small ropes, served in a deep bowl, and very brothy! Very warm and delicious!"
"What is it?" said Gerion, swallowing his food. His culinary interest was instantly aroused. "Explain more specifically. Small ropes in a bowl don't sound appetizing if you explain it like that."
"They call it 'Mian'," answered Donnell. "It is made of fine wheat flour kneaded for hours, then cut or pulled by hand until it becomes very long and small, resembling thick thread. Then the dough is boiled in boiling water. Once cooked, they serve it in a bowl, then add very thick chicken or beef broth, thin slices of meat, sesame oil, and some spicy herbs that warm the body. Oh, truly, Gerion... you must try it yourself to understand."
Gerion tried to imagine it in his head. Mian... Mian... a very strange language on his tongue. But the shape and description, warm broth, meat, and long chewy dough, indeed made him very curious.
His dizziness was momentarily forgotten by a new hunger. Gerion smiled broadly, pushing aside the remaining bread on his plate.
"You have successfully convinced me, Donnell," said Gerion, tapping the table cheerfully. "You must take me to that place for dinner later. Of course, I'm paying."
...
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