The Hall of the Black Bastards

[sethgreyjoy]

Mortimer sat alone tonight. His table empty. He watched as his other men drank and diced and ate. Truth be told there were only twenty or thirty left, but they seemed not to mind. The only person bothered was the leader himself.

Mortimer scowled. He had not heard from Fryse yet. He knew he had doomed another friend to an unnecessary fate, let alone the two men he had sent with him. He looked across the room to Cub, the newest recruit to the Black Bastards, barely twelve and already cutting purses, soon, Mortimer new, someone would cut his throat. He was damning lives to be ended. What gave him the right to choose their fates for them?

He swilled his wine and thought hard, waiting for word of the mission.

[sethgreyjoy]

Fryse opened the door to Mortimer's 'solar' without knocking. Mortimer looked up, startled at first, but grinning when he saw who had payed him visit. The bard had seemed to be in the middle of a conversation with a youth about his age. Prolly another green recruit. Fryse thought.

Mortimer stood. "My dear Fryse, it's so good to see you alive!" He didn't see it coming. One blow was all it took to drop Mortimer back into his chair, a shocked expression painting his face. Fryse was impassive as always, and just held his fist out.

"Who's dead?" Mortimer asked, more seriously. He flicked his chin towards the door, and the youth near him stood and left.

"Tunak an' Gasher." Fryse said, his voice hoarse as always, but solemn. He unfurled a parcel he had had crooked under his arm, and two blades spilled out. Tunak's broadsword and Gasher's polearm.

"Poor Tunak." Mortimer said, lowering his head. "He was a good man. But it was just a matter of time before Gasher got what he deserved. But both of them were strong fighters, and we will be weaker without them."

"I wan' my money, an' I wanna leave the Bastards." Fryse said, unmoving.

Mortimer stood again. "No. You can have money, Fryse, but I need you here. You are a strong vein of this organization. Without you, people will believe us to be doomed. Your face alone-"

"Fuck my face an' fuck you!" Fryse yelled, an awkward sound. "I'm tired of this! You think you can control me, or keep the others in line 'cuz o' what I look like?!" Fryse kicked Mortimer's table over in a rage.

"Fryse..." Mortimer started.

"WHAT?!" Fryse yelled, glaring at him.

"Calm the fuck down!" Mortimer stood and strode over to him. "You hit me again and I will break your arms, do you have it?" Mortimer gave him a look of ice. "I will not tolerate this. Yes I know I sent you on a mission that could have been death, I have felt guiltier than you know. Guilty for my own cowardice, guilt for thinking that it was perhaps a trap."

Fryse punched the wall. "You KNEW it could have bin a trap, yet you sen' me anyways?! What fuckin' sense do that make?" He pointed a finger at Mortimer. "I want a hundred drag'ns or I walk my white ass to some other ganglord. Or per'aps the fuckin' Goldcloaks, to tell them where yer damn' hideyho is!"

Mortimer looked at the mess Fryse was causing, and the obvious noise that would travel to the men. He sighed.

"I don't have a hundred dragons, Fryse. I don't even have a hundred silver right now, and you know it. Don't ask impossible things of me."

Fryse glared. "Like you askin' impossible things of me. Or was that fuckin' expedition just a hike? You fuckin' coward, I want my pay." With that he opened the door. "Marq! Geral! Git in here!"

After a moment, two men entered the room, one with a sling bearing his right arm.

"These are yer new Coin Counter and Punisher." Fryse scowled. "I'll be in my room. I need teh cool down." He slammed the door as he left, leaving Mortimer standing awkwardly with the two men.

Before either of them could speak, Mortimer bolted to the door and threw it open.

"Fine, Fryse. How about this? We'll fight, outside, in the street. Winner gets the fucking rites to the Black Bastards! Then you can run it how you want, and take all your damn gold!"

Fryse turned. "Now?" He asked calmly.

Mortimer smiled. "What better time?"

"Weapons?"

"No. Bare fists. We will settle this without death."

With that, the two men exited the building, out into the night street, their train of Bastards behind them.