NOVEL NEXT Chapter 7: Chapter 7: Young Dragon?
I continued listening to the chorus of nature when the door opened and Septa Lemore stepped outside in her grey woollen garbs.
She grinned at me, saying, "Good morning, Griff," as I lounged on a collection of crates I'd formed into a makeshift chair.
It was customary for the older woman to take a bath in the river every morning before the rest woke.
Originally she had been surprised when I first sat on deck reading a book by the candlelight.
Aegon had never been a morning person and usually slept in. I was the opposite in that I woke up before everyone else.
That day it also came to a shock to me when she stripped before climbing into the river. Since then, I have made an effort to avoid looking.
Being the quintessential British gentleman that I was, it felt improper.
We still talked though.
Away from the ears of Jon Connington, I learned more about her. She wasn't Ashara Dayne, I learned that much.
Instead, she was a simple septa from Dorne who'd been thrown out the motherhouse when she was seduced by a travelling bard. She had been a septa since she was a young girl, taken in as a novice when she was six.
The matron found out she'd lost her maidenhood and thus her purity. She was then expelled.
A soiled septa was seen as wrong and corrupted and after a few weeks of harsh living, was taken in to teach me the mysteries of the faith. A part of me doubted she was telling me the whole story, but I didn't press any deeper.
Averting my eyes as the septa's robes pooled to the floor, Lemore climbed down the side of the boat. I flicked the page and she spoke up, her voice broken apart by the splashing of water.
"May I ask what this book is about? Reading more about Westeros or is that the Seven-Pointed-Star I gave you to look at."
"Westeros, I'm afraid, lady septa," I chuckled. It would be wise to come up with a printing press and allow information to spread quickly.
But like many things, I knew what they were, I just didn't know how to make them. I was sure I could figure it out, but until then I had to make do. "I'm looking at Daeron the Young Dragon."
"Him," the words came out almost as a growl.
"You don't approve?"
The Dornish septa splashed in the river. "He attacked my people, let his army loot and rape yet is heralded as a hero despite his many atrocities. The Young Dragon is loved by the smallfolk north the Red Mountains. Loved even more by the lords."
"But yours don't, I'm guessing. That is the way of war," I said softly. I would put it down to the lack of discipline in feudal armies, but raping and looting the population was usually encouraged by commanders to reward their men and spread terror to the population.
One story I heard was a besieging army raping women before the walls of a city, goading the defenders to leave their fortifications.
Maybe it was due to lack of acknowledgement on specific events, but Earth was brutal compared to Westeros.
"Aye. Ten thousand men he lost fighting the Dornish armies, and fifty thousand he lost trying to hold it. It seemed the Targaryens never realised dragons die in the deserts of Dorne."
I chuckled. Maybe I was biased, but I'd always been impressed with the stubbornness and independent mind-set of the Dornish.
Even when faced with overwhelming odds they refused to submit.
'Unbowed, unbent, unbroken indeed.' A part of me actually hoped I was Elia's son just so I wouldn't have to fight through a scorching desert.
It would also give me a kingdom that would fight for me should I prove myself. "I'm just reading that part. Thank you for spoiling it."
The septa laughed at that and continued to bathe. From then on, it was mostly silence but occasionally it was broken up with small chatter about one thing or another.
The Rhoynish couple of Yandry and Ysilla arose shortly after septa Lemore did. Both were lithe with dark-olive skin and dark hair that was tied back.
For clothes they wore baggy linen stained with sweat from working long days in the heat. They went about their business, getting the Shy Maid ready for continuing its journey northward.
Yandry was a tall man, with gaunt features, a heavy hook nose and broad shoulders. He checked and pulled the lines while his shorter, old wife fed some wood to the brazier, stirring the coals and preparing breakfast.
"Got any more stories of the Rhoyne?" I asked, putting on a devilish smile.
I learned that both Yandry and Ysilla were solely doing it as a job. They weren't doing it for reasons like Old Griff or Haldon or Illyrio.
Simple coin to transport the gang from one part of the Rhoyne to another. Both came from Dorne, orphans of the Greenblood who never forgot their Rhoynish heritage and came to Essos to get closer to Mother Rhoyne.
It was something they loved to brag about, claiming it was the greatest river in the world and that it had no peer. I had never seen any other river in this world so I took their word for it.
The Shy Maid was a small transport boat transporting goods around the various towns and cities of the Rhoyne. Despite their passengers, they continued that business.
This time, they were transporting Volantene spices and sweat beets and even sweeter wine. They were also in the employ of Illyrio which wasn't surprising.
"Depends," was the old woman's response, her accent thick and almost unintelligible. "Have you heard of the water wizards or the tales of the Rhoynar princes riding on the backs of turtles?"
"No I haven't," I said, sitting up with interest. "Please enlighten me."
The older woman chuckled and began to explain away the time before the Rhoyne was conquered by the ancient Valyrians, where the various principalities constantly fought against each other over trade.