King's Landing
98 AC (Ninth Moon—Day 16)
Tobyn I
Tobyn was a right muttonhead, luck so sour it would curdle milk. Come from a piss-poor patch of dirt west of the Vale, scrabbling under them fancy Templeton lot. Lad of six and ten winters, he up and scarpered, dreaming of big doings in Gulltown.
Big old train of traders and ragtag folk come tramping through, and he flogged two of his folk's five goats quick-like. Got ten stags for them—bloody robbery, he knew now that he could tally past his thumbs.
When he got there, he was a filthy beggar, coin all gone to dice and some farmer lass who'd spread her legs for any sod with a couple coppers. Running home to the village'd mean his old man'd have his nuts for such daft buggery. So he mucked about Gulltown's streets for moons, till he landed a gig scraping decks. Clever trick, that—scraping free for whoever'd pay.
That work put a few silvers in his pocket—whatever he didn't piss away on whores or lose chucking dice.
After a year and a thrashing from some peddler—on account of Tobyn bedding the man's daughter—he set off for King's Landing, dead sure he'd strike it rich there.
Paid his way with a dozen coppers and a dull sword he'd nabbed from a drunken blackguard. He bashed the hilt something fierce, mind, so it wouldn't look a lick like them half-arsed blades Lord Grafton handed his bent guards.
It was half a moon's sail from the Vale to the king's city, but it dragged like a damn year. The captain and his lads worked him like a whipped dog, tossed him scraps to eat, and he'd shake till dawn under the skimpiest rag of linen to keep the chill off. Proper bastards, that crew, and Tobyn couldn't do a thing to stop them.
He was glad as hell when he finally hit King's Landing—place stank like a cheap whore's cunt. He'd been dead sure them sailors were fixing to sell him off to some slaving scum in Essos.
He scarpered fast—before them sails were even roped down good.
Took a sennight for him to turn beggar again, but things weren't so bad in King's Landing, shit stink and all. The twin royals liked chucking grub to them sorry lot, and dangled jobs for extra bites. Plenty of folk spat on them offers, but Tobyn was missing one shoe, his rags barely clung on, and he was one gust from keeling over.
The prince had seen them himself, Maelys Targaryen, he'd learned later. First time he clapped eyes on a noble up close, never mind one who looked like he'd strolled out a lass's daft dream. The royal had his lads count them proper, herded them to some fresh corner of the city, and handed out real rooms to crash in and decent rags to cover their bones.
Six moons they stuck there, learning to scribble, read, and tally numbers. They showed how to slap together stuff with some cursed stone, shape wood, hammer metal—a bit of it, anyhow—and fix damn near everything. It was pure hell, and the pay was a bloody insult, one silver and eighteen coppers a sennight—daylight thievery, that.
Still, no sod had the guts to thumb his nose at the prince—plus the grub was decent and the rags came free. Took Tobyn a spell to figure it proper, that the coin they got wasn't what kept them breathing.
After them moons, he got two paths laid out: shove off and hunt work elsewhere—he knew his sums and could work wood slick—or take a job under the prince. Pay'd still be dogshit, but the perks'd be fatter.
Tobyn would've grabbed the first choice, scratched it out in the city with them fresh tricks he'd learned—tucked under his new belt, not that rope he'd nicked off the fishmonger. But then he crunched the sums and had a yap with his mate Corren.
"It's a right rotten scheme, Tob. Them crafty bastards'd cheat you blind on proper coin, and if you did land a fat purse, the innkeepers, whores, tailors, and merchants'd bleed you dry with their damn prices," the older lad laid out. "And the prince's lot'll snatch back your gear—you'd be stuck with them piss-stinking rags again."
"I knew that half-arsed, maiden-faced prick of a prince was up to some filthy game—he grins too bloody wide for it to be honest," Tobyn roared, only half meaning it.
Corren whacked him square on the noggin with a wooden mug. "Watch your gob, you thick-headed fool. You'd get your guts sliced open if one of them Essos dogs heard you slag off the prince—more loyalty than brains in that lot."
Tobyn knew them sorts, so he shut his trap. Him and Corren guzzled ale till he pissed his breeches—damn fine brew here in the king's city.
When the time came, he picked to stay, and his mate did too. He got lumped with builder work—messing with that quick stone—though he tinkered with wood on the side for a few extra coppers.
Corren turned guardsman, keeping watch over the prince's piles—stores, caravans, farms, orchards, vineyards, distilleries, and them "factories". But Corren was fast to moan it was just a heap of standing about.
Tobyn wished his job was that easy, but it was all sweat and grief. Always something to slap together, and the prince's crew were picky as hell—nothing ever went astray.
Still, it wasn't all graft. They got breaks, twice in a sennight they'd flop about in them new inns the prince fixed up near the Street of Silk—right by them pricey whores. Good fun, that. He'd duck in once a moon, splash out some of that heavy coin he had sitting about.
It rolled on like that for two years—nabbed himself a decent lass in that stretch, some girl from Rosby who'd bolted her uncle's bed after the Stranger snatched her folks. She was headed for the brothels, set to flog her maidenhead for a plump sack of coin.
Princess Gael snagged her first, handed her a softer gig in the kitchens.
For that kind turn, Tobyn swore off choking his cock to the thought of the princess's fat tits bouncing around.
Then the twins' wedding rolled in, and his rotten luck stuck its ugly mug up again. Nobles swarmed the big to-do, most hailing from his old stomping grounds 'cause Prince Maelys torched some mountain rabble during the paramount's scrap with the true bastards. Smashed one of them big clans flat, he'd heard, though Tobyn reckoned Templeton would've dragged him into the muck if he'd been around for that whole bloody mess.
Aye, the Warrior must've been humping the Maiden while his mam was shitting him out, 'cause Tobyn hadn't a scrap of fighting knack in his bones. Them mountain folk would've slit him open fast as spit.
One of them highborn guests was a Templeton, from the lesser kin squatting near his old stomping ground. He clocked them when they trundled in, hauling a swarm of smallfolk and peddlers. Mixed in there was his uncle—the cuckolded old prick—with his "daughter" and lad in tow.
Anthon nabbed him fast—that sharp-eyed bastard. Had him slammed up against an alley wall in a couple breaths, his old man hulking close behind.
"You little thieving shit of a whore, where are they? Where's my fucking goats?!" Uncle Jorren bellowed, red-faced. "Your craven father reckoned some mountain scum snatched you, but I wasn't fooled. Them wild folk would've slit you open and took all my goats. I know you flogged 'em, you proper cunt."
Tobyn had been damn near shitting himself with fear, but he still tried to wriggle free of his lunatic cousin's blade. "Th—they're gone, uncle, but I'll—"
A hot sting cracked across his cheek, eyes all blurry and wobbling.
"Wrong words, you gutless mutt," Anthon cackled sour. "We're hauling your sorry arse to Lord Jorah's tent, spilling the whole tale—how you and your twat of a father cooked up a plan to flog the village's goats and scarper with the coin."
The scheme was bloody stupid, but when he flicked a glance at his uncle, he caught him eyeballing Jenna, and Tobyn twigged the sly game afoot. Jorren was fixing to whore the girl to Lord Jorah so the half-baked story'd hold water.
He got thumped again, and that bash scattered his brains.
When he blinked awake, he was dumped in one of them rooms for folk all battered or sick as dogs. He'd landed here once before, after a mad tussle in a tavern. Corren loomed big over him, brows scrunched tight, lips drooping sour.
"I saw you getting lugged off by two sods what looked damn near your kin. I nabbed 'em and yelled for Captain Lem," his mate growled. "It's a proper shit-storm now—something 'bout nicking goats and all that muck. They hauled in the maesters, the overseers, the whole bloody crew—it's a right tangle out there, Tob. Why'd you have to cock it up this bad?"
He damn near croaked right there, so he spewed it all to his mate. All the thieving—goats and that sword—and the near endless string of bastards he reckoned he'd planted in them sad whores down Flea Bottom. Corren smashed a fist into his left eye for that.
"You ain't got no bastards, thank the Seven, but you might get shunned for all this shit," his mate snapped. A pouch of coin landed in his lap. "If it all goes rotten, take this and build a life with that lass of yours—stay straight, do good. No more whoring and boozing till you're pissing your breeches."
When the day followed, Tobyn got hauled in, plonked down before his overseer Gorm, some fancy folk, his snarling uncle Jorren, and Lord Jorah's helper, Ser Pate. Jorren raged about the goats, waving a crumpled tally, and Tobyn owned it—aye, he'd nicked 'em and sold 'em off. The sword he'd pinched from that drunk guard came up too, no dodging that.
One of the fancy folk squinted, then laid it out flat. "You're one of the first of the prince's man, Tobyn—goat-thief or not. You'll cough up seven gold dragons to your kin, slow-like, and three years' tax coin to Lord Templeton. That stolen blade? You're buying a dozen proper ones for Lord Grafton—call it sorry. Keep your nose clean, or next time you're proper fucked."
Jorren grumbled but took the deal. Gorm just glared, and the fancy lot shuffled off. Tobyn's arse stayed unwhipped, but his purse'd be bleeding for years.
Eyla whacked him hard, left his cheek blazing when she heard the mess, but she dug out some coin she'd stashed so his debt wouldn't eat his work pay. He was wedding the lass. They got to yapping about his kin, and he spilled it straight. Aye, he was a right bastard, but his family weren't no saints neither.
His old man was a boozy wreck, rutting his brother's wife three times a moon—Jenna was his half-sister, Tobyn knew it plain. Didn't mean he cared a lick for her. His brothers were mostly arseholes, and his mam up and died pushing him out. Uncle was a cuckolded shit, and his cousin Anthon scared the piss out of him.
He copped another smack from Eyla for not aiding Jenna—he weren't no bloody knight, damn it all. Still dug out some silver for the girl, and Eyla sorted her some decent work in the city. Tobyn reckoned their lots weren't much different.
The twins' wedding went off, big tourney and all. He chucked some coin on bets, came up fat, but shoveled most of it to Corren—his mate had a babe on the way. Time dragged on, and Tobyn stayed straight, wedded Eyla after a year and rutted her proper since he'd quit the whores.
Two years slid by, easy-like. Tobyn tagged along with the work crew a few times—tramped to the Riverlands to slap up dams and sawmills, even hauled arse to Braavos for half a year.
Start of the year, Eyla pushed out a boy, all squirmy and loud. After that, he took to whittling little warrior figures, small enough to fit in his palm.
Corren clocked them carvings, yapped with some trader mates he knew, and they hashed a deal. Soon Tobyn was pulling in more coin from flogging them than he ever did slapping stone for the builders.
"I'm mulling over ditching this stinking city, heading to some quiet village to set up proper—I've got the purse for it, reckon," he told his mate.
Corren weren't roaming much no more, stuck close to the city now, raking in fat stacks of coin—called it a step up. Him and that Lyseni woman of his even started hitting them posh eateries, all gleaming and new, cropping up this past year.
"Stick around a bit longer, Tob. Least another year or so. Word's floating round the workhouses that the prince is gearing up for some big job," Corren said, leaning in. "You're a seasoned hand—bound to get a leg up. Plus, Eyla's been stitching them fancy rags that's all the rage, pulling in decent coin from what I hear. You reckon she'd chuck that to break her back in some nowhere hamlet?"
Tobyn scratched his beard, mug of ale half-drunk in his fist. Corren weren't wrong—Eyla'd been sewing them frilly bits for the city folk, her fingers flying faster than a thief in a market.
Coin was trickling in steady, more than his whittling brought most days. And the prince's big job? That perked his ears. He'd slogged long enough under them overseers—maybe a step up meant less sweat and more purse.
"Alright, you bastard," Tobyn grunted, sloshing his ale. "I'll hang about, see what the priced royal is cooking. But if it's more bloody dams or some fool tower, I'm off—village or not."
"Good man," Corren whooped. "Now let's go fishing off them docks, maybe nab a couple silvers for some plump hauls."
"Aye!"
They didn't get far—took a left down the lane and ducked into that posh no-rutting whorehouse where big-chested lasses pranced about in next-to-nothing scraps.
He dropped a silver stag on one of them dames, and his woman clouted him a few good ones for it.
A sennight later, the big word dropped—Prince Maelys got handed lands up Massey's arm. The city went wild, hollering and stomping loud enough to wake the dead. Eyla was all smiles too. Then there was talk of some other prince—Tobyn didn't know a damn thing about him—fixing up the sewers, making 'em new.
He got the leg-up he'd been itching for.
"The job's thin on lads who can handle quick stone and stack bricks proper," Gorm said straight, belly wobbling fatter and his grin wider than years past.
"You've been kicking round nigh on five years, Tobyn, and the only reason you ain't got a fat purse or a higher spot is that goat-shit mess three years back—you'd be missing a hand if His Grace hadn't stepped in. So, what's it gonna be? You taking the gig to whip new hands into shape on this sewer muck? Five gold coins a moon in it for you."
Aye, that was a plump deal, and he damn near jumped at it like a starving dog. But good sense yanked him back—he weren't no green lad no more, one-and-twenty now.
"What's the play when the sewers are done?" he asked Gorm, wary.
"Another job'll pop up, like as not," Gorm said, brow creasing. "Ain't got the full tale—Prince Maelys is shifting most builders to his new lands. Might leave a crew here, like in Riverrun. But you'll be under Prince Viserys's thumb—he could drag a heap of you to Dragonstone once this mess is wrapped."
Piss on that, Tobyn thought. He weren't slaving for some nobody prince who'd likely work him like a two-copper whore. Only that sister-rutting prince did things right, and he'd be damned if he'd break his back for any other bastard.
He laid it so for Gorm, but with sweeter talk than he felt. The fat man grunted, stamped some parchment, and shoved it at him. "Show this when the ships roll in," Gorm said, waving him off. Tobyn didn't get it, scratching his head, but when he trudged home and flashed the vellum at Eyla, she set him straight.
Turns out the blessed royals were picking decent folk from the city to settle proper in their new lands. It was a tight squeeze—half the city was scrambling to buy their way onto them ships. The shouters were swearing up and down about solid roofs, steady work, heaps of grub, fine rags, and all them fat perks puffed up even bigger.
Eyla'd been clawing for them permits, thought that soft princess had let her slip through the cracks. But there it was, scrawled plain—her name and little Brynden's, hitched to his pass.
That earned him a proper fucking, his hips waking up like they'd taken a rock to 'em—he was half-certain he'd planted another babe in his wife. Best damn decision he ever made, tying the knot with the lass.
———-
"It's a bloody shame how they're prodding us to get stuff done so quick, I'm telling you."
Turned out Corren was slogging off too, and he weren't happy about handing over half his gear to the charity shed 'cause the ships had a baggage cap. He even tried tossing thirty stags for extra space, but they just laughed him off.
Tobyn didn't mind much—he was only ditching his oldest junk. "Why you even leaving, Ren? Weren't you the one guarding them snotty masters from nosy bastards? Heard the gold cloaks whipped some dirty spies a few sennights back."
"Maesters, you daft cunt, and I'm done with the guarding racket."
"Why, though? You were hauling in sacks of coin for sitting on your arse—that's work to envy right there." The Seven knew Tobyn'd jump at that chance fast as a flea if it came his way.
"Nessari follows them twins, and she's fixing to start a cooking crew once the settlement quiets down—got a whole scheme brewing." They swung round a corner, mixing in with a mob of folk trudging to the spots where they'd grab coin for the stuff they were dumping.
Tobyn even spied some chaps lugging fancy bits, flogging them to the crafty merchants who'd plonked themselves along the pathsides.
"What about you, huh? You just gonna squat there, letting your lass rake in the family coin like some gutless slaver?" Tobyn jabbed.
"Piss off, Tob, I ain't gotta bust my arse shoveling horse dung just to feel like a real man," Corren shot back, laughing, though he simmered down fast. "Had a chinwag with some copper-counters and hashed out a solid deal—tacked you on it too. We'd chuck some of the coin we've stashed over the years into backing new trades. When they start turning a profit, we get a cut. The prince's lads'll sort the proper papers for us."
"Sounds like a daft bloody plan, that does. Ain't got no coin to piss away on some crack-brained fool playing merchant," Tobyn growled. They hit the building and queued up.
"You've got heaps of it shoved under that bed of yours, you thick-headed git," Corren fired back. "What you gonna do with it all, huh? Buy more wine?"
He'd been fleeced proper a few moons ago, trying to snag some high-end wine off Flea Bottom scum who swore they knew the smugglers hauling out to the red castle.
"Well, I'd need to chew it over with Eyla first—count up the numbers so we don't end up poor as beggars where we're headed, before tossing all this coin about," Tobyn muttered. He weren't near as flush with coin as his mate, and he was dead sure his woman'd snip his balls clean off if he handed over their whole stash without a word to her first.
The line shuffled fast, and by day's peak, he'd a pouch jingling—three golds and fifteen silvers. The prince's swords and them gold cloaks watched over 'em tight and proper, so none of them went missing to some foul folk.
They got a break from stacking bricks, a good rest before this big move they was all on about—what them bookish types called a "migration". The sewer job kicked off, and it dragged half them slum rats along with it. They set to clawing up the dirt—heard them smithy lads were bashing out fresh picks and shovels by the heap.
Tobyn went to gawk at them sorry sods two days before he legged it from the reeking city. The holes they'd dug were proper big, like corridors. He got nabbed by one of his old workmates who'd picked to hang back and muck in with the job here—a handful of them builder lads stayed put.
"They've got it locked down tight here, eh, Mord?" Tobyn asked the sour-faced bugger from the Saltpans. "I seen some cloaks prowling 'round them skinny iron rods and them quick-stone sheds."
"It's decent guarding—I had to smash some thieving arse's teeth in yesterday when he tried scampering off with a shovel," Mord grunted.
They stood by them sweating bastards working away, close to one of them backed inns. A quick shit-chucking pit was getting dug—word was, a gang of shit-shovelers'd haul the filth off somewhere it wouldn't gag folks.
"What about them plans then?" He prodded.
"Tobyn, you know I can't spill nothing important to you."
"I was on about time and coin, you tight-fisted bastard," Tobyn growled, faking a huff. "Plus all that fancy schematics rot's clear as day to me—it's like slapping together them dams, near enough."
The bastard caved and spilled the rundown—said it'd take a year, maybe half more if things went rotten and folk started cheating once the prince cleared out. He pulled in the same coin they swore him, but the Saltpans git loved chucking dice, bedding whores, and guzzling ale, so he never had a copper to his name.
It was half the reason the bald bastard was sticking 'round the king's city. That Princess Gael was a pious type, wouldn't let no proper whorehouses crop up in Havenhall, most like.
Then they got to jawing about the sewers for real. There'd be big tunnels, little tunnels, and some wide pits out by the city's rim where all the shit'd pile up.
Mord even let slip that them maester types were scooping up the muck and messing with it somehow. Them learned sods were a pitiful bunch, Tobyn reckoned.
"Think they'll have them same sewers in them new lands?" He asked.
"Better ones, I'd wager," Mord said. "It's the prince what cooked up all them clever sewer plans—any sod with half a head knows it." Tobyn didn't know that, but he weren't about to admit it. "You recall Marsea—that eating spot we worked on a few moons back?"
He gave a nod.
"It's all fixed up proper now—porcelain tiles, marble and wood walls, clear glass windows, leather-wrapped chairs—looks like a bloody dream hole…"
The midday meal got hollered, and them cooks rolled in with wagons packed tight with heaps of grub. Tobyn hung about a bit, eyeing how the work went under this new prince. The slum rats fell into lines, some cloaks lurking 'round to make sure no ruckus kicked off.
They scrubbed their hands in soapy water, snatched up plates, and got served by women he ain't seen before. Mord ate alongside him—no fancy treatment for the overseer. Tobyn shoveled it down too, reckoning the food decent enough. He didn't go back for more, though.
The work kicked back in fast after, and them servers cleared off.
"You do a full day's graft, eh?" Tobyn remarked. "Do you get to eat then too?"
"Some bread and a mug of ale—it ain't the fancy spread the good prince lays out, Tobyn, but I ain't griping much," Mord told. "The coin's heaps better than what them stuck-up knights pull in, and Prince Maelys' favour ain't dried up yet, so I might be pocketing more than some poncy lordlings."
Horse shit, the end-of-day grub was the real prize—Tobyn had a whole wooden box he'd knocked together to haul some back for Eyla to share. This work having no fancy extras was horse piss.
He split off from Mord, swung by a sweetshop to nab some candies for his lass—blew a stag on some chocolate—then trudged home.
Come morn, a mess of ships with them seahorse flags pulled into the harbour.