Northman.
In the otherwise loud, lively tavern swirling with music and colour, one table in the corner, was strangely subdued.
It was with a leaden heart that Sawyer raised his cup, signalling his men to do the same. “To Lord Eddard Stark,” he intoned, not needing to raise his voice above the din in order to be heard. “Gods grant him peace.”
“And piss on the Lannisters,” Arneld growled, curling a bitter lip. “They say they always pay their debts. This one’ll be paid for in blood, mark me.”
A few grim ‘ayes’ chorused in agreement. Sawyer couldn’t fault them, and in fact shared the sentiment, but only nodded wordlessly. Grief was too close to allow room for anger just yet, but it would come soon enough. Ned Stark was more than than the Warden of the North. He was the North, as much as the cold and the Wall and the dire wolf that symbolized his House. This was a bitter blow, and he suspected this was a wound that would never fully heal. The North would always remember. It made him fiercely homesick, all at once, knowing that his people were mourning as one thousands of miles away, while he and his sellswords were languishing in this blasted Dornish heat, picking sand out of their ass cracks and drinking themselves stupid.
He finished the toast and drained his cup in a one fluid motion, setting it back down on the table with a dull thud. As he turned to signal the barmaid for another round – flush as they were from the last contract, only ended a few short days ago – he caught sight of the woman who had silently come up beside him with fierce intent in her eyes.
The abrupt nearness of her pulled the ex-noble up short. For a split second he thought she was a prostitute, like the few that had been draping themselves over his men since they first sat down, but there was nothing coy or seductive in her approach. He blinked at her with equal frankness, noting that, like him, she was no local. Her hair was black as any Dornishwoman’s, but her skin and eyes were pale as ice. There was something distinctly Northern about her, but in a place like Dorne, it was difficult to be certain.
“Something I can help you with?” he prompted, arching a questioning eyebrow.
She had two pair, and one of those was a high card, too. There was a very good chance she was going to win this hand, although she was working hard not to look too pleased with herself. Gambling was one of the best ways to practice negotiating, although it might not seem like it. The man across the table from her was a salty Dornishman with pleasant enough features, although at the moment he was very focused on trying to discern from her own whether it was worth a few more dragons. The brunette took a sip from her cup, setting it down on the table gently.
"You going to put your coin where your mouth is?“ She wasn’t going to be intimidated by a hard stare– not when she’d seen much scarier stares in more perilous a place than a Sunspear tavern. Grey met black for a short measure of time, but eventually the man looked away first. He threw down two more coins just as a voice from the other side of the room caught her attention. Had she imagined it, or did a man just mention Lord Eddard Stark?? Lyanna placed the cards face down, sitting up in her seat as she looked around to see if she couldn’t find who had spoken. There– a group of men isolated in the corner. There weren’t dressed like Dornishmen, and they seemed to be drinking a toast, a sad one.
The game was not nearly so important as the chance to learn word from the North. Anything, any detail, large or small, was precious to her. Any way to be close to Winterfell, however brief the feeling was. Lyanna was crossing the room before she’d even dismissed herself from the game. The men were speaking of always paying debts, of a debt payed in blood. Clearly a reference to the Lannisters, and a mention of blood did not bode well.
There was a sudden sickness roiling in her gut as she approached their table, standing there as though struck dumb until one of them addressed her directly. The sigil of House Grant, two rearing horses, was on his leathers, a house loyal to the Starks. Or at least, they were last she knew. "I apologize for the intrusion, I thought I overheard you mention Lord Stark. Is there news from the North?” Dread settled in the pit of her stomach.