[125/2] Braavos, bravos and bravado

[Ser Fendrel Bartheld]

Never before had Fendrel felt so determined. Focused. Alive even. His venture into the rocky archipelago of the Stepstones, the Rogue Prince's fallen kingdom, now completely in disarray, at the mercy of the various pirate, outlaw or mercenary factions vying for control, proved... enlightening. His resentment and long-carried and long-hidden burden having left him, Fendrel was free to think - think clearly for once. He recalled the words he had heard from Eldaario, one of the elder but still as sharp as ever, water dancers -- that if he was not seeing, not listening, not feeling properly, he would lose no matter his strength, his quickness or his cunning. That was the moment when he came to realise that his past, even the horrible memories of his time in the Stepstones, his brothers' deaths that still plagued him sometimes at night, was in the past -- these were memories, dreams of times long since gone. They were not real -- they were only phantoms coming to haunt him and if he wanted to perceive the reality as it truly was, he had to put them to rest.

And so he did.

The key to defeating the past was in the present -- and so he traveled to the Stepstones and, once again, looked at the vast archipelago of islands, rocks and mountains. He walked the paths that he took when he was just a boy, he touched the soil that absorbed his brothers' lifeblood, he breathed the air that still echoed their screams, he even crossed swords with the pirates who now occupied the very place where he fought. He put his ghosts to rest. He put Davain's father to rest, he put Edmund's father to rest -- and realised, looking at the beautiful horizon, taking in the majesty of the whole of the islands, what Daemon must have felt when he came here as as a descendant of a true conqueror. The ambition. They were not so unlike as he first thought... There was a craving, a desire, an ambition inside of him as well.

And an unbridled focus in whatever he was doing. Clarity of vision and senses that came with that realization.

If anyone had told him that he would be spending his evening in the Free Cities, by the Moon Pool of Braavos, observing and sparring with highly skilled but obsessively full of themselves bravos, he would have just smiled, in his usual smug way, and take them for an idiot. Him - a mercenary sellsword fighting for coin, prestige and to develop one's fighting prowess? Unlikely.

But not impossible.

He looked at his opponent. He was barely a man and Fendrel was sure he hadn't seen any real fights or battle in his time in this life. His was a skill honed on these duels, his was a gambler's confidence -- feeding on the good luck that came out of taking risks, fueling that desire to spar and win even more so, not accepting even the thought of defeat. Fendrel respected and pitied the youth in equal measure. At least, he knew how important it was to keep and not to lose a face -- even to the point where one smiled in the face of the Stranger, or whatever other god they tended to put their trust in Braavos. He grinned when he realised that would be the Many-faced God of the Faceless Men. Now, these fellas also understood that importance, and their god as well. Maybe Fendrel should pay him homage tomorrow. If he was still alive.

While Fendrel was still facing his opponent, his fencing blade raised ready to parry an incoming attack, his eyes quickly scanned the gathering crowds. The poor gathered to watch the only free entertainment they could find. Some merchants came in seeking new swords for hire. A couple of foreigners observed the water dancing rituals. Even one of the rich and influential had his eyes fixed on the duel. After all, it was not common for a Westerosi knight to challenge a crowd-favourite bravosi.

Fendrel grinned. He just liked to impress. "
Sure you don't want to back down, boy?"
Fendrel's tone was friendly and charming as ever, even now, on the brink of a battle. "
I'm asking out of friendly concern -- it might spare you humiliation."
The smallfolk couldn't help but be attracted to the newcomer's aura of lordly confidence and personal charm. He had already won them over a few times with his previous fights. This would be no different. "
And possibly also save your life."
He ended with a smirk but his opponent was neither charmed, nor was he intimidated. Or if he did, he masked it well.

"
I have faced water dancers before, Westerosi. You're just a man."


"
And you're just a boy playing at war."
Retorted Fendrel with a smile -- and a challenge.

"
I'll show you how much I care about your wars, Westerosi."
The bravo attacked quickly and mercilessly, proving, at least, that he was not all just talk. But he would need much more than that to hit a seasoned knight like Ser Fendrel Bartheld. His attacks were fast but Eldaario was right. He would lose no matte his strength, his quickness or his cunning for he was too blinded by his own arrogance to pick up on Fendrel's deception. Relying on his superior acting skills, Fendrel kept his head high and made the parrying and defending look almost effortless on his part. As if nothing could get to him -- least of all the fact that his opponent was trying to bleed him dry. it only made him look even more foolish for trying. Fendrel's defensive maneouvers were slowly impressing everyone in the crowd -- and the fencer was starting to lose his composure and temper. He grew red in the face as both anger and tiredness claimed their toll.

One moment.

One moment was all it took Fendrel to distract him with a feint and puncture his lung. He heard a deep sigh go out of him as the bravado left him forever.

"
Bravo."
A merchant prince, hidden in the audience, clasped his hands, "
I think we might have some business to discuss, Westerosi..."


[OOC: Rolls made in the private forum.]