Prince Erich Durrandon

Lys

“They call her the ‘Perfumed Sister’,” Ser Cortnay Massey explained as the Tempest sailed closer to her tall walls. Spearmen could be seen peering toward them, hands cupped to their eyes to block the reflection of the sun off the water. “We will no doubt be welcomed at the docks.”

“No doubt,” Prince Erich said under his breath as he watched one spearman run along the wall, off to inform a superior of the oncoming Westerosi ship. The bustled with activity, as many dozens of trading cogs made port and unloaded their goods. Men shouted in more dialects of more languages than Prince Erich could count-- there were the ebon-skinned Summer Islanders, the Ghiscari of Slaver’s Bay, Pentoshi and Braavosi and all manner of men from the Free Cities. All of them shouted at once, calling about this and that.

Sailing a warship like the Tempest presented a problem as they had to hold until a wider berth opened-- so it was that the wait delayed their arrival for some time.

When at last they rowed carefully into their dock and the ties were tossed over to Lyseni dockworkers, the Stormlanders disembarked their warship. Prince Erich’s guard lead the way, forming up on either end of the dock and standing at attention, drawing odd looks from the dockworkers.

That is, until they were dispersed by the coming of another contingent of guardsmen-- men wearing the many-colored uniforms of Lyseni soldiers, carrying spears and shields. Behind them strode two silver-haired men, dressed in splendid fabrics. Their perfume could be smelled even at ten paces, but Prince Erich did not break his stride.

The Lyseni men bowed low. The taller of them spoke, his Lysene accent melodic and pleasant. “The Magisters of Lys bid our royal friend of House Durrandon welcome to our city.”

“I thank you,” Prince Erich responded, bowing his head politely. “I am Prince Erich of the House Durrandon, and I thank you for your hospitality. Lys is legendary through all the Stormlands for its wealth and beauty.”

“If I may be so bold,” the second, shorter man asked, “What business is it that draws Prince Erich of the House Durrandon to grace our shores?”

“Trade,” the Prince responded. “I negotiate on behalf of my royal brother, King Durran, Thirtieth of His Name, and all the Kingdom of the Storm besides.”

The shorter man’s eyes flashed at the prospect-- doubtless he thought exactly what Prince Erich had hoped, that trade with Kingdoms could be a wealthy business indeed. “I should hope that many of the Magisters would be interested in hearing your proposals, Prince Durrandon.”

As should I, Erich thought. “I thank you again for your warm greetings.”

Again the two Lyseni men bowed, and they and their guards departed along the busy streets. Prince Erich turned, speaking to the captain of the guard. “Ten men with me, the others on the ship. Send a squire up to find us accommodations. I must needs find the Nahohr manse and speak with Magister Stallario.”

Lysene streets were crowded things, though most of the people were eager enough to step aside from a column of armored knights. They passed many interesting sights-- at one street corner they saw a red priest proselytizing, beckoning to a orange-hued temple across the way. Braziers stood stacked high with wood and coal, prepared by acolytes to burn through the night.

That was something one seldom saw in the Stormlands, Durran would not suffer it to pass. There were some in the Reach and the Vale who named him a heathen, but were he to allow the fire god to be worshipped… the whole realm would name him a heathen.

Erich passed them by in silence, aware of the eyes drawn from the priest and to the passing ranks of Westerosi.

The Nahohr Manse was as auspicious as one might expect of a Magister of Lys. White stone walls surrounded a towering home, visible even beneath the walls. Beyond the gates one could see a verdant garden attended to by many slaves. Without stood two guardsmen, each holding a spear and with an arming sword at their belt.

“What is your business with the House of Nahohr?” the first guard asked, holding out a hand.

Erich drew himself up to his full height, clearing his throat. “I am Prince Erich of the House Durrandon of Storm’s End. I seek to negotiate on the behalf of my royal brother, King Durran the Thirtieth, with Magister Stallario.”

The guards exchanged a look, and the first looked up at the black-and-gold banners flying overhead. “Wait just a moment, please.”

A third guard, thus far unseen, stepped out of what must have been a guardhouse built into the walls and quick-stepped through the garden and to the manse proper. Several minutes of relative silence-- nothing ever truly beat out the sounds of a living city-- passed before the third guard returned, hand on the pommel of his sword, and waved to the first two.

“Magister Stallario will see you,” the first guard said, bowing before stepping backward to allow entry to the manse.

The fragrance of the flowers was far stronger here, and the many-colored plants were visually overpowering as well to a visitor for whom most days were grey and green. Here there was pink, red, blue, yellow, white, orange… all condensed into one place. It was beautiful, as most of this island. A part of Erich regretted the necessity in departing.

Through the beauty of the gardens the Stormlanders stepped until at last they climbed the stairs and disappeared into the manse through two gigantic wooden doors, lead on by house slaves.