White Cloak - A GoT Fan-Fiction

Doran, the Dornishman

Doran, the self-styled Bastard of Dorne, was a lean man of middle years. A rough spun cloak, set over robes of amber satin, protected him from the snow, a permanent grin held dominion over his pock-marked face. His dark hair and darker eyes spoke for his Rhoynar heritage, his strut a declaration of supreme confidence.

Merwyn had been expecting soldiers in the Great Hall, perhaps those donning cloaks of Lannister red, or, at the very least, the gold of the City Watch, despite Cersei's trepidations. Instead, when he'd reached that contorted ruination they called the Iron Throne, he'd found only a Dornishman; one claiming to head-up a contingent of sellswords, four-strong, hired by the Queen herself to track the Sons of Balerion. Merwyn had wondered if it were an insult, to be thrown in with common cut-throats. After acquainting himself with Doran, however, he'd thought better of it. This is no insult. It's a trial.

In duty's name, Merwyn had swallowed any protests and left the Red Keep in the company of Doran the Bastard alone. He was an intriguing paradox, the Dornishman. His gait was that of a seasoned fighter, yet Merwyn saw no sword at his hip; his task was to hunt murderers through a labyrinth of lies, the price of failure as high as any harm he might suffer at the hands of his enemies, yet he wore a wholesome smile.

"The snow makes your city half-beautiful, Ser Merwyn," Doran chortled, as the pair made their way down Aegon's High Hill. Some of his words were stretched, others rolled, as was common with the Dornish drawl.

It's not my city, Merwyn thought, though he could not counter Doran's words. A soft bed of white had blanketed King's Landing, burying its sores, concealing many of its sins. The snow did a good job of affording the city a richness it didn't deserve. Even the rubble of the Great Sept of Baelor was lent dignity by winter's canvas. "That it does, Doran."

"Quite the shame it precedes terrors of the night."

"Quite," Merwyn replied.

"Do you believe the whispers?"

Of giants and White Walkers and dead men risen? Merwyn had not believed them. Not until his younger brother, Tymon, an honourable recruit of the Night's Watch himself, had dispatched a raven to Highbush from Castle Black, some moons ago, detailing what he'd seen with his own eyes. Now, Merwyn preferred to think about only what he could affect. "Words are wind. You said you knew where we might begin?"

Doran chuckled. "Something like that. The City Watch found another one at dawn this morning. Pyred and burned alive, same as the rest. He was a smith's apprentice, noble blood on his father's side."

"A bastard?"

"Just so. My friends are talking to the smith now. My apologies, Ser Merwyn, they didn't want to risk losing the scent."

"Smith? The Street of Steel, then?"

"I should think so."

Merwyn pondered as they walked. It was said that half of a million people called King's Landing home. How are we to root out a handful of separatists, in a city that owns almost as many rats that walk on two legs as do on four?

By the time they had reached the Hook, the road that would take them from the base of Aegon's High Hill to where they could join the Street of Steel from Fishmonger's Square, Merwyn found himself studying every broke-backed peasant and scurrying tradesman he passed. His armour and white cloak drew looks from any and all, as was to be expected, but the accessories that marked him for Queensguard were of small comfort. Merwyn had spent his years honing himself with sword and lance; had grown to battle the enemy in front of him, not the one he couldn't see. Perhaps Doran and his men can spare my misgivings. "How is it that you came to the Queen's attention?" Merwyn asked, keen to learn more of the Dornishman and his crew.