#drogan

The Pirate Captain gestured at the colors flown and the crest emblazoned on the ship's flag. "By the look of it, it’s Blueb—"

A shadow swept over the Good School Master and his dark-haired suitor.

“Buh-buh-buh-huh?” Rhian went absolutely florid—

At the broad-shouldered figure stood before them all, peerless master of his dominion, the seas.

Hell.

Beyond them, Rafal took in the scene with what little hope he'd scraped together quickly vanishing.

He knew this would happen. He'd anticipated it, and now, Rhian was unable to negotiate terms. He'd should've aimed to break Drogan's nose or claw out an eye the last time he'd been hauled out and interrogated—by his own former student, no less!

Just what he needed. Rhian, rendered as speechless and useless as he was by two handsome pirates.

He glanced at James beside him. Make that three, he groused to himself. Objectively.

He clenched his jaw with such vexation his gag creaked. He probably looked like a stupid marionette and Rhian's attention had long been diverted by now so that they'd never be spotted through the grate.

The boy's eyes shone with hope. False hope, no doubt. But Rafal let on nothing. Let him live with it before it was stamped out.

Without the Night Crawlers to command—they'd all turned tail and dove off the starboard with the piercing cries of banshees at the first sight of danger—he was alone.

One of Dragon's men had speared through one of their comrades with silver, the abandoned creature left for the dead, smoking up in a FWOOSH, flapping his sleeves in vain and dithering and flailing like a leaky balloon gusting every which way. The creature had bellowed in agony with a guttural, inhuman tongue before crumpling to ash. And if his once-crew had reached the seafloor by now, he was definitively alone. Until James.

They would have been better off trying to set fire to this ship again, or sending up a flare, if only Rafal could generate enough friction with his electrical bonds.

A problem remained though. He wasn't dry. And viscidity of the electrical gel on these cuffs interfered with any attempt at generating heat with friction.

Indeed, none of the pirates had even allowed him to dry off since he'd set foot on deck three fortnights ago for fear that he'd be exactly as flammable as he'd intended to be.

He never shivered in spite of the frigid cold, but still perpetually squelched around in damp clothes bereft of his boots because he was "watered" a three times a day with a rusty pail like Rhian's hydrangea shrubs had been.

Worse even, on days with high winds, he was subjected to a ducking stool off the ship's stern as a precaution against the old sailor's superstition about self-immolating witches summoning lightning and taking ships to watery graves from the masts down with globules of plasmatic St. Elmo's fire.

What a pity. Embittered, he bit down on the serrated leather strip shoved between his teeth, seething with repulsion. He would've rejoiced to make such living nightmares come true like a demented fairy-godmother, but wasn't in any position to do so.

Hell, he couldn't even spit in Drogan's general direction, much less into the sod's pathetic, ruddy face—and there was his brother, blithering about peace talks, tousling his hair, and about to turn into the man's blasted trophy escort or be seized blind before he had the chance to blink.

Rafal groaned.

He’d rather have taken the ninth circle of Hell for his treachery over these insufferably feeble tête-à-têtes he bore witness to.

(Daily writing challenge August 2022, Day 5, Fluff/Shiver. CW: none)

@daily-writing-challenge

In the quiet halls of the Truthhammer residence, a light emerged from the kitchens, long after everyone should have been in bed. Spilling out into the hall, but only half as noticeable as the rumbling voice that echoed out.

"This is a fool's errand, son."

Whose idea was it to return to dragonstone on the way to kings landing?

I mean cersei knows thas daenerys’ hq.

It would have been an obvious move to set up some sort of ambush there waiting.

Experimenting new brushes with adult versions of some ocs.

This post is actually part two, but part one happens later chronologically, so read this post and this ask for context first.

⸻

The third day in the hold, another identical, scuffed pewter bowl of warm, bland gruel and a spoon were set in front of the Evil School Master, and for a third day, it would go untouched.

Already, it was beginning to cool. He had to act quickly.

Footfalls.

Rafal started to tilt the bowl, intent on weaponizing it. He aimed, about to catapult the mush missile at a passing pirate and blind him with the steaming water when a moan caused him to turn.

His cellmate gazed at his would-be projectile longingly, like he wished to have a love affair with it, and finally worked up the nerve to complain directly today, grouching, “Why do you get fed? I haven’t eaten in nearly a week!”

“Because I’m me and you’re you,” Rafal proclaimed, dripping seawater and an air of superiority since his last witch-fireproofing dunk.

The stripling—no, James, Rafal had heard others call him that—scowled deeply.

Rafal suppressed a sigh, observing the tremor in the boy’s frame. “Take it. I don’t need it.” He slid the bowl over and let the spoon drop into the slop as it visibly sparked and jolted with static the moment it came into contact with his radiant electrical cuffs.

James tried and failed to hide his astonishment, but took the bowl, iron manacles and fetters jangling as he shifted over.

“You should know that it could be—”

James snatched up the spoon, ignoring how it jarred his hand with a few volts, and began to wolf down the still-steaming oats.

“Poisoned,” Rafal finished sedately.

James dropped his spoon with a clang to the wooden floor of the brig. “What,” he demanded. “Now you tell me? Why? I thought Drogan wanted to keep you alive since you’re so important and all, Master,” he sniped. “Doesn’t he need a live bargaining chip?”

“I’m immortal. Poison just flushes out of my system with time. It’s a minor discomfort to me, but to you, well… it’s simple deduction.”

James stared dumbfounded. “You know, I think the lads were right. You’re can’t be a decent pirate without a crew, and seeing that you were captured alone—”

“I’m not,” Rafal seethed.

“Not what?” James prodded playfully. "Alone?"

“One of you.”

“That would do it and do you in. Bet it was a mutiny. No wonder you have no crew. I wouldn’t serve you, and no one in their right mind would follow a leader of the likes of you, pirate or not.”

“My crew abandoned ship due to cowardice. Nothing more,” Rafal cut out.

“Keep telling yourself that.” The boy grinned.

“Eat. It will go cold.” Rafal nodded at the bowl.

James eyed the mealy sludge with renewed suspicion. “I don’t feel anything yet, but what if—”

“It’s not. I would know.” The School Master gazed unflinchingly into the boy’s eyes.

James picked up his spoon and obeyed.

⸻

Thoughts, anyone?

Here's some additional plot trivia:

Rafal is later gagged so he and James don’t connive together and plot Drogan’s downfall, or besides, it could be so he can’t plan with anyone else either, to restrict his influence over the other, trapped Blackpool fellows, too. That, or all of the above and Rafal said something highly insulting, some on point, scathing, even seditionist remark that just earned him Drogan’s unyielding ire.