ASOIAF : Creed

The man, Orbelo, flinched at the sound of his own name from a stranger's lips. His eyes, dull with cheap wine and despair, narrowed with a flicker of suspicion. He pulled his maimed hand protectively into his lap. "I don't know you," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "And I have no business with anyone."

"My name is Corvus," Jon said, keeping his voice low and even, "And I'm not offering business. I'm offering an ear. I've heard whispers of your story. A man of talent, wronged by the powerful. It's a common enough tale in this city."

Jon took a moment to study the man properly, his gaze analytical. Orbelo was perhaps twenty-five, though the despair in his eyes made him seem older. He had the sharp, intelligent features of a man used to books and quiet contemplation. Dark, wavy hair, greasy and unkempt, fell across a high forehead. The fine Lyseni silk of his tunic, once the color of a summer sky, was now stained with wine and grime, and a few days' worth of dark stubble shadowed a jawline that had once been clean-shaven

He gestured for a serving girl, ordering two cups of the tavern's best wine—a Tyroshi red that was a step above the sour vintage Orbelo had been nursing. He pushed one of the cups across the table. Orbelo eyed it, then Jon's hooded face, his caution warring with the simple courtesy.

"Whispers are cheap," Orbelo muttered, but he didn't refuse the wine. He took a tentative sip.

"Some are," Jon agreed. "But the ones I hear speak of a scholar. A man who knew the histories of the Free Cities, who could speak half a dozen tongues. A man who could charm a room with a song." He paused, letting the words sink in. "They speak of a life that was stolen."

The carefully chosen words worked like a charm. Orbelo's guarded posture softened almost imperceptibly. The anger and sorrow he had been drowning sought an outlet. "Stolen is the word," he said, a venomous edge creeping into his tone. "Zarrina... she tired of my lessons and my songs. Found a new pet, a braavosi with more muscle than wit. He needed my position, my rooms. A silver locket, a gift for her, was 'found' in my belongings. That was all it took. She called me a thief, had her guards drag me out." He unconsciously flexed his ruined hand. "They did this so I could never shame her by playing for another patron."

Jon listened, his expression unreadable beneath the hood, but his mind was cataloging every detail. He's educated. Multilingual. Knows the inner workings of a high-born household. His grievance is specific and deep-seated. He can be quite useful.

"They took your music," Jon said, his tone one of quiet understanding. "Did they take everything else?"

Orbelo looked up, confused. "What else is there?"

"A scholar's education is more than just songs and stories," Jon pressed gently. "In a household like Zarrina's, a man learns more than the lute. Did she not have you trained in the gentleman's arts? For her protection, perhaps?"

A flicker of pride, long dormant, sparked in Orbelo's eyes. "I was no warrior, but... I can handle a sword. Zarrina insisted her retinue be able to defend her. And my father taught me the bow as a boy. I was quite the marksman, once." He sighed, the spark dying out. "Skills that are of little use now."

Swordsmanship and archery, Jon noted. Not a master, he said, but trained. Competent. More than I expected. He could already see the applications. A man who could fight, but whose true value was in his mind. A man who could blend in where Kaelo, with his straightforwardness never could.

"And the songs?" Jon asked, shifting his line of questioning. "You remember them?"

"Remember them?" Orbelo gave a bitter, hollow laugh. "They are all I have left. They play in my head day and night. Songs of heroes, tragedies from the Rhoyne, bawdy shanties from the Summer Isles..."

Jon's mind briefly drifted. He thought of the long, monotonous weeks at sea, the grim faces of sailors, the crushing boredom between ports. He thought of the power of a simple song to lift spirits, to forge a bond among men far from home. Who does not want to hear sea shanties while traveling on ships? It was a small thing, but morale was not a small thing. It was a force multiplier. This man, Orbelo, was a package of surprising utility.

He had heard enough. He leaned forward, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a conspiratorial whisper that was for Orbelo alone.

"The Lady Zarrina believes she has broken you. She took your name, your music, your future, and left you to rot. A man with your knowledge, your skills, should not be wasting away in a tavern."

He let that sink in before delivering the final, crucial part of his offer.

"I am building a company. We need men who can think. Men with knowledge. I offer you a place. A purpose. And I offer you help with your grievance."

Orbelo looked up, his eyes clearing with a cold, hard light that hadn't been there moments before. The self-pity was gone, replaced by a sharp intelligence.

"Help?" he scoffed, his voice low and intense. "Your words are smooth, Corvus, but I have had my fill of promises from powerful people. I don't want blind revenge. I want the truth." He leaned forward, his good hand gripping his wine cup. "They called me a thief. Before any vengeance, I want proof. Proof that the locket was planted. Proof that the braavosi who replaced me is the real liar and thief. I want my name cleared, even if only I am there to know it." He looked Jon dead in the eye. "Can your 'company' offer that? Or do you just offer blood?"

Jon felt a flicker of respect for the man. This was better. This was a man of principle, not just passion. A man with a clear, achievable objective. It was the perfect first test.

"Blood is easy," Jon replied, his voice a flat, dangerous calm. "Truth is harder. It requires skill. Finesse." He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "Consider it our first contract. We will get your proof. We will expose the braavosi and reclaim your honor. And when the truth is laid bare for all to see... the Lady Zarrina's humiliation will be a far sweeter revenge than any blade in the dark."

A slow, wolfish grin spread across Orbelo's face, the first real expression Jon had seen on him. It was the look of a man who had just been handed the key to his own cage.

"Well then, Corvus," Orbelo said, raising his cup of wine. "It seems you have a new recruit."

Jon nodded once, then stood. "Come," he said simply. "Meet the rest of the company."

He led Orbelo back through the noisy tavern to the table where Kaelo sat, a quiet menace guarding their winnings from the Moon Pool. 

"Kaelo," Jon said. "This is Orbelo, whose story you heard. He's our first member."

Kaelo looked at the scholar, then at Jon, and a slow grin spread across his own face. It was the look of a man seeing a plan come together. He gestured to the empty chair. "Good to have you," he said, his voice a low rumble of approval. "The first rule of a good crew is knowing who to talk to. Looks like we got that covered."

Jon pushed the wine cups to the center of the table. "Orbelo," he said, his voice all business now. "Let's get to work. Tell us everything."