Osmund Kettleblack
The three Kettleblack brothers looked alike as peas from the same pod. All of them were tall—well over six feet—powerfully built, all sinew and muscle. They regarded the world with ill will, their brown eyes keenly searching for the next surprise or trick of fate. They did not differ much. The two elder brothers wore thick, spade-shaped beards, while the youngest was clean-shaven, his face always smiling, ready to burst into laughter at any moment. He did not seem quite as massive in build, either.
The most taciturn and harsh of them was the middle brother, Osfryd. Even when he smiled—and that was rare—the cold of a killer who took pleasure in his trade never truly left his face.
"He's got it good… Just screw Lysa Arryn and enjoy his wine," Osmund agreed, turning the capon over the fire. It crackled as drops of fat began to fall into the flames.
"Brothers, what exactly are you unhappy about?" the youngest Kettleblack—cheerful, reckless Osney—looked at them in turn. "Don't you like killing?"
"I'm ready right fucking now kill the Hand, to hell with it, and butcher that whole snake pit while I'm at it," Osfryd bared his teeth. "And then fuck the queen. In the ass. Hard."
"Only it's dangerous as hell—that's the point," Osfryd went on thoughtfully. "Wanting it is one thing, pulling it off is another. The Hand, plus the king… Maybe we should put the whole Red Keep to the sword while we're at it?"
"Killing the king is impossible. His stewards, Orm, that goatfuck the Kingslayer—those pious little bastards practically sleep in the same bed with him," Osney snapped.
"And the young queen's no better off. Her brother, that cocksucker, doesn't step a foot away from his sister, and Wythers, the captain of her personal guard, watches her like his own wife."
"Maybe we should tell Littlefinger to go fuck himself?" Osfryd suggested. "Ignore the order, leave the city, and hide somewhere in the east? What do you think?"
"Shitty idea," Osmund spat into the fire. "Littlefinger would find us not just in Essos—he'd track us down in the Hell."
"And Father would never betray him. We'd only make things worse. Littlefinger would hunt us, Cersei would hunt us, and Jaime too, with his precious little king."
"Besides, have you forgotten that even half of what Baelish knows about us would be enough to put our heads on spikes?"
"Then if there's nothing else to discuss, let's think about how to send the Hand to meet his ancestors," Osney said cheerfully. "As for the rest, we'll tell Littlefinger it didn't work out. He won't kill us for that, will he?"
"At last you've said something worthwhile," Osfryd grumbled.
"We all remember that I got the biggest share of brains in this family," the youngest smirked.
The elder brothers looked at him with displeasure. In their view, he took everything too lightly, as if they were playing some merry game—and their lives were not the stake.
"Are we sure it has to be the Hand?" Osfryd asked. "Maybe Littlefinger would agree to another head, not so illustrious."
"Father says Baelish named Tywin," Osney replied.
"And does he know what's got him so fired up, why the rush?" Osmund asked.
"Father's certain Littlefinger's in a tight spot right now. The Hand is calling him back to the capital—and he doesn't want to go."
"The clever bastard smells the rooster about to peck him in the ass?" the eldest brother laughed and drew in the scent of nearly finished meat with pleasure. "Nothing to worry about—Littlefinger's slick as duck shit. He'll wriggle out of it."
"Why the fuck have you ever touched duck shit, if you know what it feels like?" Osney asked innocently, and the younger Kettleblacks burst out laughing. A moment later, Osmund joined in. Had anyone else said that, gulls would already be picking at his guts—but they had long since grown used to the youngest brother's jokes. More than that, life was easier with them.
The meat was excellent. With wine and greens, it went down perfectly. The bright sun blazed in the cloudless sky, but a light sea breeze cooled them pleasantly. Far off, near the line of the horizon, a pair of fishing barges cast their nets again and again, "plowing" the sea back and forth.
As they ate, they continued racking their brains for a workable plan. Naturally, they wanted to stay alive. True, any further service in the Red Keep would be out of the question—but Littlefinger had confidently assured them that a warm welcome awaited them in the Eyrie. And a suitable castle—either in the Vale or near Harrenhal—was already waiting for new owners. All that remained was to point a finger at the map and choose a new home.
Those prospects warmed the soul. Besides, the Kettleblacks knew this much: Littlefinger always gave his people what he promised. "Serve me, then tell me what you dream of, and I'll give you everything—and more," he liked to say, and over the years he had given them no reason to doubt those words.
"The bad part is, I'm not guarding the Hand," Osmund grumbled. "I'd swat him like a fly and be done with it. Hell, I'm not guarding anyone anymore. That asshole Kingslayer shoved me into the farthest corner."
"Then we need to figure out how to get close enough to strike without raising suspicion," Osney laughed.
"And then get away," Osfryd snorted.
At last, after Osney came up with yet another decent idea—suggesting they set fire to the Small Hall as a distraction—their plan began to take on a tangible shape.
(End of Chapter)
Hey! Don't forget, your support is very important.
Please donate power stones, write reviews, and leave comments. It will be a huge help!
🎁 Bonus chapter at 50 power stones!