[IC] A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

[Ruby]

_{Lady Vittoria Tyrell, High Marshall of the Reach}

The conversation with the Warden of the South got hot. It wasn’t often he was that emotional, and even more rare when the emotion was as negative as it had been in his pavilion. The crux of it all had been the most obvious, and how she hadn’t seen it coming…she just didn’t know. Blinded by her own emotions? Wrapped up in her own thoughts? Whatever the reasons, the end of the conversation had been sudden and painful as exchanged volleys:

”Go home. She’s dying. I can handle this. Go home.”

"Don’t ever presume to tell me how to handle my own marriage. Of course I want to be with her! This isn’t the bandit lord, this isn’t the pirate king, this is the bloody Faith of the Seven and part of the Reach gone MAD! The Warden of the South should be here. I will be here. The High Marshall will be here, doing their duty! To the Reach, to their House.”

It felt like a slap. It took her most of a day’s ride to realize…it was, in fact, a slap. Theo Tyrell had never touched her before in anger, nor Mina, yet none of that mattered because she was betrothed to someone outside the Reach, outside his sphere of influence. Did it anger him? Did it scare him?

Did she care if it did? It was heavier than the silver pauldrons and breastplate she wore. The armor was thin, more ornament than defense, but the craftsmanship was truly breath-taking, even if unadorned with decoration. True fighters would notice the skill of the maker by the ease in which she wore it and moved with it. Under it she wore green and white leather and linen, threaded in gold, her brown hair free and flowing as she rode, closer to auburn in the sun.

Garin had been uncertain of her joining them on the day’s ride. Halfway through the day they came across a village that excitedly told them about a large group of Faith Militant that had taken room and food. They had been unkind and accusatory, even as the villagers claimed again and again, they had done nothing wrong. Vittoria was quick to sooth them with understanding and listen to their tale. Before she was even done, Garin sent people ahead. Some of his Dothraki were particularly fast and skilled, with eyesight that surprised even her.

When they returned, Garin relayed the information: a man, apparently one of the R’hllor priests, surrounded by Faith Militant. Vittoria’s face twisted in confusion, before she asked Garin to ask them if they were certain. They were, to which Vittoria just blinked, “What a horrendously bad time to visit Westeros.”

Garin snickered at her, before recommending they swoop in and stuff them full of arrows before they could even properly register the attack. Even against organized and well-drilled men, the concept of archers on horseback left too many Westerosi men convinced they were about to endure a cavalry charge, until it was too late, and they lay dead or dying. It wasn’t complicated, but given the small enough number, and their current focus, it didn’t need to be complicated.

So, it went when she gave Garin the order to go. Outside of Ashford, near an old, large, oak tree they were likely planning to hang the Essosi priest from and leave as a warning or some twisted trophy, Garin’s men found them. Vittoria rode with them, hard and fast, but with Garin and Ser Ryam, behind the attack. It was over as quickly as it had begun. The Dothraki were the first to the priest, ensuring his survival, while simultaneously ensuring he did not try to run. Garin was fond of information, Vittoria even more fond it, so there would be questions.

But there was time for that later. Vittoria retrieved from her saddlebags a small, leather-bound, Seven-Pointed Star. She knelt beside each dead man and said the prayers. She asked for forgiveness from the Father and mercy from the Mother, though they had twisted their faith, they were still men of faith. Towards the end, close to the priest, she came upon a man still dying. He was exasperated, likely in shock, and treated his wound and nearing of the Stranger’s embrace the way most men treated an inconvenient injury.

“You’re her?” he asked as she prayed.

When she was done, she nodded her head, eyes finally lifting from the ground to his face. She wouldn’t forget his face any time soon, she thought, as her voice answered gently, “Yes, I am her.”

He winced, and strained through pain to speak again, more breathless than he was moments before, “in my pack, a letter to my mum? She is…” he tried to laugh, but only pain came, “she’s, uh, she’s a seamstress at Highgarden. You wouldn’t know her, but…you could find her…please.”

His words were a breathless struggle, and it looked to her as if he used all he had left to say them. Sadly, Vittoria nodded, again, “I promise. Lay your head back,” she nearly purred at the commoner who’d taken up with the Faith Militant instead of staying in Highgarden and living a servant’s life. It was admirable, she thought, as she leaned over to the man and helped him relax against the threadbare sack he called a pack, “shhh, sleep now. I’m here. I’ll make sure your mother knows how brave you were.”

It was Ser Ryam who helped her up and took the now bloody gloves from her, “I have another pair in my saddle bag, Ser, thank you,” she said, handing him the Seven-Pointed Star as she turned and took a long look at creation: the fields were brown, rain had been scarce, and the people thirsty for it. The storms weren’t coming from the Stormlands as often, and the air hitting the mountains of Dorne wasn’t having the same effect upon the weather as it usually had. She worried about the farmer as much as she worried about the souls of the men that now lay dead all around them.

She felt like a giant when she finally let her brown eyes hit the Red Priest, before they quickly climbed over him, to the oak ahead. “And so, the old oak said to the seed; I was once a nut, like you.”

Some of Garin’s men, and Ser Ryam, laughed at the double meaning. Was she calling the Red Priest a nut? Unlikely. Just some old-fashioned Reach humor? More likely, but likely wasn’t certain, and it was truly up to each man to decide for themselves. When she walked close enough to be a few horse length’s away, she finally regarded the man, and offered him a polite smile. “Good day, Defender of the Lord of the Light, the Heart of Fire, the God of Flame and Shadow. You might have noticed,” she began, nearly chuckling, “you have picked a poor time to visit this part of Westeros. The Crown and the Faith clash, openly, violently.”

Some of Garin’s men did laugh at it.

Closer, now, she noticed no facial tattoo. Had he been a slave? A curious thing, she noted in her mind, before moving on, though approaching no closer, “If you would like, you may return to our camp, be fed, sleep safely, before continuing your journey?”

It was a charitable kindness, all things considered, but one Vittoria didn’t hesitate to offer the mystery man.

[Vanq]

Ashford - The Reach

_{Collab with @Vanq@Ruby@Ezekiel}

The Baratheon host made good time, for all the veneer of arrogant indolence that Rogar easily portrayed, he kept himself and his men to a tight and well drilled schedule. More accurately, his Steward did, but the young Baratheon knew better than to dismiss the experience of a man who had been fighting wars since before Rogar's father had been born. He would joke and hunt with the men, but anything that endangered their haste or their relatively low profile was dealt with harsh but fair discipline, to the point that such infractions were rare not out of fear of reprisal, but fear of letting your lord and fellows down. Orys and his father had been tougher on their men certainly, for they bore the burden of being the first and the second, always something to prove for any slip could spell an end to all authority. Rogar was the first Baratheon to who such authority was a true birthright, a chance he was determined not to squander.

He had learned much from his grandsire though, some directly but most passed down via his father. The speed was there to prevent their finding, they had little reason to fear true reprisal but little was not none, and Orys Baratheon had always said that any information out of the hands of the enemy was always a boon, even in peacetime. Each morning with the changing of the guard, the camp was disassembled and what efforts could be made to conceal or confuse the passing of hundreds of men were made, and the march beneath the dawn sun began.

The ride and march this morning brought a welcome sight. Ashford was well known for being a town of fair appearance, white stone gleaming in the Sun beneath the triangle shape of their ancestral fortress. When many thought of the Reach they thought of such a picturesque sight. It certainly had a more pleasant smell than some parts of Oldtown, Rogar thought to himself as he watched the town from a hillock. He had been to Ashford once before, several years back. The beautiful market town was surrounded by rolling fields, an ideal location by both reasons for tournaments. One such field had been taken up by a sprawling camp, a gathering of men at arms many times the size of the Baratheon host, no doubt one of the armies marshaling to the call of the Reachlords with the recent unrest sweeping the Kingdom, as opposed to being raised simply to accept the exchange of hostages from one land to another.

Speaking of hostages, Rogar turned his head at the trot of hooves. Despite the official designation that Lady Dayne and all her followers had been under the custody of House Baratheon they had hardly experienced a trying couple of weeks. The Baratheon host did not trust them so much as to assign them watches, but otherwise they had mostly been allowed the run of the camp. When a few of their number had gone missing, scattering into the wilderness, Rogar had only had them followed for a short time, convinced they were scattering home rather than alerting a wider force his scouts had somehow missed. The majority had remained though, loyal to their cause and not mistreated by their captors, it was an easy decision.

The beat of hooves drew closer, both the Lady Dayne and his own accompanying Steward, the older man taking his duty seriously even if few by this point suspected the Dornish woman would attempt something such as an assassination on the Baratheon heir.

“Friends, come spy the fair visage of Ashford, as fine a quaint little town as any you may find across the Reach.” He beckoned to them both, so that the concealed archers that no doubt still watched over him would not feel the need to pepper either with arrows for approaching Rogar without summons. Away from the camp itself, his guardians were often less patient to establish such things.

“It seems Lord Ashford himself awaits our agreed exchange, so our little traipse across the countryside may be at an end.”

It had come to an end, at last. Though as the days had turned to weeks, the eagerness to be free of the Baratheon host had wavered. Not just among her people, who, if she was honest with herself, had been fed and slept better than since even before they left the Reach. But even Lady Dayne had found some semblance of peace in her situation. It rankled to admit it though, and so she would continue to not do so aloud or in earshot of the arrogant lord.

The same one who called to her now, and no matter her thoughts on it, she nudged the horse to pick up its pace and draw up next to the man. His steward never seemed to warm to her, few of his men had. But she had at least been left undisturbed by them as well. Whether it was the harshness of her stares or some word Rogar had put about, she did not know.

“Our Sun Shines Bright.” Ellyn muttered in annoyance. She’d been through Ashford on her way to the Stormlands months ago. “And so does the gold that lines the pockets of all the nobles who visit for the fair view, to spend it on little gifts to bring home, of woven yellow roses or,” she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial level, “even carved green hands.” The lady-knight could not entirely smother the hint of a grin but kept her eyes facing forward over the idyllic town and castle. There were far more men gathered than when she had first passed through. It should have been a welcome sight, but she shifted in her saddle to suddenly be so close to her freedom.

“Do I need to submit myself to be chained for this exchange?” Her steeliness broke with the whisper of a joke, and she glanced at the Baratheon man to her side before twisting her head more to see if his Steward would crack. The grin widened with a flash of white. “I will be sure that Lord Ashford knows we were treated with all due kindness and respect, of course.” She hoped there would be little of that required of her. Ellyn wanted only long enough to watch for the Baratheon host to depart. Surely with a force this large gathering, she’d be folded into some regiment or another and they’d carry on to King’s Landing, again. “I’ll even tell them of your repentance for waylaying one of the faithful, if you let me keep the horse.” She patted the creature’s neck, it had been nice to have such a luxury again.

“I cannot imagine so, the Reach lords seem far more charitable to roaming bands of faintly murderous faithful folk than we are in the Stormlands.” Rogar caught the grin, and matched it with a less hidden one of his own. He knew a little of the almost conspiratorial nature of the Reachlords, how many still clung to the Hand of Green, but he suspected this minor treason was more to do with parting young and rebellious nobles with their coin than a true effort to fund a rebellion to the old ways. “My grandfather would have probably agreed with you, but he was in one of his moodier years at the time, so of course he would.”

The request for the horse brought a genuine laugh to his features “Bold, to ask a ransom of your captor.” He allowed the silence to hold for a moment, before he broke it with mercy. “We likely do not have enough riders to bring our spares home, consider it on loan, until perhaps you find yourself at Storm's End on your Crusade to rid this land of false piety.” It was a tease, but there was a hint of severity to it. “Although I'd recommend knocking, rather than trying to breach it, that hasn't seemed to go well for those who try.”

With no further words, Rogar began to trot his steed down the gentle slope towards the town, the gleaming buildings drawing closer, as well as the noise of a camp of many, many men. The banners of Ashford fluttered in the gentle reach breeze, and even from a distance he could note the generally well disciplined nature of the camp, set out a respectful distance from the town itself.

It was early morning, so Rogar didn't expect the hustle and bustle of the market day to have begun, but even that considered, as the small number of riders among his party began to move into the town he was surprised by the lack of activity. It wasn't quite abandoned, he could feel the sting of eyes upon him and the honest of the smallfolk still hummed with activity, but seemed to not wish to make themselves known yet.

“Perhaps the rumors about Reachmen indolence are t-” Rogar was speaking when the twang of a crossbow interrupted him. A gurgle of noise followed, as his Steward slumped from his steed and to the ground in clatter of armour and man. Rogar turned to him first, in shock, and grief, but then he was acting, commanding.

“Ambush! Back to the -” He was half way in to the act when the nearest homes burst open. Men in Ashford Arms and armour pouring out into the street on either side. The armour, however, was ill-fitting, and for as many who bore the bright colours of Ashford, among them were those with the stars and stripes of the Warrior Sons. It was not a fight they could win, even survive if they tried. But that was not the aim, the first blow had been to ensure Rogar took them seriously, but the follow up shots never came.

“...Let's hear the terms of your treason then.”

She’d had a quip ready to lob back at him, a sort of truce they’d formed between themselves, after the barbs against one another had eased. Ellyn turned when Rogar did, at the sound of bolt and the unceremonious death of a man, but she was slower to respond. Her horse’s unsteadiness brought her back to her senses.

Anger flared and her eyes narrowed. “What is the meaning of this?” How had they missed this? Did Rogar’s men think her complicit? It wasn’t a difficult theory to come to. Still, she spoke out to the Warrior Sons who pushed through the crowd, until a man she vaguely recognized stood before them with a twisted and toothy smile.

“My, my. It is Lady Ellyn Dayne, the prisoner. You look remarkably well given the ordeal we were told you endured.” Every word dripped with disdain and was spoken with a heavy sneer.

“Ser Darklyn.” She held tightly to the reins, knuckles white with the effort. She looked over to her captor in the long pause, an error.

“Quiet, bitch.” He spat and ran a hand over his jaw. “A woman of the Faith and ardent Star was captured while on holy mission to the capital. Yet here you are, riding beside your supposed captor, with your sword still allowed to you.” He eyed Dawn, sheathed and secured to her horse.

“We were not welcomed to Lord Baratheon’s lands, but why would he mistreat the Seven’s faithful servants? Of course he allowed us-” Another error, her defense of the young lord was not taken well by the crowd beyond Ayden Darklyn.

“I SAID QUIET!” The knight bellowed and Ellyn Dayne winced back. Memories of her encounters in Oldtown resurfaced, of the judgement and mockery endured. “If you have not forsaken the Seven then do your duty now.”

There was a darkness in his eyes that made Ellyn look away again and cringe, fearful of what would come next yet somehow expecting it as well. She dared not look at Rogar or any of his men behind them.

Ser Darklyn turned to men at either side of him. “Strip them of their arms.” He ordered. “And you, Lady Dayne, you will escort Rogar Baratheon to the keep where he will be held until brought forth for judgement.”

Not for trial. A pit in her stomach grew, she couldn’t disregard the order, for many reasons. More surprisingly, she found she wanted to. Under the hateful gaze and suspicion all around her, she warred within. Why did she care what happened to these men? But what good was it to the Faith to manipulate the exchange this way? Her hand spasmed for the tight grip she maintained on the reins. She let go with a sigh, she was out of time, she had to act.

“Of course, ser.” It was not unambiguous in her desire to follow orders, but she kept her face as flat and devoid of emotion as she could manage.

The man cursed. Then he spat. Then he turned this way, that way, and then he cursed again. Kicked a little dirt. He was in agony when he walked to her, and shook his head, hard, “It’s not good. I can’t tell if it’s Ashford or someone else, but they got him.”

“And her?”

He just stared at her. His eyes saying what his mouth would not: The Seven hells did that woman matter? Instead, his heart seemed to slow, and he seemed to calm in the face of her wild grey-green eyes, “Her too, Mari.”

Mariel Wylde sighed, deeply, as she faced away from him and towards the hills they had been hiding behind for most the morning. That the Baratheon party never saw them was no miracle from the Seven. They were no gods. There was no afterlife. There was just alive, and dead, and dealing with where things fell along that line.

She’d known that since the love of her life died. “We have friends out here, yes?”

“…a few.” The older man said it, face red with sun and harder living in earlier years, the look of a hedge septon to him. “Not enough. No one close.”

Her eyes rolled, “That sounds about right at the moment.” She looked at the dozen men assembled around her, her mind running through it like her fingertips ran through the feather fletching of an arrow. “We have to get close enough to make every arrow count. Fucking Reach and its lack of rainwood…Sep, go back, get the wagon.”

The first scout stared, “What you thinking?’

“Load four men into the wagon, robed. Sing the songs of the Seven, approach. Get close. We sneak up in the tall grass. With any luck they’re too focused on your merry band approaching to notice us.”

“We’re saving the Baratheon?” Another man asked, confused.

It wasn’t their style to save high nobles. Today seemed like a twisted, queer, jape of a day. “We save them all. And we hurry up before real Reachmen arrive and they ride every last one of us down. Go get that wagon.”

From where they had been ambushed to the keep was no great distance, though it felt an eternity with Ser Ayden at her left and Rogar pulled off his horse to march at her right. It was obvious, now, how many Warrior Sons and Poor Fellows made up the crowds of the markets. Ellyn tried and failed twice to ask a question of the knight and was rebuffed. She resigned herself instead to silently trying to find a way to be at peace with what was happening. By all accounts, she should have been content with the way their fortunes had changed.

She dismounted with the rest of them when they reached the castle and unstrapped her bag and sword from the horse. It was worth far too much to have been so freely gifted, or at least, her empty coin purse would never have afforded such a beast.

“Come on, you’re not done yet.” One of Ser Darklyn’s men shoved into her. Ellyn’s brow furrowed at it, no matter that her head ducked in surprising deference. The leather bag held little of importance to her except for the tattered rainbow cloak her people had made her. Dawn felt even heavier in hands as she secured it to herself again. To be worthy, to feel worthy of it, seemed even harder now.

She followed behind the Warrior Sons’ leader through the courtyard and into the castle and continued to be surprised at how many fellow faithful filled the corridors. “We’ve been warmly welcomed here. House Ashford did not seem nearly so welcoming when I first passed through.”

Ayden snarled a laughter with no mirth or warmth. “We were persuasive.”

It took time for Ellyn to understand what exactly he meant as he led them through to a wing of private chambers with an increasing number of guards. “And Lord Ashford -” She nearly walked into Ser Darklyn at his sudden stop.

“It does not concern you.” His attention turned to his prized hostage. “Here, Rogar Baratheon. I do hope the room suits a man of your stature and lineage.” One of the other Sons opened the door to chambers that had clearly been sifted through for anything of value.

Ayden’s men jostled Rogar and his men until they were all in the room and pressed back away from the door. Ellyn backed away only to be halted with a rough hand on her shoulder, a grip that dug into her flesh and scraped against bone. She sucked in a sharp breath, at the pain, and at the fear of what would come next. “You too, bitch. Let’s see how friendly you are now with your captor.” He ripped the bag from her shoulder and yanked at the straps that secured Dawn to her.

Lady Dayne’s vision went white with rage. “Don’t.” Was all she could manage even as she felt the weight of the sword fall away from her, felt herself pushed further into the room where she stumbled and fell to her knee. She heard the door slam shut and barred, she knew there were still a dozen men outside the door. Still, she stood and turned and flung herself back at it, her fists beating against it. “No!” Her legacy, her family’s legacy, her only hope, the only remnant of her father, was gone. Because of her.

For the forced walk Rogar hadn’t spoken, his features seemed a mask of cold fury, but his mind raced. His own men were still camped beyond the town, there were certain expectations of what they would do should the Baratheon riding party not return without signal but you could never be sure how quickly that would occur. He hoped they would follow through, to retreat and regroup where they might get a message to the nearest lords but he couldn’t entirely write off that they might attempt something foolish out of loyalty.

He didn’t look at Ellyn as he walked, he believed she had been tricked as much as he, but that didn’t make her blameless. She was associated with these men, in some way, that had already done such substantial damage to the realm. He knew they hated him for his family name and what they represented, he was more than willing to pay them back in full. He had even less time and attention for Ser Darklyn, responding only so much as was needed of him to prevent further violence from falling on his surviving riders. His greatest reaction came when they stripped Ellyn of Dawn, an act that surprised him, and further surprised him with his own unthinking action. He tried to turn to resist alongside her, but shortly found a crushing elbow to his ribs as those handingly him restrained him, and he tumbled back into the humble room that was now their quarters.

“Seven, what a bunch of cunts.” He cursed, as the door was shut, wincing as his breath returned to him, standing straight and holding his hands to the back of his head as he willed more air into his already bruising diaphragm. “This is what comes of treason, a ravening horde that will strip this land of everything worth a damn.”

[Almalthia]

Westeros Skies

On the way to the Westerlands

_{Collab with @Almalthia, @Apoalo & @Vanq}

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The familiar thrill of being on dragonback rushed through Melyssanthi and she turned Fyresong to the West. She smiled without warmth thinking about those who had brought out the fire in her blood. Ageon and her father’s killers; one in the same for Aneys had collapsed after hearing that some rabble had attacked and killed his son. Her father must be rolling in his grave since her brother, her uncle, had usurped the throne from Viserys. The thought came to her as she realized it could work. Rhaena. Rhaena would need to be Queen. She’d need to be married to a large house to back her claim. Too many people would use Viserys and mother doesn't have the constitution to not be pushed around in a Regency. Visenya is not to be trusted. She helped Maegor. No one that assisted that travesty is loyal. Rhaena has to be Queen.

The rage in her boiled and she had to catch her breath as she felt Fyresong growl. The chill pulled her from her thoughts. They needed to land and soon so that they could change clothes. The char on Castor did not escape her notice. Nor did it pass her by that the armor he had was hanging on by a thread and no longer usable. It could be refashioned and parts replaced but as a whole it was useless at present. With the storm having cleared, Melyssanthi was able to see the stars and guided Fyresong to what she hoped was a straight shot to Casterly Rock. Even knowing that she knew that they would need to stop. There was no way Fyresong could do that distance without stopping at least once but more like three times so that they could sleep. “I’m coming, Rhaena. Hold on just a little longer." She whispered but still felt like her sister knew she was coming.

Shivering and vision narrowing Pheynix clung to the dragon trying to draw warmth from the beast. The only part that felt warm was where she had been stabbed. Leaning back into Castor using the last of her will to stay awake Pheynix said. “Left side. Sorry brother." Having said that, she passed out.

As Melyssanthi looked behind her and watched Pheynix pass out in the gray light of predawn. “Damnit." There was a noble house not too far from where they were at, as far as she recalled. What was the name of that house? Hayford? No. Ho…Hogg? YES!! Hogg! We can set down there. Guiding Fyresong lower Melyssanthi landed right outside Sow’s Horn, the seat of House Hogg.

“Hello! Will you in the name of your Princess Melyssanthi please inform Ser Hogg that he has guests?"

“I am a Ser Hogg, Princess." A man spoke, hulking even at the knee he had taken. He rose, his trousers covered in dust and dew. He did not look like a knight at the moment, he barely looked more than a smallfolk who found irony in using the term small. Above the dirty trousers and well worn leather boots, he wore a tunic, the ties across his chest left open, a hard day's work already started evident in the sweat that ringed around the fabric’s neckline. It was still chilly but labor put the chill out of his bones and his mass alone was enough to keep him running hot.

“Ser Baekyn, at yours and the crown’s service." He approached, an unnatural ease to him no matter that a royal on dragonback had descended on his lands before dawn as he returned from an early check on fencing and flocks. They were landed, but House Hogg still knew their land and the working of it.

He’d never seen a dragon up close before, just glimpses of them in flight. “Sow’s Horn is still a short distance away, please, allow me to escort you." He offered no apology for the state of himself; taller than half a head of most other men and as broad as two, a princess could be forgiven for second-guessing his status or nature. He was unclear on how exactly one dismounted a dragon, and not fool enough to get too close to such a beast, no matter his curiosity, he extended his hand outward. “Or if this magnificent beast will allow it, I will assist you and your companions down." He noticed now, two additional bodies on top of the creature. His head tilted, in further curiosity, but it was not his place to question who a royal brought to his humble lands.

Sliding down as Fyresong lowered his head, Melyssanthi was sure she looked a fright. “We appreciate it. This is Castor and Pheynix Rahl from Volantis. They are my guests. We… Pheynix is in need of a healer… I think. Castor, her brother, needs to be looked over as well. Please? If that isn't asking too much?" She took in the fact that she seemed small compared to Ser Baekyn. It was a feeling she was unused to and it flustered the Princess. She was a tall woman looking most men in the eye or having to tilt her head down to look them in the eye. This man wasn't just tall though he was broad. She wondered if he plowed his own fields without the aid of cattle and forged his own weapons and armor.

“Castor pass your sister down. You were limping earlier. Can you get down?" Melyssanthi added in a wry tone. “Without hurting yourself?"

It was absolutely phenomenal. It was almost like Castor had meant to be Targaryen. The thrill of the flight, and feeling of the Dragon's muscles underneath him as it flew, the air buffeting him and sending his charred clothing flying behind him. It felt right. What didn't feel right was the way his sister suddenly leaned back against him. He had felt her shivering and had simply put it down as the cold from the flight but when she spoke he moved her hand which had been blocking the wound and he made a few choice Valyrian curses which he assumed Melys heard as she began a descent.

Soon enough they were landing next to a rather large man who introduced himself as Ser Baekyn and while first impressions weren't everything Castor was truly starting to hate the minstrels who really misrepresented the image of a Knight. It was an important lesson, and Castor sighed a bit as the last vestiges of his childhood burned away. But they had bigger issues. As Melys secured them safe conduct Castor was unstrapping Nix and when the Targaryen gave her wry question he just glared at her and slowly helped Nix down to her before sliding down himself, being sure to land and put most of his weight on his good side. It still hurt but he would not show too much weakness.

A healer? The knight watched them dismount, as it were, and shook his head with a wince. “We don't have a maester, Princess, but I'll have our fastest horse and rider sent to Hayford for theirs, as soon as we're to our keep."

He peered around the slip of a girl to the Volantene companions. Whatever had happened to them needed more immediate action than even getting to his keep. At least as far as the woman was concerned, even in the new light of dawn, her paleness and sweat deeply concerned Baekyn. “I’m no Maester but I've had to set bones and stitch gashes more than once." He offered an understanding smile, the creases of middle-age and sun only strengthened the expression’s warmth. “Would you allow me to check that first, and then we can be on our way?"

The knight wiped his hands roughly against his trousers. “We'll set her down, gently now, on the ground." From where she grasped at her side he had no doubt where the wound was and what he needed to do. But, kneeling beside her, he still paused and looked back up to both Princess Melyssanthi and Castor Rahl before turning his steady gaze back to Phoenix.

“I'm going to have to look at what you have under there." He laid his large hand over both of hers, enveloped them with a light squeeze. “It will hurt and I'm sorry for that." For his size, his voice was surprisingly gentle, soft even, like velvet. If only he'd kept the farmhand boy with him, he could use a second set of hands.

He released her hands with gentle pressure to indicate that she had not moved yet, and pulled at his own shirt. One smooth movement and he was bare-chested and tearing strips from the light wool tunic. It wasn't clean or even work, but it would have to do until he could get cleaner supplies. “Anyone bring water or wine on your journey here?" He had a small wineskin tied to his trousers but it was nearly empty already and the stream he'd intended to refill it from was too far for their current situation.

With Castor moving her around Pheynix gritted her teeth against a scream as her brother helped her off the dragon as gently as he could. Her face was pale and sweaty when she was laid out. Her eyes were glazed with pain as she heard the big man tell her he was sorry. Pheynix swallowed and in a voice husky with pain, gritted past teeth she hissed. “Surely it is not as deep as a well nor wide as a church door that I would meet the Maker yet." She attempted a smile that turned into a grimace.

Pain glazed eyes of a golden green watched Ser Baekyn take off his tunic and start ripping it asking for wine or water. “I may actually scream if you pour that on me. Wine is better inside than out." Watching him carefully and intensely as she attempted to clear her mind. “Where's the Myrish Firewine when you need it? Or perhaps an Arbor Gold? Did I mention that may make me scream?"

“She's rambling. That can't be good." Melyssanthi looked between the three; Castor, Pheynix and Ser Baekyn. Her expression worried.

“I will be fine, you ninny. Just get the man some wine. The faster it gets you pissed the better." People around held their breath as the Princess raised an eyebrow and Pheynix ignored her.

“People don't say that to me because-” The wry slightly irritated Princess stated.

“You have a dragon, and, because of your status. You're not my princess, just my cousin." She smirked and laughed which pulled at the wound causing her to groan softly.

There were times when as a brother you simply had to take a step back and allow others to control the situation. Castor didn't particularly trust anyone from Westeros, the Princess included, but right now in this moment he didn't have the ability to simply find someone else and while his mother had tried to teach him medicine, Castor could visualize clearly skipping every lesson for military history and tactics with the Ghiscari. It was something Castor planned to remedy as best he could but for now he would have to grit his teeth and accept that Nix was out of his hands.

At the call for Firewine though, Castor grinned and rummaged through his pack that had been hastily packed. Aha, there at the bottom was a bottle of the substance that had planned to be a prank of Nix one evening. He grabbed it, and then presented it, stepping back and trying not to hover or get in the Knight’s way. As he moved the twist would be more obvious, especially to the Knight who would no doubt understand.

[Almalthia]

Westeros Skies

On the way to the Westerlands

_{Collab with @Almalthia, @Apoalo & @Vanq}

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“Good." A rumbling laugh passed from the man. “A good sign to have some fight in you." He took the offered skin and pulled the cork away with his teeth. Baekyn took a long whiff of the firewine and wrinkled his nose in response. “That's good stuff, might need a nip of that myself," he glanced back down at the woman laid out, “after you've had yours." The lad’s leg would need some attention but he'd worry about that after.

The knight cradled his arm beneath the woman’s neck and brought the firewine to her lips. “Just a little now." He didn't let it press long to her lips, enough just to warm and dull her. He splashed some out to a balled up scrap of his tunic and rested that carefully next to him.

“Alright, here we go." Ser Hogg pushed her hands away with one movement and tugged away the already sliced fabric. He could not tell how deep it was but that she was alive and talking had him hopeful. With a dry piece of his tunic he wiped away as much blood as he could, there was less seeping from it now, another good sign and he sighed with some relief. Above any screams or cries he talked to himself, loudly enough that his audience and patient could hear. “A clean cut, that's good." And with it cleaned up even as little as he had managed he was able to see that while deep, it had been a glancing blow only, deep enough to weep an ugly amount but not enough and her innards were intact. “And I think you'll even be keeping your guts inside." He flashed a knowing smile for what was to come.

“Ready yourself." he grabbed the firewine soaked cloth but gave her no time to respond. He pressed it against her left side, against all edges and length of the wound. He held it, pressed it to her firmly, no matter if she thrashed or wailed. Baekyn looked for the longer strips he had prepared and laid them across her. As her body calmed from the shock and pain, he shifted her, to weave them over the wound and under her body, to tie them off and hold the makeshift wound pack in place.

The knight stood slowly, admiring his work before his attention shifted back to Castor. “You'll need something to help you walk. Keep an eye on her for now." Baekyn tipped the wineskin to his lips and took a gulp for himself at last. He hissed in response at the heat down his throat. “Good indeed."

He hummed his continued approval as he stood. His hands were red with blood but he paid that no mind as he walked back to where he had first stopped and knelt at the dragon’s arrival. A small bough from a tree had been his walking stick across his lands, he retrieved it from where he dropped it. “This should do well enough for you." He indicated to Castor. “I can get a better look at that and see if it's broken or not once we're comfortable by a fire."

He closed the gap again and offered it to the man. “Lean on me if you wish as well, but it'll be best for me to carry your sister. Need to keep that gash as still as possible."

Taking a sip of the firewine Pheynix hissed at the potency. She knew what the rest was for and she could not say that she liked it. Watching Baekyn with intensity as he readied the once shirt now bandages. Sucking in a breath as he pulled the cloth away she hissed out.

Tensing and fighting the tightening of her muscles Pheynix breathed out a shaky breath as he confirmed what she already knew. “Guts inside. Good good."

The pain that came with the action of putting the firewine soaked cloth was swift and Pheynix's eyes went wide as she swore that the dragon had charred her to a crisp. Her jaw locked in stubbornness to not actually scream. Whole body as taut as a bow string silent tears running down into her hair at her temples; her shallow gasps and a whisper of a whimper the only thing heard from her.

She composed herself as he assisted Castor. “Shall I suppose you have a sister or a nurse perhaps that is about your size so I can keep my maidenly virtue intact when I bathe? Not all this blood is mine." Pheynix snarked because if not she was going to moan, scream or swear. None of which were acceptable in her book. Tears were fine. Noise? No. Never.

Hissing out of her teeth Pheynix continued her snarking and looked at Baekyn out the side of her eye as he picked her up. “You look the type to be able to get a woman with child merely by looking at her unclothed. I was pushing my luck letting you treat me. Hoping you did not see too much flesh."

Melyssanthi’s face blushed at the topic. “Nix! Seriously!?" She sputtered and turned to Fyresong. “Go on, go hunt. No cattle, or sheep, or horses." She dismissed the dragon for the time being. The dragon in question burbled in such a way that it sounded like he was complaining. But he was a good boy and went off to hunt. Spreading his wings carefully he took off as gently as he could.

She turned to Castor with an expression of embarrassed horror. “Better that you lean on me if you need it. Your sister is starting to worry me."

As the Knight worked, Castor just watched and put to memory the various movements and techniques. He almost felt like he was back at home being taught some sort of life skill in preparation for their trek to Westeros and if he had been present at the medical portion of things he might have already known how to do all of this and actually be useful in the situation instead of just stating like a dumb lump of armor.

But as it was, a dumb lump of armor he was. It wasn't until he heard Nix shifting and almost could feel her pain that he snapped out of it and regardless of the pain in his ankle dropped to the ground and grabbed his sister's hand, squeezing it tightly as she attempted to hold back any sound. After the worst was over Castor wiped her tears and placed a hand on her shoulder and nodded to Baekyn as he left for a moment.

He wondered briefly what his parents would think seeing the two of them and of what decisions they had made. Without really thinking about it they had thrust their family into a side in the upcoming conflict, unless they could find a way to remain neutral and say that killing the guards and Kingsguard was self-defense, which was technically true. Blah, politics wasn't his thing. For the time being that didn't matter…

When Baekyn came back with a walking stick, Castor nodded and struggled to his feet, refusing help. As he stood straight he accepted the stick and looked straight ahead towards where they would be traveling. “I'll be fine. Let's just get there and get my sister to a relaxed location. Thank you, Ser, for your assistance and offer of lodging."

“Worry not, my lady." He had chuckled at the allegation. “I only have a brother, but my mother and her mother will help with your bathing needs and keep your virtue intact." With the dragon having taken to flight again, a sight Ser Hogg did not hide that he stopped to watch intently, and Castor situated with his walking stick, Baekyn knelt over the Volantene woman once more.

“I promise to not look too closely at your flesh while we walk, your body is in no shape to fall pregnant." He joked as his arms slid under her, one beneath her neck and the other under the bend of knees. Baekyn lifted her as if she were no more than a baby. He shifted her as he straightened, brought her head against his shoulder and her legs pinned in the crux of his arm. He took slow and steady steps until he was sure that she would not be jostled too much.

He gave her a wink and turned his whole body with her to the princess and Castor Rahl. Princess Melyssanthi seemed scandalized by what her companion had said, but perhaps as a princess that was to be expected. He’d certainly never met one before. “Even with your injuries, I’ll have you safely behind our walls before morning is done."

He set off, leading the way across the even green lands. Occasionally, he pointed out some barely noticeable landmark or sight of importance to his family or to that of their liege, House Hayford. When it seemed that Pheynix’s eyes closed too hard for too long, he belted out a scandalous tavern song.

So listen, you scoundrels, with pockets of lust,
Her petal's not open to coin or your thrust.
Be gentle, be kind, be a fiddle so sweet,
And maybe, just maybe, you'll earn a whispered treat.

His voice was round and deep as he sang through verses, each more bawdy than the last, and finished with great flourish when they at last drew close enough to Sow’s Horn that their party was noticed by an aged woman yelling at a small flock of chickens.

“Grandmother!" He bellowed across the remaining distance.

The woman’s eyes squinted at the group. Baekyn had not been wrong about how long the journey would take, the morning had not yet been overtaken by noontime. “You have brought more back with you? Isn’t our table full enough of your..." The diminutive woman stopped in her tirade as they stopped before her.

“Princess Melyssanthi and her companions will need to rest for a little bit, grandmother. This is Pheynix Rahl," he lightly shifted the woman in his arms, “and her brother, Castor, from Volantis." He spoke with the same ease as if he was only announcing their liege-lord’s arrival.

Grandmother sucked at her gums and attempted a curtsy, as much as her old bones would allow. “Like Queen Rhaenys returned, I swear it. I saw her once, I did."

Smiling at Grandmother Hogg, said grandaughter of Queen Rhaenys, Melyssanthi nodded to the lady. “Thank you Grand Lady Hogg. I would love to hear about Grandmother back when you met her. I did not get the chance to meet her. Grandfather did talk about how I reminded him of her. He said I was impish like her." She stepped toward the lady and gently clasped her hands. “But I believe if you have a fine seamstress my cousin has need of her, or him if you have a surgeon possibly? A maester?"

Noting the fact that no one was meeting her eyes, Melyssanthi nodded. “Ah. Well seamstress it is. I have read a bit about what the maester’s learn about in Citadel so we will manage with the help of Ser Baekyn of course since he so brilliantly started the process of healing my cousin, Pheynix."

Unable to fall asleep like her body wanted to Pheynix listened to the bawdy song that Ser Baekyn had sung. “Had I enough blood to blush I believe I would at that tune Ser." As Melyssanthi took charge and showed what a Princess of Blood and Fire who was beloved of the small folk could do. It made Pheynix think about what this Princess was going to have to do. She could not bear to have this girl fall to her Uncle as the Maester on Dragonstone had fallen to Maegor.

Maegor who was a friend of Vhandyr. Vhandyr her Prince. She had made the decision to read the fire in Melyssanthi correctly and not ignore it. Maegor was in the wrong. Perhaps he was being influenced by his mother or those other women. Pheynix was not a fan of Aly’s grasping ways and Tyanna was cut from the same cloth just worse. She imagined this was what happened to girls whose father’s did not say no, ever.

“The smaller the stitch the better, Great Lady." Pheynix responded after Melyssanthi chimed in.

While his grandmother attended to the Princess and guided her inside their keep, Ser Baekyn could do little but shake his head. That woman would talk and spin tales all day, if he let her. And he would, even if she had the habit of embellishing from time to time. Ser Baekyn followed after them, with instructions that his grandmother did not acknowledge but did all the same - in taking them all into their open hall.

Sow’s Horn was no grand keep or castle. But it was sturdy, and the hall was warm if sparse. The straw across the cold stone was fresh, at least, and fires crackled invitingly. The knight wasted no time in laying Pheynix down on a wooden table. “Stay there." He offered with a wink, as if she had any other real choice. He pointed at a well worn bench, “Castor? That seat will do for you, until I can have a look at your leg." It was near enough to his sister, and to the warmth of the fire.

A young boy poked his head in. “Ah! You!" Baekyn bellowed. The lad stopped short at being seen. “Tell Robb to ride, hard, for Hayford, and bring their Maester back with him. We have guests in need." Just as the boy was backing out of the room, the knight stopped him again with a whistle. “And have your sister bring us some clean linens and honey."

With instructions given, Baekyn realized his guests from the night prior were still here. Good. Two women, both from a nearby village, stood at the opposite corner of the room, their eyes full of questions, their mouths agape. Another figure entered, a woman older than the two slack-jawed women but younger than the grand lady who was busy jabbering away at the Princess about Queen Rhaenys. Baekyn’s mother stopped near the two younger women and tapped them roughly, as if to shoo them not just from the room but from the keep itself. The knight rolled his eyes.

“Mother, let them stay and help." Baekyn chided jovially. “They have more nimble fingers than any of us would. And surely they'd like to help their princess’s friend." The women looked at each other and blushed but eagerly agreed.

Lady Hogg seemed caught off guard but quickly regained her composure. “Your brother left after you this morning for King’s Landing." She looked at Melyssanthi as her voice fell quiet. Grandmother was patting and squeezing the girl’s hands. Seven help her, what trouble had her son brought home now. “There has been…troubling…news but he's a fool if he's off to get himself in another war." She glanced at the princess and bit her tongue.

Baekyn scoffed as he made his way back to Pheynix. “Jon and I fought for King Aenys against some rabble. Lucky for you, lady, you will not have to suffer my fat fingered stitches as he did." He motioned for the women to approach. “Tiny stitches, like she said, honey and any herbs you think good, and then clean linens atop it. After that, you'll help her bathe. I'll carry her to Jon’s room but you two can take it from there. For her modesty." He winked again even as he gripped each woman at his side on their hips. “Thank you, ladies." He gave each a kiss on the cheek before returning to Castor to check his leg.

In the light of the fire, he knelt and propped the man’s leg on his own. Tenderly, he ran his fingers down to the ankle and pressed and prodded. He hmm’d about, feeling for any sign of bone out of place. “Sorry about this." He grabbed the man’s booted foot and bent it to the left, to the right, up and down. No matter the pain that surely inflicted, Baekyn let out a contented hmmph. “Not broken I wager, but it will be sore. You'll need to keep weight off it, and a soak after your sister is done will do you well."

[Almalthia]

Riverrun

The lands surrounding Riverrun

_{Collab with @Vanq, @Ruby, @Almalthia, @LadyRunic, @Thayr & @Apollosarcher}

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The clatter of hooves and the rolling of wheels filled the air as a procession of nearly a dozen carts and four times as many men worked their way up the muddy road. Warrior Sons and Septons by the look of them with a handful of sellswords on horseback following the man in the lead. The children of House Tully knew all too well, Gynn Tully, regularly visiting over the years bringing presents and good cheer whenever he arrived. Yet he wore a dour look as he looked over the sellswords at his side gesturing for them to ride on ahead and alert Riverrun of their coming arrival.

The more horses bringing up the rear as the wagon train passed along the road to Riverrun, the sigil of the Septs painted upon each wagon. In addition to the drivers, guards, more sat within the wagons and septons and acolytes included. The full train when it arrived would reveal around seventy total and whatever cargo they might be carrying as well. While normally their uncle arrived with plenty to give this was... Different, the look of concern and fear on some of the men of the cloth's faces could cement that alone.

Stopping along the road, he produced a wineskin and took a long drink. He had to ask for a favor from his brother... What a day this was going to be. Of course should any of his kin spot him they might want a word with the wayward scion of the House who brought so many strangers to their door. Or the children might want their presents, he had of course made sure to bring something for them all.

They had talked of the inconsequential matters that drove Abigael mad. She'd much rather discuss the things that her brothers, particularly Prentys and his sanctimonious wife, refused to discuss with her. She sighed with relief. “Finally past all the boring bits." She glanced back quickly toward her brothers and leaned closer to Bertrand. “Truthfully no wonder every male thinks every woman doesn't have brains. Those subjects are trite. I, however, am bursting to know more about what that man told us before you came upon us."

Looking at Bertrand she wondered if he'd pat her on the head and tell her that she shouldn't worry her pretty head about such things. “Tell me Bertrand, excuse me Lord Bertrand," Abigael blushed at her familiar form of address. “Have you ever come across anything about a Three Eyed Raven?" Abigael’s voice was pitched low so that only Bertrand could hear her.

Bertrand Tyrell blinked at the Tully girl with the pretty face and the fearless spirit, “Three-Eyed Raven?" He tried to remember lessons from Septons and Maesters, but it all just blurred in his mind’s eye in that moment. “No," he admitted, finally, shaking his head gently, “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of it, my Lady. Why do you ask?"

“It was something that man had said before he left. He also talked about dead Lannisters and Lannisters that were believed to be dead. Dragons, riots, large hosts that march for Kings Landing. Where you just came from." Abigael shook her head in wonderment and went on. “He talked about the High Marshall but he wasn’t clear on that. Two conflicting tales. It was… odd. I wanted to know more but he left." Abigael laid her hand on his arm and bit her lip. “I wouldn’t want to spread rumors but since you are her brother I thought you would wish to know. I was unable to verify the information fully, you understand, I was told she could be dead or lost. Truly I, for selfish reasons, don’t wish you to leave but I understand if you need to be sure of the information."

Gynn turned his horse as the wagons rolled on and started up the road yet again as he rode along a familiar shock of red hair, next to a boy he did not readily know. So coming alongside the pair he slowed his horse. “Now what’s a nice girl like you doing on a muddy filthy road like this?" Gynn cracked a smile, as moved along, coming into view of Abigail as the wagons he was escorting moved along. “My, my you get bigger every time I see you, more radiant as well. I ought to bring you to Old Town one of these days, make all the fancy ladies of the Reach jealous."

The click of horses hooves echoed against the silence of Prentys’s deep frown. For all that he approved that Abigael find herself a worthy husband? This upstart from a House of Stewards. Unworthy. It was a light to his dismal day to see their uncle. Letting his horse move up, he inclined his head to the man. “Uncle, it is a pleasure to see you. Apparently, Abigael has taken to showing Ser Bertrand Tully about her haunts." His gaze looking disapprovingly at his sister.

Bensen, found taking up something of the rear of the little group which had ridden along the way, was otherwise occupied away from the talk between Abi and the Lord Bertrand. Once he had realized precisely her angle, and the ceaseless goings-on about this and that and the other, things that…altogether Bensen did not know much about, nor know if the Lord knew about, he had drifted out and away from the conversation. Bits and pieces of that was all he picked up, though the back of his mind nagged at him. The young Tully couldn't help but find disapproval at her ventures, all things considered…it'd be alike he becoming smitten with some Kingsland matron, save that Abi didn't endure the jeering and forthright disapproval which he knew would strike against him.

Sucking on his tooth, the Tully had taken good notice of the convoy led by their Uncle. Did they know the same as the Lord Bertrand, that ill things had happened? That Maegor had returned to claim what he wished? Would it altogether be proper for him to freely voice the question, or remind the people why they went along in such a somber march by his wonderings aloud? Bensen sucked on his tooth some more, adjusted himself in his saddle. Perhaps it wasn't. It wasn't necessarily his question to ask, in any case. No, instead he urged his horse on just a little while, up and nearer to Prentys and Gynn. Nodding, with perhaps too small a smile which grew as he spoke, the young Tully greeted with a, "Uncle. If you brought her to Old Town she would surely turn pious Septs into men worthy for the Summer Isles with her liberties. Who would toll all the bells?"

Bertrand Tyrell stared at the words.

In his mind, the night replayed: he had been drunk…although he had always been drunk then. It wasn’t a compulsion; their mother had made it clear it wouldn’t have broken her heart so much had that been the case. Had Bertrand just been a drunkard, that she could have understood, she said, standing before the hearth in their solar, screaming at him.

”You were not a hateful boy, Bertie. This is NOT who you are."

He tried to apologize. She slapped him, then slapped him again, then pointed at his sister, with the skin of her face blackened already, her lip cut, her dress half-torn, her neck bruised from his hand where he held her down and choked. Then Lady Bethany slapped him again. He felt as if he might cry, but he didn’t. His mother had been wrong, because that night he did hate, and it was a true, hot hatred.

It just wasn’t Vittoria he had hated…it was himself.

Lord Theo had been the last person left in that room, besides himself, and only at the very end, just before leaving, did Lord Theo take a long, last, drink and say anything at all, “Touch your sister again, and I’ll kill you. You leave for King’s Landing tomorrow."

It wasn’t the last time he’d seen her. He saw her later that night, without their parents knowing, when she had come to him in a meeting that had left him broken. A red flame in the King’s new city had helped him find the part of him he had lost that dark night in Highgarden. But even placed back together as he was, he couldn’t help but think of that night, or the letter that followed.

So, he just stared at Abigael as if she’d hit him, but the shock of it left him seeing the face of Abigael Tully, not Vittoria Tyrell, not Bethany Tyrell, not a friendly flame, but the Lady before him now…like he hadn’t seen her before.

“I have to go back. I should have gone back, already, but I wanted to do this for her. I wanted to do something for her. I knew Dennet would see it through, Dennet would walk through the ruins of Valyria if she asked him, but I wanted to—I needed to help, because it was important to her."

A sigh escaped him like a little prayer, his brown eyes finding the horizon, before returning to her, his mouth daring a smile upon the sight of her, “I’m a different man than I was, and I owed it to her…but I can’t leave now. This is my path, and it has brought me to you. So tell me, Abigael, where does your path lead?"

Watching the thoughts run across Bertrand’s face was the most ensorcelling thing Abigael had seen. She heard her Uncle from far away and she responded to favorite people with automatic motions, her eyes not leaving Bertrand. Something that had never happened. She had always favored these men before all others and stacked them against each one in her mind and none had come close to holding her attention. None until Bertrand.

He was so different from all the others. So intense. “Bertrand…I…don’t believe that anyone has ever really asked me that. And I don’t believe I have thought past the fact that I would be married to someone and make his life easier. I don’t have the great head for military strategy. I know my strengths and I would hope that my husband would compliment them and need them. I would like to think my path is to be equally as valuable as my husband." She leaned in. “I know it is not a…all that common opinion. Please don’t think less of me for it. I would also hope there was at least some affection in the match." She blushed and looked down, peering at him from beneath her lashes.

It’d been so long, Bertie had almost forgotten what it was like to smile the gentle smile of relief and happiness, “I don’t know that I could think more of you in this moment," or, he thought, feel a greater affection than this. “Let’s get back to Riverrun, and talk?"
Abigael couldn’t help the smile that graced her features, truly engaging her whole heart, and truly brightened them from classically beautiful to radiant. Such smiles were typically reserved for her family so seeing one outside of the family was unheard of and ironically Bertrand and the Reachmen did not realize how special this moment was.

Nudging his horse closer, the multicolored mare gave a shake of her head as if to confirm his order as it came alongside Prentys. “She’s free to show around the lordling from the flower planters, after all the boy is a guest. Careful though Abi, don’t go sewing seeds." He frowned a moment then at Bensen’s comment his grin returned. “Bah, the Septons would not know what to do with a woman even less than a Maester would, even fewer probably know what they look like in the flesh!" The older Tully clapped Prentys on the back with a hearty laugh that creased his face with a smile. For a man their family rarely ever called upon he brought nothing but smiles and gifts.

“We’ve got things to discuss when I get in but... First things first, what’s it been three? Four years since I was last here to see you lot? I’ve got presents, gifts, and stories for you sprouts. Since our good Lord Paramount will no doubt have something else to do when we get in we’ll gather up all you to help with the wagons... And then we can see about those gifts, unless you are all too high and mighty to help an old man unload after a hard journey?" He spoke, gib and relaxed, working to put the children as he saw them at ease. He would not burden them yet with his fears and worries, he was their uncle first... The General could wait to speak his piece later.

There was a distinct cough as Prentys rode up alongside the two lovebirds. Their twittering was as obvious as his wife’s pious nature. “Dearest Sister, if you would perhaps disengage yourself from your flippant discussion to the fact we are being visited by our esteemed uncle?" His voice was dry enough to have replaced the scene of the Riverlands for Dorne. “Ser Bertrand is welcome to join us," The silent so long as he were to behave hung in the air. Leaning closer to his sister he spoke in a undertone of great disapproval. “Sister you throw yourself at him as a common woman. You are of House Tully."

[POOHEAD189]

The attack had been swift and well executed. Kian almost laughed when the arrows came whistling out of the trees and the screams erupted up the road. He had figured the Lord of Light would not have let him die so ignominiously at the ass end of the world. Though, admittedly, he had been a bit worried there for a moment.

The Red Priest did gape, however, when he saw the vanguard of his saviors.

"Dothraki!?" He echoed to himself. He had a comically bewildered look on his face as arrows arced past his vision and men and horses collided with the poorly equipped Faith Militant. Blood spurted and men screamed, accompanied by the whooping cries of the Dothraki and the more stoic warcries from the notably more armored Westerosi that followed them. Amid the chaos, Kian decided he would not question good fortune. His rescuers were curious, but that just made it all the more interesting. His thoughts were interrupted by a particularly girlish squeal, and he winced when he saw a Faith Militant being murdered in an exceptionally brutal fashion.

Still, he waited patiently for the one sided slaughter to finish, not saying another word and simply watching. Soon, the cries of pain and elation subsided, now replaced by the moaning of the dying and the laughter of the victorious. He felt the rope around his wrists begin to chaffe a bit, but otherwise he was not in too big of a hurry to speak to whoever led this warband. Of course, he swiftly changed his mind when a well armored and lovely woman approached him, leaving behind a still warm corpse she had just comforted. It seemed like there was going to be one surprise after another today, and it occurred to the itinerant priest that despite being saved, he was still in quite a precarious position.

"Yes, I've noticed." He replied to her. "I've watched as you Westerosi have shared your culture with each other all morning. I suppose it's a bit like the Dothraki, though a bit less bloody and far more talk of justification." At that last word, he chuckled. He found the woman had introduced herself well, at least. He visibly brightened when the maiden spoke so knowledgeably with the epitaphs of his deity. She sounded educated, and moved with an almost courtly etiquette. Kian did find it curious she was leading these men, a tale he was most interested in hearing. Her invitation arrived just after that thought, actually.

"I would be a madman to refuse after that introduction. To say it would be a delight would be a disservice, my lady." He responded, his voice as smooth as liquid gold. "And before you ask, yes, I do lay it on thick. Erm-" He looked at the corpses of the zealots on the ground, shrugging. "Perhaps a bit too thick, I admit."

He gestured to his hands, or that was to say, he sort of wriggled a bit and gesticulated with his head towards his back. "If you would do me the kindness of cutting me loose, I would be much obliged. I go by the name of Kian, and as you guessed, I am a priest of R'hllor, Defender of the Lord of Light, The Heart of Fire, God of Flame and Shadow. And truth be told, he's been a bit of a jokester as of late, it seems."

All this talk of fire had Kian wondering if the phrase 'out of the pot and into the fire' was apt here. Hopefully not.
@Ruby

[Ruby]

_{Vaera Balaerys, dragonrider
Lyman Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock}

The North Silver Street Counting House; too many paths led here for her to ignore it any longer. Vaera didn’t bother hiding who she was—the eyes in Lannisport were everywhere, and they were all eager for every detail of every ‘strange’ thing they saw. A Valyrian woman wearing light armor and armed? That would count as strange nearly everywhere in Creation that Vaera dared travel.

There were two men present, one old, one younger. She knew their names because she’d already heard them come up in tales and retellings many times before, Darwyn was the elder, Heath the younger. Both knew what Vaera needed to know was the impression she got as she stood outside the counting house, waiting for the right time.

The right time seemed to find her. “Awful business, Lady Vaera.”

“I’m not a fucking Lady, and who are you?”

Her lavender eyes squinted at the sight. There was something not right about the man. He was middling height, barely taller than she was, and thin. His clothes stank, his matted grey hair stank, and his teeth were nearly Lannister yellow as he smiled at her. In short, he was disgusting. It was a sharp smile, the kind that hid daggers behind it, with beady little dark eyes that just seemed to know something Vaera did not.

Her head turned this way and that, her body going from leaning against the inn across from the counting house to standing upright and ready for the fight. He just…sighed at her, “I have served the Kingdom of the Rock.”

“There is no more Kingdom of the Rock, so what do you serve now?”

His smile twisted, “My Princess, of course,” his voice was wrong. It had the weight of a renowned mummer, the sophistication of Volantis old money, and the sharpness of a cunning mind. None of that should have been coming out of a stinking peasant in the streets of Lannisport.

“…you’re one of her spies.”

When she saw the glimmer of the steel of the thin dancer’s blade produced from his rags, she nearly pulled her own blade…something stilled her hand, something told her not to, “She’s not dead. Her brother wants to find her.”

“Her fool brother caused this.”

She wanted to laugh, because she agreed, except Vaera didn’t mean that brother, “Lord Lyman.”

That seemed to stop the spy. “A good lad, that one.”

She heard her heart beating in her ears, as her sword hand kept firm but not overly tight, like any good sword fighter. If he moved, she’d have one chance to parry, and only one. She could not act late, she could not hesitate, she could not misread his body…or she’d be in real trouble. “He seems like the only sane member of the family, but I never met her…what’s your name?”

His lips formed to grin, as his blade nearly made her draw as it moved, a flourishing motion that simply moved the blade from pointed at her, to pointed skyward, and tightly close to his chest as his body went to full height.

He was taller than she thought, his posture manipulating the perception of his height to her eyes. She’d been fooled by old mummer’s tricks. It was bitter, but it wasn’t nearly as bitter as dying at the hands of a man in stinking rags. “Prince Lyman and Princess Lorelai are worthy offspring of the late King and Queen, indeed.”

Are, he said, and her mind snatched the word, “You know she’s alive.”

It wasn’t a question. Vaera’s instincts told her this mystery man knew more than anyone else did in the entire Westerlands. “I am Eustace, Lady Vaera of House Balaerys.”

“I’m not a fucking Lady,” she repeated, flatter, duller than before, but just as quickly and instinctively as she had the first time—her body still facing him from the side, her hand still ready to draw Valyrian steel in a beat of her heart, her knees still ever-so-slightly bent and ready to move.

He laughed at her, like he was some Lordling having a go at an old mate, “You must permit me this honorific for you, it would be most unsuitable for a servant of the King of the Rock to be improper.”

Vaera Balaerys cocked a brow at the strangest spy she’d ever seen. He’s fucking mad. Something Vhandyr once told her about madness and great sparked in memory in the back of her mind, and took her chance, “Fine. So nice to meet you, Eustace. Where is she? I know you know. Just like I know you know who really tried to kill her.”

“Mm, I’ll admit my propensity for private matters, Lady Vaera,” he giggled at her.

Vaera’s brow furrowed and her mind doubled back: …did he giggle at me? “I’m not here to hurt her. If you think Lyman will want to help her, please, Eustace, tell me where she is.”

He spun on a heel as graceful as any dancer she’d ever seen, and by the time his face turned to her view, the steel was gone, and the man stood at an impressive full height, as he gave a small bow to her, “Seek only the Admiralty House, Lady Vaera, a lad by the name of Konrad. Do tell him I sent you.”

The moment he turned the corner, her eyes darted in every direction to see who had seen what, to see who else might be lurking, to ensure there wasn’t another spy waiting for her back with dagger in hand. To her horror…there was no one. No one to witness, just an empty Lannisport North Silver Street. She felt like a fool as her breath left her lips heavy, burdened, in relief.

“I hate this place.”

Konrad was a lad, truly, at maybe ten years of age at the most. Yet the child became possessed with character and wisdom thrice his age the moment Vaera dropped the name Eustace upon him. The story came as quickly as Vaera could ask the questions. Where did she go? On a ship headed north, to Bear Island. How long ago? Before the sun rose on the night her uncle tried to kill her. By now she’d been at Bear Island for days. Why hadn’t she gone to Lyman? She couldn’t risk endangering him, and she’d lost faith in Loreon.

She’d offered him gold in thanks, but the boy instantly returned, and he laughed at her before running off. In her shock, she could only repeat herself: “I hate this place.”

Her return to Casterly Rock was tense, though more because of what she didn't see than what she did see: none of Loreon's people were to be seen. Moreover, what she did see were various Westerland Lords coming and going, like they wouldn't have just a day ago. Something had changed, and that something was fairly plain the moment the household guard delivered her to Lyman.

To her surprise, Loreon was there with Lyman in a private gallery, Loreon was seated and sullen, Lyman was relaxed and sipping wine from a golden goblet. There were no Esossi anywhere to be seen. There was no Red Lady. Most notably, however, was the great sword Brightroar laid before Lyman Lannister on the long narrow table in the gallery in which he sat at it's center, his older brother on a stool on one end. Before she could ask, Lyman explained it: the men with his brother were sent back to Essos, with their red woman. Loreon would be allowed to follow them, leaving Lyman Lannister as Lord of the Rock.

“I will be providing the Princess with an escort to anywhere of her choosing. She will want to burn her fallen brother in dragonfire, and so be it. She has a fortnight to pick her destination. You will have just as long to pick your next destination, Lady Vaera.”

Just this once, she actually wished she could have stopped herself, “I’m not a Lady, Lord Lyman.”

Flatly, he drank, before answering, “No, you are not, but I am still hopeful you have been successful?”

Vaera heard herself retell it all. At the mention of the spy that she lied and said he renamed nameless, Lyman just blinked at her. At the idea that the truth of his sister was veiled in the walls of the Admiralty House…he did not seem to be surprised at all. At the mention of her final destination, and the reasons why she kept it all secret, the sharpness of his green-eyed gaze was all the acknowledgement he would offer.

It was as if the youngest Lannister was cut from gold, himself, cold and unmoving like one of the golden statues in the gallery all around, “You have served House Lannister well, Vaera. You may request your payment as you see fit.”

For a reason she couldn’t place, something deep inside her suspected this would be the last time she saw Loreon Lannister. “Good luck, Loreon.” He returned it to her, his tone low, his appearance in the moment…tragic to her eyes, even if the tragedy was of his own making. Even before she left the room she knew where she’d go.

The Lonely Light. Then north—to Bear Island.

[Ezekiel]

Collab with @Vanq and @Runic

The Queen, her hand clutched to her belly, stood staring out into the area where her husband lay. That the swordsmen who had come against them was a mercy for had they survived? By her command they would have died. Alys felt sick at the sight of her husband, the horror of it even as she felt a sick fear that Maegor had fallen. There was no cry that came from her lips though they moved in silent prayer. Let him live, she begged whatever gods existed. For if he died here and now? The children of Aenys would surely seize the throne that by rights should go to the child in her belly. She would be deposed as Queen. Set aside for all the realm to mock, the Queen of a Day. The Whore Queen. Oh, she could hear the mockery already!

“Send the Maester to the King.” She snapped out and gave Tyanna an imperious gaze, “Go. You know herbs, perhaps something from Essos could be of use.” A command, not a request. Even as she looked across the scene of victory, a scene of nightmare, she spied that bastard child of her House. A slight shadow against the Dragonlord of Volantis. That was more oil to the fire of her rage. Did she think to rise above her station? To rise to stand as if she was Alys’s equal? She, a base-born bastard of some dragon seed? Gesturing to a serving woman, she leaned to the side, “Have word sent after this to Lord Balaerys that I wish to thank him for his support on this day.” It would do to nurture that relation, though she would also use it to perhaps secure the future of her kin or the lack thereof. There were better options than a servant for such a Lord.

Her brown eyes caught the body and head of her youngest brother and the Queen felt a pang of loss. Horas had been too young, but how could anyone deny him the honor? He had fought for her and her husband. She would light a candle for him even as she watched the scene of her king’s fall. “He will survive. A dragon does not die easily and not from such petty wounds.” She assured herself. Hoping she could believe it.

Tyanna erupted with a rageful growl as she watched Maegor rip a man’s face apart only to fall muttering seconds later. Men and their impetuous need for violence. She smothered the feeling and formed it into something more suited to her position, something more suited to the rumors of relationship she had encouraged to spread and smolder. She accepted Alys’s instructions, action she would have taken regardless. It wasn’t his time, not yet. She would not let him end himself this way, before she could make use of it.

She put a hand to the queen, softly, on her shoulder, her face twisted but in what appeared as shared anguish. “You must get yourself to safety. Surround yourself with men you trust and have a room prepared for your husband. Fuck the Maesters, do not trust them. Visenya and I will see to him, return him to you and his kingdom.”

She did not wait to see if the queen heeded instructions thrown back at her. Tyanna had had foresight enough to dress for easy movement and not for show. Already the crowd began to separate - those who wanted to flee for one reason or another, those who sought to rush the field, and those who were intent on taking advantage of the chaos. The Pentoshi woman sneered at them all, shoving men, women, and children alike out of her path. She’d one goal and it was to the killing field, to the massacre these barbarians had unleashed.

“MOVE.” The common tongue was harsh from her mouth, rumors of her had easily spread in her short time in King’s Landing, a boon for her as few would want to touch the severe woman said to dabble in dark arts. One did not care to listen to her commands and blocked her path down a set of stairs with his ineptitude at moving his bulk out of her way. A slim knife found its way between his ribs, he sputtered, tripped, and was summarily trampled under foot by everyone else pushing behind Tyanna. She didn’t give it a second thought but to follow the flow of the crowd down and out. Where most others sought freedom out of the stands, she turned and followed a tunnel that gave way at last to the field.

It stank. Blood and torn flesh, a metallic and pungent scent that caked in the dry earth and clung to her. Knights and men-at-arms in Targaryen colors were converging on the king’s body. “CAREFUL,” her voice carried, “you fools.” If they harmed him in attempting to move him, she’d gut every last one of them before her return to Pentos.

“VHAGAR”

The first words the Dowager Queen spoke were both name and command, the Valyrian word casting out impossibly loud from the frame of an older woman, and met immediately by an ancient scream which almost seemed to sunder the air itself.

Then the dragon, second only to the Dread himself in scope, was perched atop the grand rim of the stone arena, masonry crackling with strain beneath her claws

“Ȳdragon.” Visenya spoke again, and Vhagar roared once more, this time sweeping her head low over the crowd beneath her, coming nobleman and peasant alike, and ceasing the untimely riot of movement that prevented easy access down to the sands of battle itself. Then she was moving, swiftly down and through the cowed crowd, vaulting over the side of the arena with an athleticism no woman her natural age should of been able to handle. Still, the bones of her legs and knees ached when she landed, but such pain did not mar the face of Visneya, only a scowl of focus and rage.

She quietly spoke further words of Valyrian, words of power, as she closed on the already crowded form of her son. The darkest of magics stirred around her, willing the King into a form of stability, if only so that he could be moved, and even then to that she trusted only her closest guards, the men clad in plate so dark it was as to obsidian among those who had reached him.

“To the Keep.” Her voice was quieter, not entirely able to hide the strain of her use of power, as her eyes settled on Tyanna. “You as well.”

There was a relief, even a cringing one, as Visenya called in a battlefield shout for her dragon. The great beast quelled the crowds. A panic here would spread across the Realm. Alys could hear it now, ‘The King is dead, long live the new King.’ Maegor had done nothing to earn their ire, except defy their petty minds to marry her and conceive a son. A necessity in a king that they thought to deny. Turning to the servants behind her, the Queen felt her chin rise in refusal to fall to such lowly panic. To refuse to think of the terror that would await a former king and rival prince if Rhaenys’s descendants took the throne. “Prepare the Keep for the King’s arrival. Water, clean bandages, and whatever herbs might be needed. See that the way is clear for the Dowager Queen and her son.” Looking at two cringing maids in particular, she snapped her fan closed. “One of you, go to the Harroways and tell them of the Royal family’s thanks and sorrow for the death of my brother. That he fought well in defense of his King and brother-in-law. The other, the same to the Baratheons.” She could not indebt the Targaryens to such houses, but there were appearances to be maintained. Reviewing her thoughts, she stared at the frozen maids and snapped her hand out. “GO.” They fled. Her own hands gathered the hem of her gown as she moved quickly to the stairway that would lead to the field. Beckoning a few of the wenches that remained with her. Her breath came in slight gasps as she felt the impossible sun beat down on the arena. That Maegor fought in this in armor? Her King would survive through fire and this was just another test for him to overcome. There was no doubt that he would live.

He had to live.

[Ruby]

_{Lady Vittoria Tyrell, High Marshall of the Reach}

At his insistence of ‘laying it on’ thickly, Vittoria just stared with her soft brown eyes, long brown hair waving in the breeze behind her armored shoulders. In truth, she had no idea what he meant. Instead, she turned her back and addressed her sworn shield, Ser Ryam, “Let’s bring up a horse for the man, Ser? One of their own will do.”

Garin’s men hadn’t let all the horses of the Faith Militant just run off. One of them would be brought up, as they had no spares of their own. None of their own had been wounded, let alone fell in the skirmish of the old oak. When she turned back to the priest, there was no real change of expression, no break of warmth except for the courtesy of a smile, “Of course,” she said, motioning for some of the mounted men who remained close by to come in and cut him down.

At his introduction she went through her mind, to see if there was any recall of him—she’d met so many people during her hosted triumph in Volantis, and so many red priests and priestesses, so many cryptic introductions, so many mysteries presented to her, as if she had some grand place in a great design for creation.

Like she was something more than a girl who liked to read, liked sweetcakes, and liked attending service at the Sept in Highgarden with her friends and family. To this day, she felt little different than that girl…except for the weight she felt upon her shoulders now. A weight that had nothing to do with the armor she wore. She was there to offer him a hand after he was cut loose, as Ser Ryam approached with the horse for him, Vittoria decided she didn’t recall him.

“One thing battle has taught me that no priest or septon ever mentioned, Kian: every god has a twisted sense of humor.”

Her own mare was brought to her, a wince of pain as she pulled herself back up to the saddle, before nodding to Garin and Ser Ryam, looking over her good shoulder to the Priest, “Shout if you have trouble keeping up,” the grin barely kept from her lips before she snapped reins and led the way back to camp, and before any more straggling Faith Militant showed up to make the day more interesting than she would liked.

[POOHEAD189]

Kian Cran'Darak

---

Well, he felt slightly deflated.

Perhaps the men and women of his homeland were far more rustic than he recalled. Kian had thought the nobility might know his turn of phrase and his manner, but perhaps there was hope yet. He merely needed to spend a bit of time with the woman, and there was always something interesting to learn in a foreign land. Plus, it was either go with them or stay here, and a horseback ride to a destination with a delectable woman was more inviting than the hard road.

He took her hand with a gracious smile of thanks, careful not to stumble despite half his form having been strangled to sleep. Kian stepped past the corpses and looters, and chuckled at lady Vittoria's statement.

"I think I can vouche for that, my lady."

A horse was presented to him, brought by another servant. Or squire, he supposed. They seemed like battle-servants to him, but evidently if they had sufficient valor, and their liege felt particularly nice, they could be uplifted to the gentry. He wondered how often that happened? "Thank you," he said to the lad, though truthfully the 'lad' looked big and scarred enough to be labeled a 'battle-hardened man' in his mind. Or maybe it was that obtuse looking armor.

"We're playthings for the gods, so I hear." Kian said to no one in particular as he mounted the horse. A grin slowly spread across his handsome features. "If that's the case, let's at least give them a good show."

He kicked his horse forward with a shift of his hips and pressure on the beast's flanks, following after Vittoria. Kian was not the best rider in the world, and he doubted it was a feat to beat him in most scenarios one might race. But he was experienced, at least. He would not be left in the dust, and already he was hoping to impress his new 'host,' or at least not make a fool of himself. He would find out once they reached their base of operations.

Or R'hllor saw fit to throw another bit of wildfire into the mix that was his life...

[Vanq]

The Red Keep

_{Collab with @Ezekiel}

The stench of blood was in the air, a rotten sickly smell, not the hot iron of freshly spilled and vital but a stench far too close to rot for comfort.

Fires burned, both to fight back against the smell but also in ritual, a ring of braziers that surrounded the motionless form of the King, laid out before the attendants of this forbidden, forgotten place.

The air was heady with the scent of burning substances as well as that sweet but foul tang of decay, and the low cant of Valyrian only seemed to stir that distorting mix of reality and magic. Visenya stood over the King, unmoving, her arms raised above her as she called to ancient powers, the old gods of Valyria and beyond, any ancient power that might restore Maegor. The only champion, she was certain, that could prevent the Kingdom from slipping into eternal darkness. There were others who ‘could’ but only one who ‘would’ only she had raised the man strong enough to make the choices necessary.

She fought to keep her tone steady, to avoid the overspill of rage and worry that thrummed through her body. She called to the spirits of her siblings, her most treasured, lost years ago. She called to grandsires and great grandsires who had lead her family across the sea at the direction of her forebears, the women of House Targaryen who had always shouldered its greatest burdens, and forged its greatest ambitions.

Aegon and Rhaenys were beside her, she knew it, despite what bad blood had passed between her and their descendents. They would not let the dynasty fall, they would not let the world fall. She had sworn she would do anything to prevent that.

Which explained the presence of the witch, the one who had no grounding in the Valyrian arts of old but instead in darker powers, but if they lent their strength to the return of her son, she would give them everything, forever and a day.

Tyanna had thought that, perhaps, the king's mother would have resisted her aid. Instead, she stood opposite the woman, the once-queen, and was surprised to feel a sickly power envelope the room. Her face did not betray her or show her discomfort, she wore a mask of anger. She seethed, still, that it had come to this and that she had the taste of this Valyrian magic. It felt hot, heavy, a disturbing touch that repulsed her, disgusted her, even as a small bit of respect crept into her that Visenya wielded it at all.

It explained so much, Tyanna mused silently, about Maegor. But now was not the time to try and unravel that tangled mess.

She swallowed roughly to hide a gag at the cloying taste that assaulted her throat. The feeling here in the Red Keep was less oppressive than Dragonstone had been. It helped, and as the Valyrian prayers quieted, the witch spoke at last. Not in Pentoshi Valyrian, but in the common tongue. She would not lend even a small amount of power to that source.

Her hand hovered over the king’s body, moved in the air above him, pulled and pushed at the things unseen. “It is a deep injury, how remarkable.” Tyanna’s voice became barely more than a murmur, commands in an old language, parts of ancient knowledge that had been passed to her.

It rebelled against her and she gasped, her brow furrowing in frustration. It did not like the heat, it did not want this abomination to be alive. It wanted to be used as it was meant to be, for there to be ice and night and death. The witch growled, a momentary lapse in frustration, and cursed it. She felt it push back again, angry at her, a sudden feeling of ice down her spine.

Tyanna muttered an incantation anew, having moved to the king’s head, her pale hands gripping the muscular flesh at his shoulders. And that was it, the battle of wills won, or, at least, at a truce. She felt the power bend to her will, reveled in its obedience to her. It would assist the abomination and her magic. It had to, or it would need to wait for longer for the next opportunity to enter this world again.

“I will give you my strength for this, take what you need.” Her dark red lips pressed tightly together, preparation for how unpleasant she expected this would be. “After, there are tonics and potions we will need to treat him with. You will help me with this?”

“Drink.” The Dowager-Queen commanded, as a dark liquid was presented to Tyanna by one of the attending ritualists. A tonic, or potion as some would say, of Old Valyria, and one which would allow them to combine their strengths for the trial ahead. Visenya took her own, a mirror of the goblet offered to Tyanna, and drank deeply. The taste had been repulsive when she had first been learning the arts of her ruined homeland, but now the bitten, ashen, taste felt almost comforting, the violent retching she had once experienced replaced with a barely observable flinch. Still, it burned all the way down, the fire lighting its way down her as she returned to the chanting, the cloying tones of Valyrian rebounding off stone walls as the ritualists joined her, but a beat behind in the rhythm of her chant.

The shadows cloyed at her vision, as if they gathered around the room at its edges, narrowing and drawing closer to the form of the King before her. Her vision grew hazy, the shadows twisting into images of ancient gods, but she held the chant. Even as they threatened to overwhelm her, to steal back their power, to enact their vengeance and rip her apart, she held the chant. Their power beat heavily in the room, the temperature rising such that it would match the caverns beneath Dragonstone, indeed, it felt like they very well might be there, between the beating cant of the ritual. It was becoming too much, attendants began to waiver and faint at the edges of her vision, but she paid them no heed, she simply needed to draw more from the witch, the vitality and power she offered. She did so freely, even if the feel of her was so very different to the Valyrian origin of the others. She would question, at a more suitable time, why she had found her way to Westeros, but for now, she was simply thankful for the boon.

With a shuddering gasp the last of the ritualists collapsed, frothing at the mouth which seemed to bubble and steam in the cloying air. Visenya stood still, but her arms and legs felt like leaden weights, every part of her body was on the verge of collapse, and part of her knew that a piece of her she would give to this effort she might never recover.

With a snarl that was almost a yell of victory she finished the chant, the last tones of Valyrian rebounding from the stone walls and casting away the cloying shadows. The heat rushed out of the room as if routed by a breeze of frost. leaving Visenya panting, nearly slumped, before the form of her son.

His chest rose stronger than before, but he did not wake, still, she felt convinced their work would prove fruitful.

“Now…yes, I will aid you with the treatment.” She spoke, her voice hoarse with strain and age far greater than before they had started.

It had, she thought, been worth it. Though the magic left her shaking and shaken, a reverberation that echoed through her body and mind. There would be a price to pay, there always was. Only time would tell how great it would be or from whom it would be extracted. The musings kept her grounded and stopped her from spilling the contents of her stomach on the stone floor - just barely. Her dark eyes took in the form of Visenya Targaryen. It had not been easy on her either. Tyanna wanted to smirk, but even if she hadn’t known better, her body was in no mood to cooperate with that effort.

“A few things to keep his body calm and allow your magic to heal him.” The Pentoshi sorceress drew a delicate finger along the king’s body as she approached a long table that held her wares. She had not had the fortune to be born to a bloodline of magic, what she had had needed to be earned. But this? Potions and tonics, things that could soothe or inflame; the maesters at the Citadel only ever shared a fraction of the potential. Tyanna was not and had never been so limited.

She leaned against the structure, her back to Visenya, and allowed her shoulders to slump. “You are powerful, that could not be any more clear.” The witch didn’t wait for a response or even acknowledgement. “This is not the first time such magic touched your son.” Her head turned, harshly, a shadow over her pale face as she chose her next words with caution. “At least now I understand the obstacle to fulfilling my original purpose with the king.” Tyanna shook her head with a thin and strained laugh. “Time will tell if that can be overcome, or what will need to be given to secure your bloodline.” House Targaryen could carry on, with the soft king’s whelps, but not the branch that mattered. “But I am no stranger to difficulty, I will remain until it is done.”

[Vanq]

Ashford

_{Collab with @Ezekiel}

Eventually, Ellyn had been moved from the room. No matter that a bond of sorts had formed with her one-time captors, she was initially relieved when the Warrior’s Son appeared and beckoned her out. It was a short-lived hope though. She was escorted, roughly, to another room somehow even less well appointed than the one she had briefly shared with the Baratheon lordling and his few men.

It was small, cold, and smelled of rotting hay and piss. The toothy grin the knight gave her as he shoved her was dark, a shiver of deep terror took hold of her body. Whatever the Faith Militant had planned here, it was not in service to the Seven. That it was Lady Dayne’s immediate thought caused her brow to furrow. When had this happened, how?

The Dornish knight leaned against a wall and sunk down, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. She rested her head atop her legs. Years of wrongs, of slights, of pity, and of hatred spilled out in wracking sobs. By the time she fell asleep, her chest ached and it hurt to breathe. Sleep offered no relief, she dreamed of failure and death. She dreamed of blood on her hands, caused by each wrong and awful choice she made.

When she woke, it was to shouting outside her room. Ellyn stood slowly and peered out the narrow slit that passed for a window. She couldn’t see much other than a flurry of activity and the sound of men screaming orders. It sounded disorganized, not the put together order that the Warrior’s Sons demanded. No matter that she felt she could sleep for another day or that her body ached as she paced the small space, she knew she needed to act.

Beneath the layer of action was the desire to curl back up on the floor and let the Stranger take his due. The knightly lady ignored it, pushed it down, buried it. She didn’t have Dawn, and that became her need, her reason.

She leaned against the door, her ear pressed against it but heard nothing. No shuffling feet, no quiet talking. Her eyebrows raised up as she mulled over whether or not she was sane. But her hands pulled at the door anyways, testing it, and to her greater surprise, felt it move. She yanked harder but it gave no further. A guttural sigh came out of her throat; it wouldn’t be that easy. Instead she turned back to the room and began looking for anything that would give her leverage to wedge the door open.

A few weeks ago she would have thanked the Crone for what she uncovered. Now though, she suppressed a triumphant yell. The room they had sequestered her in had once been a servant’s, or perhaps a storage area to quickly bring supplies to the lords and ladies under their charge. Against the short wall, she felt a breeze and with a little bit of work, found the hidden handle that easily slid open a door into a long corridor. It was empty but not dirty, obviously having been in frequent use.

She gave the small room one last look before heading down the long corridor.

It seemed to connect to several rooms in this wing of the castle but she ignored them all, unsure of what she would find inside. For now, she was alone and safe. The corridor ended quickly though, another door and from the breeze, she was certain it led outside. But to where? It was a few seconds of contemplation, and then action.

She opened the door a crack and peered out to see that it was a courtyard. There was noise in the distance, not far, but it was the same din of orders and men rushing about that she had heard from her room. Ellyn took a tentative step out, head held down, her mussed hair over her face to try and hide her eyes. It was not empty here, but it was thinned out. No one seemed to notice her and so she made her way around the building, in the shadows and in the opposite direction of where the noise came from.

Where would they have taken Dawn though? That bastard probably had claimed it as his. The irony of the rage that built in her wasn’t lost on her. No matter the fear in her gut at it, she turned and began to follow, at a distance, where the crowd went.

The sight in the distance caused her throat to constrict and her stomach turned. A scaffold had been erected and it was not empty. She blinked a few times as she ducked in and out of the crowd. Her hope that it was meant for some other hostages or criminals evaporated as she drew close enough to see Rogar held off to the side. She imagined that his hands were bound. Her mind formed the darkest thoughts and saw him pushed down to his knees and a sword swung down. She saw his head roll, dead eyes that would bore into her. Ellyn shook her head and cleared the unwanted images.

What did it matter, war had been bubbling and threatening for years now. It was coming to a head just as she thought and had hoped for. The dragon’s kin was guilty by association and she needed her sword. She needed to get it and escape, she needed to live, no matter how low she had fallen in the night.

Her body betrayed her, her subconscious betrayed her, and she moved off to the side to think through how to get to him unnoticed. Chaos erupted around her before she had decided on anything. Lady Dayne didn’t know what had occurred, but she thanked the Seven. Men yelled again and the pending execution stalled.

“Damn it.” Stalled, but for how long? Men cleared out just as quickly as they had filled this space and Ellyn caught sight of Rogar and some of his men being roughly shoved back towards where they must have been held before this. She had no weapons, but as she moved she saw a discarded sword, it was rough and cheap but she grabbed it and kept moving, following at a distance.

The Warrior’s Son knight locked a door, looked around, and seemed disappointed at needed to say there and not run off to where the rest of his men had run. Ellyn allowed one final moment to second guess her decision.

She moved, choosing a path that took her out of line of sight of the knight and around the building. Once again she was met with disappointment at there being no other obvious point of entry to the stone outbuilding. She crept back around to the front. The knight would need to die. She couldn’t risk him rousing to alert the others too quickly. He hadn’t been dressed in full armor, the only saving grace for her she thought.

With a deep breath to steady herself, she briefly closed her eyes and muttered a desperate plea that the Warrior would see the justice in this. When her eyes opened again, they were cold and determined. She charged but without a sound or cry.

Ellyn caught the knight off guard, though he was larger than her by a good deal, surprising him would only benefit her for the briefest moment. It was all she needed though. Ellyn avoided his attempt to shove back against her, ducking down and a quick step out of his reach. She’d hit him in her initial attack, an annoying wound and nothing more. But it made her smile to see him wince when he lifted his sword arm. She drew into him again, from the side, and drew the sword against his leg. He hissed angrily and stumbled. As she drew back to her full height, she plunged the sword into his armor-less side. The sword didn’t come free, but it didn’t need to.

Lady Dayne fished the key from his dying body. She spat on him, a hazy anger overtaking her. She opened the door, unsure of what to expect.

“A full pardon for my aid, Lord Rogar?”

The days had not been kind to Rogar, and the fleeting nights of unconsciousness no true reprieve either. The tender mercies of the Faith had turned out not to be tender at all, although they had stopped short of anything that might permanently disfigure the young lord, that was perhaps it. To parade a broken man would have been no victory, but that was all the restraint they had shown. His skin, pale like his grandmother’s rather than the Campaigners’ tan of his grandsire was marked across with bruising, and he couldn’t seem to open one of his eyes as the lock turned, and the door opened.

He wasn’t sure how he had intended to react to her presence again, as several nights had passed he’d rather given up on seeing anyone he might recognise again, although he’d done his best to not show his captors such pessimism of his own fate. Rogar expected that he should be angry, for all her reactions of the day of their capture could have simply been falsehoods but some part of him doubted Ellyn could even tell a lie, let alone put on a murmer’s performance.

Instead he coughed through lungs that burned at the effort of expanding his bruised chest, the exposed upper half of his body a lattice of further marks and minor cuts, and rasped something that held a fraction of his usual easy charm.

“You’ll….have to forgive me…my lady….I am rather indisposed.” Finally, with the presence of someone who might not be here to beat him further, he allowed himself to sag, the defiance flooding his muscles all gone as the chains binding his hands to different walls rattled as he went slack, held up only by the tension in their making. “I wasn’t planning on writing up the charges….anyway.” He slurred a little, his mind going to fire then blissful absolution, if only for a moment, before he gasped and both eyes snapped open, a tremor rushing through his form as something instinctive in him urged him not to give up. She was moving towards him, he was half aware of that, seeking to catch him before he might truly strike the ground. The eye had opened, lashes thick with the juice of torture, was shot through red, but it still met her own with a sudden intensity which suggest the Lord was coming back to himself.

“Help me with the chains and…you have a deal.”

She didn't know what she had expected, but it wasn't this. Her breath in was a hiss, from a distance she hadn't seen the damage done, the pain inflicted. It was a kick in the gut to see him like this and she was frozen for a few moments before her feet carried her forward and into him. Ellyn’s hands caught him against his torso as he sagged, but the fire in his eye gave her hope. She forced a smile, thin and full of concern. “A little worse for wear than from the boar, it seems.” She didn't know what else to say, the levity was uncalled for but it was all that came to mind to fill the silence. Seven…Why had they done this?

The knight let the Lord rest against her as she reached above him to free one hand from his restraints and then the other. She dropped the keys she had pilfered from the dead guard as the Rogar crashed into her with his full weight, no longer restrained. As she helped him find his footing again, her hand briefly ran across his bruised and bloodied face, her voice an angry whisper. “I'm so sorry.”

She led them out, Rogar slumped over her, back into the daylight. The sounds of skirmishes carried over from a distance away and they were left here with only a few souls milling around. Ashford servants, artisans, merchants, who had had little choice but to allow and accept the Faith Militant’s presence. At least for the moment, few seemed to do more than glance at the pair and then scurry away. Armored men were still present but had other issues to contend with it seemed, and Ellyn was able to slowly walk with Rogar's arm slung around her shoulders, half dragging him, towards the set of buildings she had originally approached from.

In the shade of the relatively secluded spot, she propped him against a wall. “I don't think we'll be lucky enough to not need weapons to get away from here.” And go where? The question would need an answer at some point, any direction as long as it was not here would be good enough for now. It stung too, the reminder that Dawn had been lost to her. Not because of her family that she had spent so long running from, but her own decisions and mistakes. Ellyn swallowed hard and pushed away the thoughts. “Rest a little.” She wasn't convinced he had the strength for it, worry lined her face. It was better to have something to do, though, and so even reluctantly, she left him there to find swords for them both, a water skin if there was any luck, a hunk of bread to take away some of the gnawing in her stomach and what she could only imagine of the Baratheon lord's.

Her search, though rushed and leanings towards frantic, was fruitful. She returned to Rogar’s side with a quick study of him. Ellyn’s eyes struggled to not linger on him too long as she rested a sword and an axe against the wall next to him. She slid a small satchel from her shoulder and opened it to pull out a vaguely clean cloth and small wineskin. It smelled nearly of vinegar but was thin and watery. Good enough to take off the edge of thirst but not much more. “Drink some, but try not to taste it.” She offered him the skin with a warning only after wetting the cloth with a bit of it.

If they were going to get out he at least needed to be able to see and it was the only thing she could immediately attend to anyways. When he pulled the wineskin away from his lips, she brought the cloth to his face and wiped away the caked blood and pus. There was a tenderness in the act. “Stay still.” She chided quietly, no matter that he wasn't actually squirming about. “As good as I can do for now. The axe is yours.” She nodded to the weapons and claimed the sword.

Lady Dayne was uncertain of her next steps or of which path carried the least risk. But she didn't want to engage with a force of any size and indicated the alleyways back towards the castle. “It was emptying out already even before whatever has drawn them further away. Ready?”

He couldn’t help but lean on her as they moved, any attempts to take more of his own weight resulted in shards of pain dancing under and across his skin, and even with the assistance, moving was difficult. The pain of his injuries was one thing, but the confines of being forced to hold one position had poisoned his muscles with acid and fatigue, and it was all the fires of the seven hells to move them again. When she finally set him down so that she could hunt for what they would need, it was a shock of relief, finally resting in something close to a position of comfort, his mind once again became a rush of nothing. When she reappeared it felt only a moment after he had been left, losing whole minutes to the ravages of his mind.

Already he felt purpose stirring in his form though, a shudder of needle like sensations across his limbs as they awoke, minutes behind the rest of him but still returning to form. He had a pain fuged memory of her words, and managed another, only slightly broken, smile for her.

“It is alright….Lady Dayne….they didn’t exactly do it in your name.” He coughed and the pain flared once more, but he kept his composure this time, his fingers curling around the shaft of the provided axe with a strength of grip he didn’t truly feel. “Something must be amiss.” He mused, focusing on her with both eyes, thanks to the efforts of her cleaning. “They were probably planning to off me before things went ‘more’ wrong, so thank the Seven for you.” The chuckle he gave, while pained, wasn’t bitter, as he pulled himself to his feet, waving off her support as he finally found the strength to right himself. “May they help us with the rest of it.”

The pathways were nearly as empty as she had hoped, though with each few steps she found herself looking at Rogar to ensure his feet still went one in front of the other. Her breath caught whenever it seemed he might stumble. They couldn’t get out, not with him in this condition. Especially not when those who passed them let their eyes linger on the battered man.

It had taken only a few words to come to an agreement. They were not far from the castle, one of its towers loomed over them. Ellyn led them down a bizarre path of twisting turns. She doubted anyone of worth would be following them, but it was better to be safe. They passed by countless whitewashed houses, but she wasn’t going to tempt fate by seeing what may have been left unoccupied - or if it was - what might be quickly returned to. Time was another enemy though. The reminder wasn’t difficult whenever she looked to her side to see Rogar soldiering on with her.

At last she found something suitable, or that she was then desperate enough to accept the risk of. One of the charming houses with its whitewash nearly bare, the wooden beginning to rot. It would not be pleasant, likely, but just the same she didn’t expect they’d be interrupted. It didn’t disappoint her on her assessment. It was abandoned, domestic detritus strewn about. There was not much to block the door and she had given Rogar a hard look when she told him to sit, again. Ellyn made due with pulling over old wooden crates that sent mice and rats scurrying with the movement to block the door.

Eventually, with not much left to be done, she looked for something to sit on, gave up, and slunk down next to where she had the Baratheon lord to stay. “Get some actual sleep, I’ll wake you after dusk and we can finish getting out then.” If he was going to argue, she didn’t want to hear it. “They didn’t chain me or torture me, you need it more.”

It turned out to only be half the truth. Her eyes were heavy and they had begun to open more slowly and linger shut. Voices outside the house woke her from her near slumber with a start. “Fuck.” Her lips moved even if her voice barely registered. Rogar was still asleep next to her, his head lolled over to the side. She regretted what she had to do, but she could risk him being startled awake. Ellyn covered his mouth firmly with one hand and pushed against his chest with her other. She shook him as softly as she could until his eyes shot open. “Outside.” A whisper in his ear before she dropped her hand from his mouth and slid away from him to grab her sword.

Multiple voices for sure, men. Someone who had seen them and finally found a spare soldier or two, with hopes of a reward? Or maybe just bad luck. She couldn’t make out the full conversation, only bits and pieces. They weren’t yelling, but Lady Dayne wasn’t sure if that was in their favor. She crouched, low, behind where the door would swing open if they pushed hard enough. And they did, eventually, the thud caused her to jump even as she was prepared for it.

One man burst through first, and stumbled over the crates she had used as an obstacle. Ellyn lunged at him with a groan but only managed to elbow the knight in his head. He shook it off easily as he found his feet and another two men entered behind him. The seven really wished to test her now, didn’t they?

Ellyn tried to move out of his path, but was not fast enough in the small and shrinking space of the house. The knight’s fist plowed into her abdomen and she lost her breath, a moment of agony and fear that left her nearly seeing stars. She grimaced, sword brought up in time to ward off his next assault. He had caught the sword in his hand and Ellyn twisted it free, the knight growling in response, his blood dripping down the sword, his hand mangled.

“We’ll keep you alive for a bit of fun, bitch.” He sneered through the pain. The men behind him had taken stock of the situation and seemed to like their odds. Ellyn couldn’t blame them, Rogar was in no state for this. She wasn’t either, no matter what she had told him.

She offered no response other than moving herself between the men and Rogar, slowly. They watched her and spread themselves out. The one with the mangled hand lunged at her first, but it was an obvious move and she avoided him, and drove the pummel down on his back as she moved behind him and out of his way. Perhaps surprised that his fellow knight had managed to bungle it so poorly, the second moved on her as well, the final man moving off towards Rogar. She prayed it was enough of a chance.

Her own luck failed quickly, the second knight caught her coming away from the first. A hard backhand that sent her vision black and her muscles slack even if only for a second. It was enough that her grip on the sword faltered and fell away from her. The man with the mangled hand kicked away with a laugh. He’d gained his footing, again. Ellyn reached, half blind, for anything to stop them. Her hand met metal and she grabbed it, it was heavy and only as she swung it did it register what she had found. An old pan, blackened from years of use in the now dead hearth. It was a desperate swing but the sound she made when it connected with the mangled man’s head was gratifying. A squealing gasp erupted from the man as he crumpled to the ground with a heavy thud.

It was a short-lived victory, the second knight was on her to finish what he had started. He pushed her and she fell back effortlessly. Ellyn hit the ground on her back, the air knocked out of her again, the pain in her temple throbbing, blinding. She brought both arms up over her face and chest, tried to bring her knees up to take the blows and kicks she expected.

Something heavy hit the knight as he moved in to strike at Ellyn.

It wasn’t a charge, the object that struck the knight was entirely dead weight, spurred on by an opposing force that had struck it. In this case, it was the body of the third knight, axe protruding from the crumpled mess of his face plate and shoved back with a strength that spoke more of adrenaline and anger than anything else.

The weapon was buried with enough force that it was fully entrenched both in the metallic plate of the man’s helm and the skull within, and likely far too unwieldy to remove at speed, and so, the whole form had been improvised as a weapon.

As the two knights, one deceased, collapsed to the ground, the savage and beaten form of Rogar Baratheon followed them, pouncing down upon the pile of man and metal without care for the fact his body screamed at him, both in old pain and now in the shock of landing upon such unyielding metallic surfaces. Pinned beneath the sprawling ungainly weight of an armoured corpse, the remaining knight could barely act, pinned beyond us of his own limbs or weaponry. This did not make it a quick affair, Rogar’s weapon had been rendered useless for the moment, and so he fought with the man to claim the dagger at the belt of the dead knight. Rogar had the angle, but his hands were not plated, and every time he had to pull open the man’s grip his already ripped and torn fingers opened back up, nails pulling on segmented plate.

Eventually he took it though, pulling the dagger free and with a series of grim snarls, plunging it again and again into the gaps on the knight’s side, the cries of struggle from said knight steadily becoming gurgles and then ceasing.

Then he collapsed to the side, his world spinning once more as he struck the ground, white noise reclaiming his senses.

It was several moments of near silence, punctuated only by heavy breathing, before Ellyn opened her eyes again with a quiet string of curses. Whatever rest they had managed to steal had been spent, and likely borrowed against, she thought as she turned herself to her side and looked over Rogar.

“Let's call this even now, once and for all?” She struggled to stand and rested a little longer on her hands and knees. The lady knight knew she was in far better shape but this fight had left new welts and bruises. Breathing still caused her entire middle to ache. Still, she had tried for levity no matter that it fell flat as soon as the words were aired.

She wasn't sure how much he heard or paid attention to her, but she spoke anyways as she gathered herself.

“Staying here any longer won't do.” It was still dark, but she thought she spied a hint of light at the horizon. Dawn or fire? Ellyn smelled smoke but couldn't tell if it was from campfires or something more dangerous. “But you're in no shape to walk. More sevens-damned knights showing up and we're dead.” She paced in a small circle through the open room, eyes darting about as she considered their options. A thought clouded her judgement, everything in her told her it would be better to escape, alone if need be.

But she looked at him and couldn't. She couldn't abandon him, not while he still breathed and she could see his chest rise and fall. Could hear his pained breaths. “Stay still a little longer.” A command she doubted she needed to give.

Someone smiled on them, for when Ellyn peered out the doorway she saw a small cart. Meant to be hitched to a donkey, it was small but large enough for her to load Rogar into.

She had to help him bend into fitting the cart. It didn't look comfortable but it was better than trying to have him walk out of this cursed town. A few pilfered blankets later - and a joke muttered under her breath about more theft allegations - and Ellyn gripped the bars that should have held beast of burden to it.

“I don't want to hear a single word from you about me being an ass.” Her last command before tucking her head down like some browbeaten smallfolk trying to go about her business in the middle of the chaos.

It worked well enough, and before dawn had fully broken against the horizon, Ellyn set down the cart, sweaty and exhausted, and roused Rogar once more. “Who do you think we have to thank for this?” She pointed in the distance, to the sight of what very much seemed to be the Faith Militant army fleeing Ashford.

[Ezekiel]

The Reach, Ashford

“In case you haven’t noticed, Ser Davos, we have a war to win.” It was perhaps to the Lord’s credit that the look he gave the younger man seemed more sour now than when the matter of betrothals were brought before him. “That is hardly the time for me to parcel out men on a whim.”

Davos hadn’t attempted to broach the matter with Vittoria, their parting had been a whirlwind of emotions and act that hadn’t seemed fair to bring up the issue of his own impending daring deeds. Her focus was on her duty, to the point she’d been very direct about not allowing him to intervene even in an effort to keep her from doing harm to herself. Meanwhile, he could hardly put aside the fact she had almost died, was not yet recovered, and already throwing herself back into the crucible. Then he’d received the issive marked with the Wylde spiral, and his world had changed once more. He’d shared the news with her, but not the details of what he must do.

“I understand,” Davos spoke with a simple nod, before handing the same letter over to Theo Tyrell, stepping away only to give the seated lord a chance to read through the missive. The venerable man’s face was steely, but despite this there was still some shock readable on his features.

“You would share this knowledge with me?” The eyebrow was raised as he looked up, studying the relatively youthful, but scarred, countenance of the Baratheon. “This is enough to shake any alliance, we cannot build on sand.”

“My brother has been confirmed dead, and his son in chains, you can think what you wish of how much you can rely on my House once I have enough men to storm Ashford and set him free.” There was fire in Davos’ words, but the shrug of his shoulders more matched the flippant nature of their meaning. Thoughts of the future had been burned away, and the look of his father was upon him. He would do what he must for the here and now.

It was evident that Theo Tyrell had misgivings about Baratheons, he’d found Orys brash in the extreme and overly given to emotion, despite his competence, and nothing that he’d seen of his descendents suggested they were any different. This, along with the willingness to so freely present evidence of the House’s current weakness were factors so very different to what he had looked to build. At the same time, there were worse things than an honest ally, and one whom owed you a favour.

“How many do you need?” Already Theo’s focus was back on his desk, the scratch of ink onto parchment underscoring his words.

“I need riders more than I need numbers, enough to pull them out of the city, I trust my nephew to cause trouble on his own.” He did not add that any number of men wouldn’t prevent the captors from taking the younger Baratheon’s head should that not be true, and speed was more important in this endeavor.

“Reclaiming Ashford is a worthy aim, it is improper that such rabble be allowed to lord themselves over our loyal and true bannermen.” The stamp of the rose came down on the missive, and this new letter was handed up towards Davos. “It is good of you, Ser Davos, to volunteer to assist the Reach in this way. We will pray that in doing so you are able to recover the noble hostages held by the rebels, and if not, to avenge them.”

Davos dipped his head in a respectful bow as he took the missive, a look of gratitude flashing across his features only partially obscured by the motion. Providing the men he needed, and the means to motivate them without revealing the vulnerability of House Baratheon to any spies of the faith within the ranks of the Reachmen was an eventuality he could hardly have hoped for.

“Ride with haste, Seven guide you.”

---

“Silly little town.” Kyle Connington looked down upon Ashford from his place atop a Reach steed, taken in haste from the Tyrell host, as the cutting remark was spoken to Davos.

They were usually alike in their unsevere nature, but Davos’ attention settled on the town with an intensity that didn’t account for laughter or jests. It wasn’t that the Connington knight, one of Davos’ longer campaigning companions, misunderstood the situation or what it meant to House Baratheon, it was simply a different method of coping with that.

House Baratheon hadn’t been alone in being elevated to their position as overlords of their territory. House Tyrell and House Tully were among those that the older great houses may call usurpers, but these were still ancient families extended over twisting webs of hereditary trees. House Baratheon originated from a single bastard and a worthy queen but a generation before. To lose Durran, and have his son and heir lost was a threat that could overturn everything. Stormlanders were belicose by nature, and now was a time where many houses across Westeros were questioning loyalties that had been hard earned, and easily betrayed.

“That helps us.” Edric Celtigar rode up alongside the other two men. Only a distant cousin of the landed house, his grandfather had served alongside Orys in the early Targaryen armies, and so he, his sons, and now his grandsons served as retainers for the now-landed Baratheons. “A town designed to look pretty for tourneys and festivals is hardly a fortress, no matter how hard the rebels pray.” The small party compised of Davos’ retainers among the force he had assembled from what riders the Tyrells were willing to spare had far less moral hesitation when it came to the Warrior’s Sons and their Poor Fellows rabble, they were not men they had served alongside nor the people they ruled over. Still, they mostly kept such comments among themselves.

“They are riding under the impression we are tasked with ensuring the safety of Lord Ashford, and in securing the town.” Davos finally spoke himself, his eyes still on the town as he instructed his companions. “This isn’t a lie, it’s important we achieve these things for the benefit of House Tyrell.” The Baratheon paused only to draw his blade, but kept it low, lest the flickering of light upon the metal draw attention from the town. “I’ll ride and command the force, I want you two to find Rogar, if he’s going to make it out alive he’ll have used our distraction to separate from his captors.”

“And if he hasn’t?”

“Then we hope that whoever is in charge doesn’t try to cut their loses.” Davos’ tone kept the grim reality of what that could mean from being spoken. In truth, after the news of the loss of his brother, he had little thoughts for optimism. He’d be damned, however, if he’d let these rebels get away with the body of his nephew. He’d be damned if he let a single of them live, if they had done their worse.

“Alright then.” Kyle spoke with a sigh of held breath, before adding. “Lets kill the bastards.”

---

As the rising sun brought the shining charge of the Reach knights into view, the town was engulfed in chaos. The clatter of hooves from afar echoed through the narrow streets as knights thundered through, their armor gleaming in the dim light. The air was thick with the smell of fear and smoke as the suddenly fearful Poor fellows fled in every direction, their makeshift barricades crumbling under the relentless onslaught.

The ruse was a simple one, the knights of the assault had fanned out in a far more disperesed manner than they would normally ride into battle, hunting horns bellowing from many angles. A more disciplined foe would have little difficulty responding to such, but the attackers counted on the sort of rumors that had been circulating among the warriors of the faith, that the lords of the Southern Reach were raising banners to bring retribution to them. For many of the Poor Fellows, unused to the war they had found themselves in, the riding party may as well have been the full might of Highgarden.

That still left the men at arms and knights that had joined up with the cause, as well as the die had radicals more prepared to sell their lives in the name of the cause, and to fight even armoured foes tooth and nail for every inch of cobbled street. Many didn’t meet the riders head on, but instead clung to the shadows, ready to strike with bow rather than blade.
The knights charged forward with unwavering determination, their swords raised high, ready to strike down any who dared to stand in their way. Arrows whistled through the air, finding their marks with deadly precision, but the knights pressed on, their shields deflecting the deadly rain. The clash of steel continued to rebound down cobbled streets, the screams of dying men growing more desperate as the picturesque town was drenched in the stench of hot blood.

Davos was among them. The first foe he brought down was with the thundering crash of a green and gold lance lent from the Tyrells, punching clean through the first rider of the enemy he had met, not caring to mark the heraldry of the traitor before he ended whatever crusade of faith he believed he was on. Then, with the long weapon embedded and twisted, he relied on his blade. He struck with violence and fury. There was no small pang of pain and grief in his actions, but there was purpose too. The greater the scene of calamity the riders created, the more likely the ruse would continue to work, driving away more and more of the Poor Fellows rabble even as their knightly leaders attempted to rally them to hold Ashford.

He was determined not to give them the chance, to drive them to the dirt and keep them there with armoured boot until they had realised their mistake in taunting the wrath of the storm.

The rapid and brutal force of the assault was working, for the moment. Even the unusually triangular shape of the town castle didn’t seem to have responded properly to the incursion, the drawbridge was still down, as men scrambled back and forth, fleeing to or from the security, or prison, of the fortifications.

“On me.” Davos called to the rider beside him, one of the Tyrell riders bearing a horn as well as their blade, who gave a quick nod through their half-helm, and drawing said horn to their lips, blowing two quick blasts, then calling out;

“To the Stag! To Ser Davos!” It was full of the excessive chivalry of the Reach, but it worked all the same to draw the nearest riders up alongside Davos as he charged, pushing his destrier to further heights of speed and power as they barreled towards the gateway, closing in on it before it in turn could be closed on them. The original plan had been to be to strike then pull out of the town, before the numbers of the enemy could be brought to bear. With the castle not yet secure, and its main contingent either in the town or fleeing further, they had the opportunity to secure the town in one strike, rather than the harrying attempt they had planned. It was a risk, but given the events of the last week, Davos felt he had little left to lose.

Besides, if his wife to be could keep riding herself into certain danger, he’d hardly let her get away without the same worry.

The resistance in the keep itself was, as expected, fiercer, not just in attitude but in equipment and training. The storming of the courtyard was swift enough, the attackers still had the advantage of their steeds, and no matter that they now knights, properly equipped and emblazoned on in the colours of the seven, they had yet to reach their own steeds. There wasn’t much plate did to preserve ribs from the crunching force of a destrier’s charge, or kick, and for all their nobility, the Reach knights were still not above slipping from the saddle to finish off a stricken foe, particularly a rebel.

Their momentum for a moment was haltered by a similar rain of arrows to before, and in the more confined space this took a greater toll. Some of the precious steeds of the knights were lost, before Davos could have them ordered to abandone them in full, allowing the thunderous beasts to storm back the way they came and out of the keep, while the knights hunkered down behind their shields.
“Push for the Hall,” Davos behind the curtain of defence. In many sieges, the defenders might retreat to a Sept, they were usually defended and offered at least the chance the attackers would respect the rights of sanctuary. Davos didn’t expect the Knights of the Faith to offer such a clear surrender of imagery to these particular attackers. Secondly, although he’d be loathe to admit it infront of the pious Reachmen he fought alongside, he doubte his own restraint in that matter.

While the arrows could be lethal to their steeds, once afoot, and with shield raised, there was little the guerilla fighters could do to harm the fully plated attackers, who moved as a mass of metal and blade towards the main hall. The Warrior’s Sons, if there were any of particularly martial note among them, were not in great enough numbers to press back against the simple weight of momentum, the knights had put too much faith in their Poor Fellow’s ability to rally, and had been preparing to sally rather than hold the castle.
When they finally broke into the hall, Davos expected to find some sort of final resistance, but instead he saw, at the end of the hallway, the startled face of the burly Ayden Darklyn slowly turn to face the oncomers, a look of shock on his features. He seemed to move to speak, to address those who had assailed the Keep he had only recently taken, but only a spurt of blood issued forth from his lips, before he collapsed forwards.

Behind him, the pale, shaking, but steadfast shape of Lord Ashford young adolescent daughter stood, her dress torn, clutching in her quivering hands the hilt of Darklyn’s own blade, the length slick with the owner’s blood.

“Brave girl.” Davos spoke, before rushing forwards to catch the collapsing maiden.

[Ezekiel]

King's Landing, The Baratheon Manse

The air was thick with the stench of smoke and the sounds of shouting and clashes filled the narrow alleys. Barricades made from overturned carts and debris blocked thoroughfares, while fires raged unchecked, casting an eerie glow upon the faces of the rioters and the stone walls of the city.

Amidst the chaos, the cries of the downtrodden could be heard, their anger and desperation fueling their revolt. They were armed with whatever makeshift weapons they could find, from clubs and pitchforks to scavenged swords and axes. The symbols of authority were torn down and defiled, as the angry mob sought retribution against those they held responsible for their suffering. Just who that was varied from district to district, mob to mob and person to person. Many who had flooded the city since the rise of the Poor Fellow’s struck out against those had spoken well of the King, or even Targaryens of the past. The longer standing residents, those who had more loyalty to their overlords than the past, assailed the inflammatory members of the faith, often catching any Septon in the crossfire.

In that moment, King's Landing was a city on the brink, its streets teeming with violence and rebellion, its future uncertain as the fires of revolt burned bright.

Rhoelle had decided she’d had more than enough of fire and blood for a few lifetimes. Their mark was stamped everywhere, both as the words and deeds of the royal house, and in their more literal sense. She could hear, and smell, it even now, within the fortified walls of the Baratheon manse. They had managed to reach the manse before the chaos following the King’s ’repose’ truly started, with the body of her father, but had not yet been able to progress further, so penned in was the noble district by the rioting beyond.

The elements of the city watch still loyal to the Royal House, as well as the men-at-arms of House Targaryen were stretched thin as it were securing the Keep, Hills and harbour, such that the life blood of the city didn’t entirely die out, nor could the King, vulnerable in his lack of waking, be threatened. Rhoelle felt the later was the far greater part of their calculations, but in that she did not blame the Dowager-Queen, for that was whom all knew was making those orders. If she could have abandoned the city and all its people, to have her father returned to her, she would have gladly done so.

Instead, the body of Durran Baratheon lay in their cellar. Their maester, or at least, the only one they could find to bring with them, tended to him that the rot might not take hold before he could be brought home. The tall, broad frame of her father, whom had seemed so steadfast yet full of vitality her whole life, was rendered unto an ever reducing statue.

She had cried for the first day, inconsolable in her grief. Then the first raven had come. Her bother was missing. Then the second, her uncle and his bethrothed were missing in the riots of Oldtown. Her grief had hardened beyond tears, she had simply ceased to be. Rhoelle wasn’t sure how much time had passed, it felt like an eternity, or a day. She might have hidden away for years or it could have been the blink of an eye.

Standing at her dresser, she forced her vision up to view her own reflection. For as long as she could remember her long black hair had fallen in smooth waves, carefully maintained for the needs of court, both at home or in King’s Landing. Now, said waves had gone to wild curves, a halo of errant blackness around the paleness of her skin. It reminded her of the artwork of her grandmother, cast in her wild fury as she had spat fury at the question of her marrying her grandsire. Those histories had always confused her as a girl, and humoured her as she grew older. She had known both her grandparents to be wrathful people, but never with each other, by the time of her birth only gentle love passed between them.

The closest she remembered to a fight had been when she had wished to learn to fight and ride like her brother, Orys had refused at first, until Argella had reminded him from whose blood the storm in their veins had come. But even then, she suspected it was a whisper of her former wroth, tempered by decades of loving marriage.

She would have to channel more than the hair stylings of the younger Argella, she thought, if she was to make it through the coming days and weeks.

Rhoelle had called for a servant directly for the first time since she had collapsed in her room. She had eaten, and been bathed, since then, but only by the wordless routine of someone moving through the motions. This had been deliberate.

“My Lady?” A quiet voice, but not a stammer, as a young maid pressed the doorway to her chambers open.

“I wish to dress, prepare one of my gowns, suitable for riding. I’ll need the necklace given to me by the late King, as well.” When the Maid approached her following the commands, brush in hand, Rhoelle waved her away. “Leave the hair.”

---

Chaos has spread across the city, but nowhere was it more prevalent than Flea Bottom, a name that had stuck only coloquially but had already wormed its way into the lexicon of most who had chance to live within, or visit, the Westerosi capital.

Rolling conflicts between Poor Fellows, locals and Royal Partisans had kept many of the small fires burning for days, and the already filthy streaks slick with befouled blood. It was into this quagmire and inferno, that the Baratheon party marched. The majority of the retainers the house commanded within the city were what many knew as ‘Stag Knights,’ men of keen loyalty to House Baratheon, who fought in the heavily armed and armoured style of Valyrian retainers but now in the stylings of Westeros knights. Silvered plate gleamed next to tabards and cloth of black and yellow. Only three of the party were mounted, and they took the head of the column.

Rhoelle rode beside two able knights of her household, who seem to strain testily at the bit, ready to cast aside caution to ensure her safety, but for the moment, she had refused them. The young woman rode forward in the saddle, her gown adjusted to allow it, and despite the stench and ruin about her, kept her features fierce and forwards as they moved, halting only as they encountered the first true signs of rioting. The din was brought, momentarily, under control by the sonerous blast of a Baratheon hunting horn.

“People of King’s Landing, you have been left in the dark and fallen to predations.”The young woman began, the almost ludicrous nature of the scene before them keeping the rioting still even after the blare of the horn had subsided. “These are trying times for all, but we will not allow further damage and harm to be done to each other.” Her words were echoed by the sudden collective flash of drawing steel, as the Stag Knights drew their blades in salute to her words, and in threat to those around them. “Disperse now, peace will reign.” She avoided mention of the King’s peace, even as she wore a necklace gifted to her from House Targaryen, a sure sign of her loyalty to those with courtly knowledge or might perceive this as a power play from her own great house. She wasn’t not here to crush rebellion, or win a war, but to bring an end to the riotous violence.

The Stag Knights were not many, and she had not the time to attempt to gather a wider force from the City Watch or any who might aid the cause, she was hoping instead that the first act might bring those who wished to help from out of the shadows, but in the confined spaces of the street, the armoured bulk of fifty men meant more than hundreds more of rabble. They menaced with a threat most were not willing to risk.

A few did, perhaps distracted from the threat of the men by the perception of an easier target of the young noble woman, rushing forwards with foul cries on their lips. A slight nod from the noblewomen spurred her riding companions to action, and those who tried had barely stepped forwards before maces had caved in their skulls.

“You may have peace, or fury.”

For one night, on one street, King’s Landing chose peace.

[Arnorian]

The Battle of the Sheep’s Bridge

William

The rain had come suddenly and subsided just as quickly, but the fog that followed was so thick a man could barely see the trail before him. A fact William was deeply regretting. The last few days had been ones of great trails of dust and long marches across fields of dead, dry grass. Now, the sweltering heat and the sudden moisture had proved even more blinding than than that.
William bit back a curse and turned to the vague outline of the rider behind him. He signaled him to move forward and the soldier followed William’s lead. The hulking knight turned his warhorse to the right and moved further down the leaf-strewn game trail that snaked it way through the damp woods.

They were perhaps a few hours ahead of the Tyrell host and William, having found himself at loose ends had taken his men to range farther afield. He rode on in silence, turning over the last few days in his mind. Great lords needed constant reminders of the deeds much less the existence of others. Lord Tyrell had been grateful enough and a gracious sort of fellow, but William had expected more.

“When last I saw her lord, she was borne away in the arms of a man I deemed to be of the Baratheons and she still drew breath.” William had said.

Well, there wasn’t much else he could have told the man. Sometimes you played the pieces had on the board, such as they were. Lord Tyrell had no shortage of highborn noblemen and knights to aid him in his campaign. A knight of middling birth and a small holding would be of no consequence. Especially now that word had reached Lord Tyrell’s ears that his daughter, or at least her soldiers were on the move again. William had served his purpose . . . for now.

Over the last few days, William had seen his share of tracks from riders and Tyrell scouts brought back reports of men in the heraldry of the Faith Militant. Bandits roamed the lands and more than once, patrols had found signs of slaughtered travelers . . . or never returned either.

Now, he was one of many such knights and smaller lords who’d been tasked to ride out, scout the land and find Vittoria’s host and presumably the High Marshal herself.

Well, it’s this or languish away on the march, guarding the herd or tasking my men to help dig latrines and such lowly tasks. Could be worse, Lord Tyrell feeds his men regularly. He thought.

William came to a fork in the trail and gently turned his steed to the left. He saw scattered droppings and shrugged under his armor. A deer or a boar would be a nice addition to his evening meal and no doubt, his men would be happy enough with that.

He turned back to voice that thought and bit back another curse. Wispy tendrils of fog roiled through the dense branches and drew back long enough for William to see he was alone. A few moments ride in the opposite direction was enough to show he was on a completely different track and with no other hoofprints but those of his own horse.

The ground and the short, scrubby stretch of forest that covered it seemed largely flat. Though the forest didn’t stand particularly high, the gnarled limbs of the knotted trees were high enough to block the view on every side. Even without the soupy fog, William would have a hard time getting his bearings.

William shrugged after a moment. His men weren’t fools, they would know to look for their lord and then ride back to the camp and seek aid if their efforts were in vain. Later on, he’d have to devise a method to ensure this kind of thing didn’t happen again. As for his own course of action . . . Well, this trail had to lead somewhere.

He rode on, his visor down and the short, broad-bladed spear he’d taken, braced off his leg. He emerged at last from the worst of the fog and saw the faint glimmer of the sun through the leaden sky. William had never imagined he’d miss the hazy heat of the past days, but he’d take it over this.

He spurred his horse across a gently rolling field and in the distance, he could hear the sound of rushing water. He turned and the fog rolled back enough for him to see the dim shape of stone far off. As he drew closer, William nodded. It was a narrow stone bridge, just wide enough a small cart could pass over . . . or a man on a barded warhorse. The creek below it, undoubtedly reduced to a thin trickle, was now swollen to a muddy torrent from last night’s storm.

Hearing hoofbeats, William turned and then lowered his spear as Harlyn drew up before him. The squire had a half dozen men behind him and he raised his gauntleted hand in salute before running it over his blond hair, plastered to his skull by the moisture. He also had William’s warhorse in tow and the two-wheeled cart they’d taken along for supplies. The lad had done well, all things considered.

“I apologize, lord. I turned down the trail and-”

“It’s alright, it happened to me too. Is this all you could find?”

“Yes, lord. I rode up and down this river and couldn’t find anywhere to ford and then I heard your horse in the fog and turned back.”

“It’s alright, lad.” William smiled and clapped his armored hand on Harlyn’s pauldron.

“Here’s what we’ll do. Post the men at this bridge, I have a feeling it may prove important and then you and I will ride back into the woods and beginning tracking down the rest of the-”

It was then that the muggy breeze picked up and the fog slowly parted. First, William saw that the open field was far bigger than he’d first thought. Big enough in fact for a small army to deploy or set camp for the night.

Second, he bit back another curse. On the opposite were scores of men on horses and the shaggy ponies sometimes used by border reavers to the south. Among the oncoming horsemen were the unmistakable outlines of men in full plate, knights. But that wasn’t what caused William’s chagrin. Above the ragged lines of approaching horsemen, the banners of the Faith Militant whipped over their heads.

William’s head whipped back and forth as he took in the land and after a brief, tense moment, he stood in his stirrups and nodded shortly.

“Their scouts must have been as lost as we were.” Harlyn said, his features taut with worry.

“That may be, but that’s not just scouts. It looks like a portion of their advance guard stumbled across this place.” Said William.

The half-dozen Marston soldiers waited silent in their saddles, though William could see the fear in their eyes. Nor could he blame them. After all, they were peasant farmers, stonemasons, smiths and other such things in times of peace. Not men of war like himself.

William thought back to the map Lord Tyrell had shown his commanders at his tent. William had only caught a glimpse, but if he was right, then the flooded creek before him ran north to south. After the rain, this bridge would be the only real crossing point for miles around. It would slow the Faith soldier down, but not by much.

“If they cross, then they’ll have gained more of a march on us than I suspect they already have.” Willaim said.

Harlyn remained silent, knowing his lord was thinking out loud.

“No doubt, they’ll have already sent riders back to their vanguard. The rest of Lord Tyrell’s men are too far off and getting an army in battle order takes hours at best.

“It’s early yet, but the Tyrells are a day and a half away back west . . . if they’re lucky. And if Lord Tyrell’s men can find and then join with his daughter’s host.”

William stood in his stirrups and shook his head. There was a shout from the Faith soldiers and a handful of knights urged their horses onward. Marston still had some time, but the enemy would close the distance and fast. He considered his few, poor options and made a choice.

“Harlyn, the Tyrells are too damn far off to try and hold this. Though it be a fine chokepoint. Even if they ran their men like dogs, they’re be dead tired and still too far off . . . and even if I had all the men I took with me this morning, we’re still too few to try and hold long enough for it to matter.

Harlyn opened his mouth to protest and William raised a hand, a gentle smile gracing his normally grim countenance.

“So, you will take your men and ride due west until you find those horse archers that Lord Tyrell said his daughter has. If their commander is worth a damn, some of them should be riding far enough ahead for you to pass on a message. Say that we cannot hold the crossing but the open ground to the east of this should do as well as any.”

Harlyn nodded shortly. “Yes lord.”

“Good lad,” said William, “once done, you will ride to our north-west, with any luck you’ll find the Lord Tyrell’s men and that should allow for the Lord and this Lady Vittoria to join their armies.”

Harlyn dutifully repeated back all that he’d been told, word for word, as he’d been trained.

“One last thing,” said William.

Harlyn turned in the saddle, “Lord?”

“Leave your warhorse here, give me your lance and take my riding mount.” William was already out of the saddle with a clash of steel.

“Ser, I do not-” Harlyn blinked owlishly.

William grinned wolfishly at his squire. “You ride back and pass the word, the Faith will take this crossing but I need all of the men I have to ride away so that we have every chance of our lord knowing what has happened.”

“I- as you say lord, but . . .” Harlyn had already dismounted and now he waved a hand at the Faith soldiers, still a ways off in the distance.

“Plant my banner and ready that destrier.” William laughed merrily at the thought, as one of his men ran the cart to draw one of the lances lashed atop.

“Milord, you cannot mean to-”

“I can and I do, boy. Go on, I will hold this bridge and what a deed of arms that shall be.”

Harlyn paused, as if hoping his master was making some poor jest but after looking into his lord’s cold eyes, he nodded grimly and ran to aid the other Marston men in readying their lord.

The banner was unfurled and the twin-headed falcon snapped in the muggy breeze as it was planted to the right of the bridge. The remaining lances were leaned up against the bridge, so a man on a horse could easily catch one up. William swung into the saddle of his armored steed and the big stallion snapped its jaws angrily.

“Fear not, my sweet.” William said as he took up his polished shield and rested his lance on his gleaming cuisse.

Harlyn picketed the other warhorse near the bridge and then, with one last glance, rode away at a steady canter. In the space of a few heartbeats, Marson’s squire and six other soldiers had scattered like a flock of sparrows and were over the rising ground to the west. Hopefully, one of them would make it back to tell the Tyrells what was happening. Who knew? Maybe that would allow for the two Tyrell hosts to join and meet the Faith as one. William had to admit that a part of him wanted to see what a force of some six hundred horse archers would do to a bunch of clustered peasant rabble.

He shrugged beneath his armor, no matter. The outcome of that particular gambit was no longer his concern. He spurred his horse forward as the Faith horsemen drew closer. Though the looped sides of the bridge were almost up to his steed’s withers and both horse and master were in full armor, William was relieved to see that none of the lighter cavalry of any of the knights had taken or a heavy crossbow with them.
He was confident enough that his armor would stop a longbow arrow and maybe a even a glancing hit from a large crossbow. However, he had no desire to be shot at while attempting this desperate passage of arms, he’d decided on.

A part of him wondered if perhaps he was a madmen for even thinking of such a thing. But then he reminded himself of the glory he would gain if he succeeded. And why not? The bridge was narrow and he was fell-handed knight, a gentleman of war.

The enemy cavalry drew, perhaps suspecting some sort of trap. By then William had counted perhaps two hundred odd men. An assorted mix of cavalry. Some were squires, hobelars with spears and helms and even a few peasants on mules. But there were a great deal of knights among them. Most wearing something approaching full armor and on horses that were of at least decent quality.

“I am Ser William Marston of Larkwood and I say you cannot pass.” William called out.

A man in a white and blue surcoat raised his visor to reveal portly features and a neat, gray mustache.

“Stand aside, Ser. We are here on the Faith’s business, to cleanse this land of those who would defy the will of the Seven.” The Faith knight roared.

“The business of the Faith? What has the Faith to do with churls such as yourselves? I say you are all gelded curs and the sons of donkeys and whores.” William said with an infuriating grin.

“Allow me, Ser Tyran.” A handsome man with red hair rode past the mustached knight and readied his lance.

William raised his eighteen-foot lance with seemingly effortless ease and then lowered it into place, holding the steel-tipped weapon in place without a hint of movement. If the weight gave him any great discomfort, he didn’t show it.

The red-haired knight drew up and looked back at his companions.

William couldn’t blame him. Even without the bulk of his armor, he was a large man and atop a horse covered in good steel. The wind rippled the blood red caparisons that draped his steed’s armor and William drew back on the reins just enough the dun stallion reared with a shriek of fury, its plate-sized hooves flailing in the air.

And why not? A little showmanship never hurt these things.

The Faith knight lowered his great helm over his fiery hair, took his lance and charged with a wordless cry. William answered with shout of fury, lowered his visor and spurred his mighty destrier forward.

The knights met in clash of metal and screaming warhorses. Their lances shattered in a cloud of wood splinters and their warhammers swept out and over in gleaming arcs. William’s borrowed destrier rose into the air, lashing out at the enemy horse and rider with ironshod hooves.

The red-haired reeled back in the saddle, a split second later. William wrench the brutal spike of his warhammer from the eyeslit of the man’s helm in a gout of crimson. The slain knight shuddered, his body still twitching as it fell over the bridge and into the swirling brown of the turgid river below.

William hurriedly backed his horse, snatched up another lance and then spurred his furious forth to meet another charge. The second challenger went flying from his saddle, blood spewed all down his gorget, from the fist-sized dent in his helm. never to rise again.

A third knight, a man in gold-washed plate, spurred his roan mare into a headlong charge. A charge met by the tip of William’s war lance. The man roared in pain as he slammed back against the cantle of his saddle, his helm arcing away into the river. A needless bit of showmanship but William had shown his skill as much to goad his foes into unthinking fury, as anything else.

The knight’s pale widened in shock as he sat up, fumbling for his sword, just in time for William’s to punch his lance straight the man’s face in a spatter of hot gore.

William raised his lance in a mocking salute and set his horse for another charge. The knights of the Faith drew up and through the narrow field afforded by his helm’s eyeslits, Marston could see scores of the enemy light horses riding north and south along the bank. No doubt trying to find a ford large enough for an army and its baggage train to pass.

Well, hopefully, this desperate ploy of his would buy a little more time. In war, the space of a heartbeat could be the winning or the ruin of a kingdom.

Shame I don’t have one of House Targaryen’s dragons with me right about now. He thought and then grinned wolfishly behind his helm. Ah well, all the more glory for me.

The rest of the Faith knights looked at each other and then surged forward with a roar of fury and William’s mad laughter rose to meet as the lone knight and the Faith cavalry galloped into another headlong clash.

Lady Vittoria

The man, no, boy, that Garin Sands had borne back on his own steed didn’t have long to live. Any of the three great black arrows sprouting from his armor would have been the death of many strong men. Whether by the archer’s skill or poor luck, each of the cursed things had found a gap in the young squire’s plate and punched through the mail rings beneath.

It was still early in the morning and the dawn’s brilliant rays had only just begun to fade across the sun-baked horizon.

Garin leapt from the saddle and hurriedly helped the poor warrior down. The flanks of his restive Sand Steed were splashed with fresh blood, though none was from the horse or the mercenary captain. Vittoria saw a flash of something like pity in Dornishman’s cold eyes and he shook his head as his gaze met hers. With his help, the wounded squire tottered over to where she waited astride her horse.

The boy’s face was chalk white from pain and blood loss. His blond hair was plastered across his skull sweat and he still clutched a broken longsword with what remained of his right hand. Still, the lad knelt before Vittoria’s stirrup, as frothy blood gushed from his mouth and down his breastplate. Harlyn Meller had served his lord, William Marston for two years and had served well. Now, he would not survive more than the space of a few heartbeats.

Between the rasping breaths and agonized gasps of a man whose lungs have been pierced, he gritted out his lord’s message. Word for word. It was a testament to his will and courage that he survived long enough to speak.

For her part, Vittoria leapt from the saddle as soon she saw the boy half-climb, half-fall from Garin’s horse. Harlyn died in her arms, the last shreds of his will giving way and his eyes empty with pain and fear.

His lips worked one last time, speaking silent words to no one there. But Vittoria was sure she caught one thing between pain-filled breaths.

“Momma . . . sorry.”

Harlyn died then. The man he might have been and whatever deeds, good or ill, he might have done, now lost forever. But he passed knowing his duty was fulfilled and that his grim and prideful lord would have been pleased with him.

For a moment, Vittoria sat in the dead grass, holding a lifeless stranger she’d only known for the few heartbeats it took the fallen squire to relay William’s message. Her hair fell in a dark curtain, shielding her face from view. She gently eased the dead youth to the parched earth, covering him with her cloak. When she rose, her face was the picture of icy calm. Whatever she might have felt was buried and she saw Garin nod for a moment. No doubt this wasn't the first time he’d seen such a thing . . . and far worse.

“Captain . . . this boy- this man. He will not have died for nothing.”

“As you say, Lord Commander.” Garin’s voice was just as calm and even as hers.

She swung back into the saddle of the little mare she’d chosen for a riding horse. She stood in her stirrups and glanced back at the small cavalcade behind her. Scores of Garin’s horse archers had ridden far afield or along the myriad of little trails that criss-crossed the scrubby woodlands off the hazy distance, to the north and south of her army.

“Map.” She said.

A map was brought up and smoothed out over the crumbly grass and pinned with rock.

Garin leaned from the saddle, using the butt of his lance to outline their position based on what his own scouts and the fallen Harlyn had told him.

“The boy was one of six, sounds like they ran into enemy scouts on their way back.” He said.

“I see, go on.” Vittoria was only half-focused on the old parchment, her mind racing as she considered the possibilities.

Garin ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair as his face twisted into something like embarrassment.

“Their scouts might not be Dothraki, but they're not bad either. No matter which way we slice it, they’ve gained a march on us. This heat and the dust have slowed us down far more than I’d have liked.”

A bitter truth to swallow, but there was nothing she could do to change that.

“Very well, what choices do I have?” Vittoria said.

Garin paused, his face smoothing back into the careful mask of a professional mercenary. No doubt he was wondering how she’d react next.

“Well, Lord Commander. If Harlyn,” he gestured to the now cloak-shrouded body, “was telling the truth and his lord was fool enough to try and hold that bridge. It’ll buy you enough time enough to buy some more.”

Vittoria blinked and raised an eyebrow.

“. . . How so, Captain?”

“Well,” Garin pointed his spear at the map, “by now their scouts will be riding up and down that river, trying to find a ford. Even if you march your men at the double, horse and rider will dead tired and thirsty

“It would been a nice chokepoint, but it’s far enough out of our reach it might as well be on Essos. Even if you took the handful of cavalry we have with us, we’d never hold long enough to matter.”

Vittoria nodded and bit back a curse. She’d been afraid that Garin might tell her exactly what she didn’t wish to hear. But she had her duty and she didn’t pay the Dornishman to lie.

“So time and distance are both against me. I neither troops nor water enough to try and hold long enough for the rest of my men to relieve me . . . and no doubt the Faith Militant would love nothing more than push over the river and destroy the armies of my House in piecemeal fashion.” She said with a wry grimace.

“It’s a bitter drink and one we’ll have to swallow to the dregs.” Garin said.

Vittoria glanced around at the assembled rider and their guarded expressions. Knights, light cavalry from her own lands and the motley soldiers of Essos stood on restless steeds. No doubt all wondering what a woman unlike any they’d ever encountered would do next.

“Well then, I suppose I should be a good commander and ride ahead to see what’s happening.

“Garin, send some of your best riders to get word to my men to change their march to the north.and send scouts that way to find exactly where my father’s army is. We’ll take the rest of what we have here. Then we’ll ride to the bridge and delay the enemy.”

Garin started to say something and Vittoria raised a hand.

“I know what you’re thinking, Captain. But as you say, I need time. A delaying action gives our messengers more time to get to the rest of our forces. That time lets my father unite his troops. The Faith knows we’re here and they know that river crossing will be vital. The time we buy will let our soldiers be formed and still fit to fight by the time those fanatics reach them.”

Garin nodded and barked out orders. Scouts peeled off from the main body, some continuing to screen Vittoria’s troops and others riding west and north to try and bring about the unification of the two Tyrell hosts.

A handful of others brought up a horse and lashed Harlyn’s body to the saddle, taking it back with Vittoria’s personal command to see the slain youth was buried as a knight.

Garin

Garin rode ahead of the column, despite Vittoria’s arguments to the contrary. He had his orders, but it was hard to collect pay from a dead employer after all. So his men rode out in loose formations, sometimes in single file and other times abreast. They kept their weapons down and shrouded in dust to help avoid the sunlight flaring off their blades and alerting any enemies nearby.

Some horsemen would ride forward, always seeking to avoid the crest of low-lying hills before them and then signaling back that the way before them was clear. Bit by bit Garin’s soldiers rode across the empty fields of rocky soil and dead, stubbly grass. All the while the mercenary cavalry kept a wary eye on the short but dense forests to the north and south of the desolate plain.

At last, they came around a low rise in the ground and Garin pulled up. The barren ground before them sloped gently down to the muddy banks of a flooded river. But that wasn’t what held his attention.
A few of his men grunted and some of the Dothraki laughed and began placing bets on the scene below.

“I . . . am I seeing what I think I am?” Vittoria said.

Garin turned to her and then back to the clash at the small, stone bridge below their position.

“If you’re seeing a lone madman playing knight, then yes.”

Vittoria stood in her stirrups and squinted, hand over her eyes and shook her head.

“Well . . . well, he’s very brave or very foolish.”

“Only a madman is that brave.” Garin said.

“That may be, Captain but then, this is an unexpected boon.”

“Mmm,” Garin grunted and then raised an eyebrow as a massive figure of a man, even this distance rode from the ranks of the Faith knights.

“Shall I proceed, then?”

Vittoria smiled grimly, narrowed her eyes upon the bridge, unsheathed her short sword and raked back her spurs. As one, the mercenaries rode down the grassy slope with their Lord Commander.
William

The mossy stones of the bridge were now caked in blood and viscera from slain knights and warhorses, already thickened and black, gore ran in slow trickles from the weathered stone to drip into the surging waters below. The butchered carcasses of dozens of men and horses lined the narrow passage over the bridge. The addition of slain knights and horses also meant the Faith soldiers had to slow their advance every time they tried to close the distance.

Sparks had flown from their blades and the swirling melee was like something from song and tale. But it held the brutality and sheer bestial cruelty that men at war unleash, something often left out of heroic legends.
As for William, he wasn’t even breathing hard. He took up a fresh lance and laughed merrily behind his helm. The Faith knights reigned in their horses and made ready for another charge. He’d chosen his spot well, occasionally an arrow whistled past and on had skipped off his cuirass but so far, he’d nothing to worry about.
The old bridge only let the enemy cross in ones and twos and so it was almost childsplay murdering them. William raised his lance in a taunting salute.

“Tell me,” he roared, “if you serve the Seven then how come they’re letting you die so easily?”
They howled with outrage and started to charge again. But then a knight pushed his gigantic steed through his surging comrades. Despite himself, William felt a stab of fear work its way through his stomach. The man before him was easily seven feet in height if he was an inch. A massive figure of a man on a massive black stallion. His shield and armor were black as midnight. The sun flashed off the wickedly sharp point of the great ash lance he carried like it was a switch.

“Damn.” William heard himself mutter.

The black knight raised his visor to reveal a scowling visage and a beard that came almost up to his brilliant blue eyes.

“I see no true knight before, merely a blasphemous dog, who shall die like one.” The man voice sounded as if came from the bottom of the deepest sea.

“I see you before me and I must confess, I didn’t know men stacked hogshit that high.” William said with far more confidence than he really felt.

What followed was a blur of frenetic violence and truth be told, William could never fully recall exactly what happened. It was as if he was recalling some half-heard recounting of a vague dream. To those on the slope above it looked like a man wrestling a mountain, was the best any of them could describe it.

The black knight raked back his spurs and his furious warhorse charged head on, with a scream of pure fury. William’s destrier, though beginning to tire, raised his proud head and rushed to meet this latest foe.
William’s lance shattered and then the black knight’s slammed in his helm with devastating force. William went nearly prone over the cantle of his high-backed warsaddle, his armored legs flying up in the air. Despite his pain, he scrabbled for his warhammer out of reflex. But the black knight wrenched it from his tremulous grasp with contemptuous ease.

William drew his sword, only to have it caught between the enemy knight’s shield and vambrace and he stared in horror as it was broken with a metallic ring.

Then, the gigantic sword that the Faith knight had hanging from his saddle swept up and over like it weighed as much as feather. William’s horse reared and screamed, its legs kicking futilely, as the noble stallion sagged against the bridge. Blood sprayed in a curtain down the destrier’s armored flank.

William grunted with pain as his leg was pinned against the stone.

Then the elephantine knight grasped William’s helm under the rim and laid his other hand on Marston’s left pauldron. As the horses strained and bit at each other, William’s steed still having some fight left in it, the black knight began to twist. William’s frantic hold on the man’s arm seeming to avail him little.
Marston felt the pain and pressure build to almost indescribable levels. He could hear his horse bugling its rage and from far away, the black knight’s mocking laughter. That more than anything galvanized him to ignore his pain and the colored lights that kept exploding behind his eyes.

He roared with hatred and reached for his dagger. As he expected, his arm was grasped and his wrist twisted. William had expected that, braced himself for that pain and as the bones in his wrist began to give away.

He spurred his mortally wounded steed one last time, in a desperate gambit. If only because William was determined to die fighting, if nothing else. The destrier whinnied and then half-crawled, half-lunged forward with a final beat of its noble heart. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. His leg freed, William kicked free of his stirrups, twisted his body with the black knight’s grip and swung over behind the Faith knight’s saddle.
His neck and shoulders hurt like all hell, but he’d freed himself a heartbeat before the black knight managed to do anything permanent. William ripped his foe’s own dagger from the man’s golden belt and plunged it through the warrior’s left eyeslit with a speed born of desperation.

The black knight ripped free of William’s grasp with a howl of pain and rage, dashing William to the ground in the process. But Marson didn’t fall alone, this time it he who’d gained a hold on the Faith knight’s ebon helm. Both men went flying to the ground with a crash of steel.
Knowing his enemy would never give him another chance, William yanked up on the man’s helm, tearing the chinstrap in his desperate strength. A warrior’s rage clouded his vision but not fully that William didn’t see the loose rock in the bridge railing. A snap kick of his sabatoned foot sent the Faith knight back to the bloody stones, broken teeth spraying everywhere.

William then launched himself, pinning the stunned warrior to the ground. Marston grabbed his enemy by the beard and headbutted him thrice. The black knight’s fell strength was terrible indeed, as he roared with pain and levered himself up off the ground -

Just in time to meet the stone William had grabbed. It smashed the Faith knight’s nose with a wet crunch and then was followed by another blow and another and another.
At one point, the black knight tried to crawl away with a pain-filled whimper. There was no pity or mercy in William’s gaze as he hauled his would-be killer back and mauled him to death with the rock in his clenched first and the spiked gadlings across the knuckles of his gauntlet.

To be sure, William grasped the man’s head and chin and scissored his massive arms in a final, desperate burst of strength. The black knight collapsed, his skull and neck both hopelessly broken.
Marston stood for a moment, wanting nothing more than sob for breath, or perhaps just sob. But his was a heart of iron. He reached, taking the reins of the great black stallion the black knight had ridden to his death and swung into the saddle. A quick glance told him what he’d feared, all his lances were spent.
His gaze swung back to the rest of the milling Faith knights. Judging by their reaction, everything had taken place in the space of a few heartbeats. Though it had certainly felt like all eternity for William, he shuddered beneath his armor, cold fingers of running up and down his spine. Never had he felt so close to death . . . or come so near to being bested.

He took up the ax the black knight had hanging from his saddle, as a backup weapon, and leveled it at the remaining Faith knights. Like a boar turned at bay to a pack of mangy dogs, William prepared to make his stand.
“Rush in and die, dogs. I was a man afore I was a knight.” He ground out.

Vittoria

For the Lord Commander, the scene below was impressive . . . in a brutal and horrific kind of way. The knight holding the bridge, a man bearing the sigil of a twin-headed falcon, had gone up against what looked a mountain clad in iron. For a moment it seemed as if the duel was over before it began but then the smaller knight wrestled the black knight from his saddle . . . and killed the Faith knight with a rock.

She shook her head for a moment. In truth, she wondered if she’d ever understand such men. She’d heard her share of songs and stories, but the reality of knighthood seemed far grimmer. Though, she supposed, if a man grew up accustomed to such things, he might very never question it.

She turned, realizing Garin had asked her something and she shook herself from her reverie.

“Enough of this, Captain, drive the enemy back from that bridge and make them keep their distance for as long as you can.”

Vittoria rode with the banners, as her cavalry descended towards the river like a flock of sparrows in flight. As she drew closer to the bridge, she saw the knight of the twin-headed falcons raise his ax. Opposite, a Faith knight spurred his horse into a furious charge. Despite his restive steed, the falcon knight spurred his horse into a side step at the last possible second and then brought his ax down the Faith knight’s helm with bone-shattering force.

The Faith knight’s helm split in a gout of blood, bone and chunks of brain. The lifeless corpse rode on past, still held upright its saddle, sagging limp as a gutted fish. More enemy knights charged and were met by their lone opponent. Men fell like embers sparking from iron under a smith’s iron. Some collapsed where they died. Others pitched screaming from the saddle, clutching at their deaths. Man and horse alike were bowled over the low sides of the bridge and into the murky stream below. By then Vittoria’s cavalry had reached the muddy bank of the river and for a moment, they shadowed the far side of the river in a hail of arrows.

The Faith knights drew up and more than few of their light cavalry fell from the saddle, clutching at the black-feathered arrows that had claimed their lives. With a shout they turned and galloped away.
For a moment, Vittoria wanted to shout in triumph but she knew that sense of victory was illusory as best. In the distance, just over the low-lying trees and hills to the east, she could see the faintest smudge of dust. The Faith army’s vanguard was not far off and would most likely be able to cross the river and continue marching the next day. And her troops were a day and a half away, if all went well.

Well, she’d have to trade ground for time. As planned.

Vittoria withdrew from her saddle upon the mare and was on the bridge in moments, the steel shadow of Ser Ryam Redwyne behind her within an instant. The half-cloak she wore was green, bordered with gold, and in the sudden breeze of the moment it flew up near enough to Ser Ryam’s face as she nearly stopped, careful in approach.

“Ser William?”

He’d been one of her father’s favorite finds. What happened to Lord Theo when his daughter assembled most of the best knights of the Reach into a small army? Lord Theo got creative and started looking for Knights that needed opportunity. Marston had been one of those Knights, and by Vittoria’s judgment, even before today, the best of them…even if his character as a man of Faith and goodness was still in question to her.

The knight spun his new steed in place, managing the fiery beast like it was a small pup on a lease. She could see his eyes flared wide behind the eyeslits of his dented helm and hear his breath coming in great gasps. The wooden haft of the gore-smeared ax, he clenched in his right hand, creaked under his grip and Vittoria was reminded of nothing so much as a wild beast.

“I am he.”

His speech seemed oddly lurching, disjointed, like someone who’d not seen another human for many years. At that moment Vittoria was reminded of the older songs and legends. Stories of monsters and men that fought with armor and weapons of bronze under a new sun, when the world was young. The killer of men, as such like the one before her, were called.

She’d seen his skill at arms, he could certainly kill, but there seemed to be little of the chivalric graces that a knight was supposed to have alongside his prowess in battle.

He recognized her, and that was enough for her to walk the distance on the bridge between them. If stepping in death bothered her in any way, it didn’t show, as she seemed to navigate to the path between fallen horses and bodies and weapons and the slippery surface of blood-soaked wooden bridge slats with expertise. It was the horse that concerned her most, as she approached calmly, confidently, and spoke gently to the creature. Up upon him she looked, squinting at the sun above as clouds that had offered a mirage of rain earlier had parted too far apart to provide so much as shade now.

She meant to ask him if he could ride, but she knew the type of man—he reminded her of Dennet, save she knew him to have no wife, no children . . . there was no hidden softness to this man. There was just the Knight, the red-handed killer, before her in this moment, even if there had been more to William at other times.

“You’ve given us a chance, Ser, and you shall be rewarded for it…but it’s time to drop your arms, Ser, it’s time to see to your dead, take your rest and make your report to the War Council. We cannot stay here long. Would you please escort me to camp, Ser?”

It was how she’d learned to phrase things to Knights. No favors given, no order commanded, in the hour of blood and violence and death it was better to ask them if they could see their commander to safety, rather than be their High Marshall.

There was a long pause and for a moment, all was silent, aside from the low gasps for air from both horse and rider. From the corner of her eye, Vittoria could see Garin and the subtle shift in his weight, as he carefully lowered his spear. Just enough to avoid provoking the man but so much he couldn’t strike if William tried something.

At last, William nodded and slowly lowered his ax. He reached up with a trembling hand to remove his helm and hung it from his saddle. His high cheekbones and flowing hair might have made for a handsome man, but his eyes . . . his eyes burned with animal fury like the heart of a furnace. Vittoria thought he might have resembled an avatar of the warrior’s wrath but . . . no, that was wrong. This battle-fatigued knight, his armor and tattered surcoat running with spilled blood, he looked like nothing less than a demon of iron and wrath, dredged up from the darkest hell.

“Your pardon, lady but I fear I can only lower my ax. My right hand is cramped so tight I can’t let it go just yet.” He said with something approaching a human tone.

After a whisper of a chuckle, she smiled up at him, “You need no pardon, Ser William, and allow me.” She took the reins of his horse and carefully led the animal and the Knight off the bridge, looking up to find Garin and speaking in the same calm, gentle, tone she’d held since walking onto the bridge in the first place, “Let’s go, Captain. No more surprises today.”

The Battle

The following night bled into the day and for Vittoria it had all run together. Hastily snapped orders, quick glances at maps and lists of supplies, hurried calculations of rates of march and the distances involved. She spent more time in the saddle than she had in the past week.

Garin’s men had held the bridge and then gave ground, feigning a retreat the entire way. In truth, that had brought her more time than she’d dared hope for. By now, the bulk of the Faith forces had to have taken the bridge or found a ford for their baggage train.

And so Vittoria had learned and learned quickly that conducting a retreat was far harder than conducting an attack. Whether it was seeing to her supply trains, considering what her scouts said and seeing to the needs of her men, she had to be in every place and all at once.

She rubbed her tired eyes and tried to ignore the sensation of someone having rubbed hot sand into them. Then her eyelid began to throb and she bit back a curse. The little mare she’d chosen earlier was spent and the Dornish horse she’d borrowed had spirit but seemed intent on testing her at every turn. As if sensing her exhaustion, the stubborn beast crow-hopped in place and she gently reined the gelding’s head to the left, making it turn until it grew tired of the whole business and calmed down.

Garin’s riders cantered past in a column, the scouts having reported that all was clear ahead and more to the point; the news she hadn’t dared hope for.

Vittoria urged her steed on fell in at the head of the column, the early morning sun flashing off spearpoints and armor. She ran a hand over her dusty hair and for a moment, wished for nothing more than long soak in a steaming hot bath and a few nights sleep.

But all that faded and she felt strength surge through her again as she drew on a plateau and saw the Tyrell host arrayed in their serried ranks. It seemed clear that, like her, Lord Tyrell had ridden through the night and he’d accomplished a small miracle.

Some eight thousand knights, light horse, crossbowmen, archers and infantry stood in disciplined lines, all in a formation some seven miles across. For a moment, she had to squint and look again to truly believe it.
It was an impressive enough force to be sure . . . but, where was the rest of the Tyrell host?

Behind the Tyrell formation, she could see the dust clouds of pack animals and the baggage train, no doubt being guided into place by herdsmen and teamsters. Lord Tyrell would have undoubtedly ordered a fortified camp built and now the camp followers and servants would be working like made to maintain in the aftermath of the army’s departure.

She felt a stir of pride at her father’s workmanlike Generalship. Such things, not violent deeds in battle, were what truly mattered. Supply, rates of march, organization, amounts of food and water, these were what kept an army going and what decided who won a war and who bent the knee.

“Damned impressive,” said Garin, gesturing at the soldiers and dust trails from the camp beyond.

Vittoria smiled slightly, “My father is a man who prides himself on his stewardship, to be sure.”

Garin nodded in quiet approval and turned to order his horse archers. The Essosi mercenaries peeled off in columns of two and began riding to the rear of the Tyrell lines, seeking water and fresh horses.

Garin and Vittoria rode with the banner to the rear of the formation. Vittoria nodded pleasantly to each soldier she passed and exchanged greetings with any that she could. She wouldn’t pretend to know the names of every man in her army but she could certainly do her best to be all they expected from a commander.

As they drew close to the Tyrell banners, in the center of the formation, she could see her father and his household knights. Like all the men, they looked as if they’d rested decently enough. More to the point, there were armed servants bringing buckets and dippers of water up and down the ranks. Perhaps her house’s force hadn’t gotten as much sleep as they’d have liked. But Vittoria knew that Lord Tyrell would have ensured every man and beast had food and drink aplenty.

Lord Tyrell stood in his stirrups and waved a gauntleted hand at the hovering cloud of dust that signified the advancing Faith hordes.

“As soon as I realized what you were up to, I conferred with my captains and made up a plan.” He said.

The Lord of the Reach swung down from the saddle and hurriedly sketched things out.

“I believed it best to ensure our enemies knew we had the strength to withstand them so I dispatched the bulk of our forces north and then east towards King’s Landing.”

Vittoria saw Garin’s glance from the corner of her eye and she bit back a curse. For a moment, sorrow and exhaustion warred with her courtly demeanor but at last, she found the strength to bow and force a smile.

“As you say, my Lord.”

Her father beamed and Vittoria suppressed the sigh that rose with all her remaining restraint.
By all that’s holy, my dear naive father really thinks he’s made some great strategic triumph here. Instead, the other two thirds of the army that I need to win today are weeks to the north. And what he thinks those men will accomplish against people that might very well have dragons . . .

She shook herself from that particular reverie. One disaster at a time.

“So then I think perhaps you could enlighten us as your plan for this Faith rabble that took the bridge from you.” Lord Tyrell said.

Vittoria managed to keep her expression neutral. An angry outburst would solve nothing, as cathartic as might be to vent her frustrations, undermining her father would solve nothing. And well, they need to show strength right now.

And how better than to try and win when we’re outnumbered and very possibly outmatched?

The plan Vittoria and her father’s retainers gazed down at looked like a formation that began as a straight line and then slowly flexed inwards to form a rough crescent. As with most things, the logistics, coordination and planning were the truly difficult part of war.

The tactics were usually simple enough that a child could follow along.

“Once our enemy thinks he’s pushed our center in, we’ll fold in his flanks at my signal. I’ve already arranged it and have my men set in place.”

“Yes, excellent, I think it will work. Pity we have no time to rehearse this idea, retreats are tricky things at the best of times.”

Once again, Vittoria nodded carefully. Reminding her father, that her desperate delaying action at the bridge was what permitted their small armies to join, especially in front of his subordinate lords would hardly maintain cohesion . . . or his good will.

“What would you ask of me, father?” She said with a gentle smile.

Lord Tyrell smiled gently. “I will remain here and oversee the outcome of the battle. But I need someone I can trust. Once the enemy has been encircled, I need you to take our cavalry around the rear of the enemy foot, once they’ve taken the bait.

“If you wish to crush them like the pincer of a crab around prey, you’ll be the best choice to oversee it. Most of all, I need you to keep our cavalry in play and not haring off after fleeing enemies or going to pilfer their baggage train.”

Vittoria nodded slowly and blinked at the implications of such an honor. Her father’s logistical planning had laid much of the groundwork for what could be a great victory but now, he was setting aside his pride and giving his daughter the honor of leading the charge that might just decide the day. Lord Tyrell could have been the one to lead his men in battle and gain great glory. But he knew how important it would be to cement her reputation in the eyes of all around her.

Her father would no doubt be recognized for his careful and methodical planning. But Vittoria and the Tyrell cavalry she led would be the ones to crush an enemy force more than twice the size of her own . . . if she survived to see it.

Before she could reply her father turned and his smile remained but there was a hint of caution in it. The way a man might look at at a strong but aggressive destrier he was considering buying.

William Marston had come riding up on the great black horse he’d taken from the man who’d almost killed him the day before. His cold gray eyes were like chips of northern ice and Vittoria noticed that the helm and broken sword of Harlyn, his fallen squire, hung from his saddle. He had said nothing, at least not to her, when he learned of Harlyn’s death. But he had stood vigil for the boy and ordered his late squire buried with a gold-plated knight’s belt and spurs.

Vittoria felt the same instinctive caution as her father. She didn’t exactly fear Marston but where Garin was a man who did what he did because it was what he’d had to do . . . Marston, well, he seemed to enjoy the chaos and carnage. He took to it like a drunk to fine brandy.

He was a creature who belonged in a different age and for a moment, she was surprised to feel a stir of pity for the man. Perhaps dying in battle would be a kindness for one such as him. After all, what in the name of all that was holy, would he ever do in a time of peace?

She forced such thoughts aside and nodded politely to Ser Marston and noted from the corner of her eye that Garin and the newcomer both carefully evaluated each other. In the manner of two feral dogs circling around the same piece of meat.

A part of her, a very small part of her, wished to see them fight and wondered who would come out on top.
“Well my lords,” she forced herself to smile graciously, “you all know the plan, pass the word along, lead your men well, hold true and the victory we gain here will make our house a legend.”

Well, maybe not, but a little embellishment never hurt anything.

I’ve talked a fine game, now to see if I can keep my promises. She swung into the saddle and forced her doubts aside, no time now for human weakness. Battle was the greatest game of them all and there was no second place, you won or you died.

Lords, knights and squires rode away to carry out her biding and Garin was already off in the distance with his banner rippling in the hot wind, already moving his cavalry into formation.

For her part, Vittoria rode up and down the serried ranks of her small army. Eight thousand had already woke, broken fast, armed and began the slow process of marching to the desolate field where they would make their stand.

Led by their banners, the companies slowly marched to their marked positions. From left to right, the men of House Tyrell merged the relatively small squares of their formations. Like a glacier calving ice, the different banners moved out on the field. Shortly before midday, the dust was billowing high, obscuring the view between the Tyrell lines and their camp. The serried ranks seemed thin, almost fragile, compared to what marched from the east. But it would have to do.

Vittoria stood in her stirrups and nodded. The host of the Faith Militant drew nigh, some fifteen thousand men, the best armed and armored at the front. It looked as though the bulk of their cavalry were riding ahead of the infantry. Perhaps they believed they’d break through and then make things easier for their lighter armored footsoldiers? No matter, either way, fifteen thousand men was still a living battering ram against her much smaller army. Still, at least, they’d committed the bulk of their knights to the initial assault.
Vittoria considered ordering a retreat, but she knew such a thing could easily become a rout at the very best of times. So she spurred her little mare forward once again. The Iron Rose rode up and down the line and made the same speech, over and over again until she had returned to her position of command at the center of the Tyrell army.
She’d kept it short and, she hoped, sweet.

“Men of the Reach, look and see what the enemy has dragged to our doorstep.

“I see no army, more like a swarm of rats. So, I say to you, are you as angry as I am? Brothers, these fools have wasted our time and took us from our hearths and families for this dog’s breakfast of a rabble? Let us no more of our day, hold to the plan, listen to the signals and stay with your banner. Do this for and we will break them here and now.”

There was no rousing cheer, merely quiet nods and the last checks of armor and equipment.

Now, the Faith Militant stepped up their speed into a steady trot. Their trumpets blared and they closed the dusty gap between them and the Tyrell ranks. They roared in fury as they moved on, spear and blade clamored against shields and many of them took up a song of war or a chant of their dogma, as they careened towards Vittoria’s men.

As per Vittoria’s orders, the men of House Tyrell raised their shields and lowered their spears in grim silence. Tyrell archers nocked arrows to bowstrings and stepped forward.

At last, the Faith Militant charged with a single roar of bloodlust. Their cavalry in the lead, they speed towards the Tyrell lines with breakneck speed. Though their line was a little ragged in places, as some fell back and others surged ahead, it still struck home with bone-shattering force.

The impact was like the end of the world. Screams, war cries and curses soon rang out over the parched earth and blood spattered into the windswept and the lines clashed and rippled back and forth.

Sunlight flashed off spear points and arrowheads as the two formations fought like two dogs with their locked in each other’s throats. All along the front of the Tyrell battle line, the fight was joined and Vittoria could already see her men slowly giving ground. They fought like gods that day and the Iron Rose thought her heart would burst with pride. They fought, gods knew they fought. The Faith Militant paid in blood for every inch of ground.

Though the initial fury of the Faith knights’ charge was soon followed by their infantry, the Tyrell army held. The entire formation was rocked back from the sheer momentum of the enemy onslaught, but they held. Horse and man foundered and were crushed to the uncaring earth, to lie under the armored boots of friend and foe alike. Vittoria bowed her head and after a moment, she slowly lowered her visor.

She would not, she could not, let them see her weep. What she was doing was necessary but she hoped the souls of the men and those were scarcely more than boys would see she had spent their lives for good cause.

She waited, as the tension built within and she could feel the eyes of the knights and lords of her house on her. She stood in the stirrups and surveyed the carnage with a calm she didn’t feel.

The Faith and Tyrell lines slowly drew apart, by a tacit assent borne of exhaustion. Fresh troops stepped into the front rank and as the Faith knights attempted to extricate themselves from the position they’d become sandwiched in, Vittoria gave silent thanks. No doubt, they’d believed their charge would sweep away her men. And perhaps it might have, if things had gone on a moment longer.

Vittoria nodded and turned to the squire bearing a trumpet on her. “Sound a counter-charge.
“And someone ride to Garin Sands and Marston, tell them ride out now.”

Messengers galloped away and Vittoria watched as the Tyrell infantry surged forward. Gone were the war cries and now there were just the sounds of thousands of desperate breaths, mixing with the clash of steel. Her men were spent and Vittoria knew they wouldn’t last much longer, no matter how much heart they had. Limbs would lose strength in moments, in any fight.

But that quick counter-attack had bought her time and it pinned the Faith knights. They were forced to dismount or ride back through their own lines. Vittoria gave another silent prayer of thanks for her enemy’s impetuousness. Though she’d hardly gambled her success on such a thing, she would take any advantage she could get.

She watched for the battle draw on, for the space of perhaps ten slow heartbeats, the battle rose to a fever pitch and then Vittoria saw what she was waiting for.

Her formation was beginning to give in the center and there, on her left flank, two banners had fallen and the men in those companies were beginning to buckle. But the Faith Militant drew back again.

Well, time to try and use the chaos and fatigue of battle to her advantage.

“As I ordered, sound the signal. The center will retire at a halfstep march and in good order, the left and right flanks are to be reinforced and will hold.”

The trumpets rang out and her messengers rode forth once again. As her cavalry moved out from behind her infantry, the Faith Militant charged back into the fray with renewed vigor. They had seen the Tyrell center giving back and Vittoria remained perfectly still, thankful for her visor and its masking of her true feelings.

For a breathless pause, she wondered if perhaps she’d fumbled the whole thing. But then, the Faith Militant came crashing into the inside curve made by the half-moon shape of her army’s new formation.

Vittoria drew a long breath and watched as her cavalry slowly rode around the flanks of her troops and drew closer to the strung-out rear of the Faith Host.

“Now, order our left and right flanks to turn inward and resume their attack. Do not halt.”

Once again the trumpets rang and her messengers rode out and then back on fresh horses.

Like some giant beast into a jungle tar-pit, the Faith Militant host had let itself be drawn into an encirclement. And now . . . now her cavalry were able to provide the hammer blow.

Vittoria stood in her stirrups once more, raised her mailed hand and brought it down with finality of a judge passing death sentence.

“Now.”

She watched as her small contingent of knights formed into a blunt wedge and there, at their head, was the armored bulk of Ser William Marston. By then, they’d ridden close enough to charge and no doubt, the red-clad knight knew it. The man lifted his lance high in the air and urged the black destrier he’d won into a headlong gallop.

Behind the small wedge of knights, the Essosi horse archers scattered like a flock of starlings and the sky turned with a shower of arrows, as the horsemen loosed so quickly, that it liked the interlacing boughs of a godswood.

Those soldiers to the rear of the Faith Militant turned and died, those around tried to flee and the front ranks lapsed into a confused rabble. Within moments, the Faith soldiers were boxed in. Often so tight, they couldn’t raise their weapons to fight. The victor was now the conquered and the Tyrell army charged into battle with a howl of triumphant fury. They fought with renewed vigor and their foes were like lambs to the slaughter.

Months of preparation and many sleepless nights, all for a battle that scarcely lasted an hour from start to finish. Vittoria forced herself from her musings and watched as Marston’s cavalry charge finished the job. The knights of her house rode boot to boot at a steady gallop. As one, their lances dipped and they tore into the disorganized and fleeing Faith warriors like ravening wolves in a pen full of sheep. Marston led the knights in a headlong gallop that split the Faith mob like a new ax through rotten wood.

Garin Sand’s horse archers feathered enemy infantry with so many arrows, they looked like practice butts at a range. Lances shattered in showers of splinters and Vittoria watched as Marston, wearing his squire’s helm, drew a great black mace from his saddle and laid about with wanton rage.
The song of battle reached her ears as the knights sang with the joy of battle. The Tyrell footmen took up the harsh war-hymn as well and they marched in step, echoing the ancient lines of a song men said came from Ghis but was probably far older. The Paen echoed over the dusty fields and the battle became a slaughter.
By the end, it was sheer butchery and though Vittoria did her best, the Essossi and the Dothraki among them were not known for mercy.

Few prisoners were and even fewer of the Faith Militant escaped from that carnage. Vittoria’s formation had pinned them like the jaws of a bear trap. Of the few that did manage to break, most were hunted to a man by vengeful horse archers. Of the Faith knights who’d ridden out to give battle, not one survived and their horses and armor were looted almost immediately.

Nonetheless, Vittoria did her best. Garin’s men had obeyed their commander and reformed. Now, a small detachment of them raced to pursue any survivors. She’d given orders to take prisoner any men who surrendered. But she had no illusions about how closely her mercenaries would obey her, once out of sight. Another detachment of cavalry and some of her own knights galloped away to retake the bridge and secure the Faith camp.
That done, she rode up and down the lines with the knights of her household and gave orders. To all there, she seemed serene. She leaned down from the saddle and spoke to her men. More than once she dismounted to help an exhausted or wounded man on his feet.

As she’d ridden back to her place in the battle line, she’d seen Marston dismount and kneel beside a fallen knight. The youth was scarcely more than a squire, no doubt knighted shortly before the battle. His tattered surcoat bore diagonal lines of green and white. His legs were twisted under his armor and he was pinned by the gutted bulk of his slain warhorse.

Vittoria knew instantly that the poor youth’s death was a matter of moments and it couldn’t come too soon.

The young knight’s breath came whistling out and he coughed blood down his dented gorget.

“P-papa.” He burbled.

Vittoria started to swing down from her saddle but halted as Marston gently clasped the dying youth’s hand.

“I’m here, lad.” Marston’s eyes full of . . . sorrow? Could a man such as he truly feel such a thing?
Vittoria wasn’t sure. But for a moment, she was certain she’d caught a glimpse of the man Marston might have been. Perhaps could still be.

“Papa, it hurts.” The dying knight sobbed as his lungs slowly collapsed.
Marston, continuing on his charade of father to a dying stranger, drew his dagger.

“Close your eyes, lad. It’ll be better soon.” William said.

The knight drew another shuddering breath and slowly closed his eyes.

“Good night.” Marston said softly.

“Good night, Papa.”

Marston opened the fallen knight’s neck with blinding speed.

He stood and met Vittoria’s eyes, his expression unreadable. At last, she turned away and wondered a little bit if she wasn't more like the ruthless killer than she dared think. But she forced herself to think past that bit of lethal mercy, she’d seen and turned back to the many tasks at hand.
Little by little, her infantry reformed the line and drew back from the field of slaughter before them. Already, the piled corpses were shrouded in flies and the vultures were descending. Camp followers strode out to loot for their men, carry the wounded and help drag away the dead for burial, the summer heat would only help in the spread of disease.

Her cavalry were remounted, her infantry reformed and given food and water. Vittoria nodded to herself, once she’d ridden back to the banners, in the center of her host.

Her scouts had already ridden back, saying another host was drawing near. Some thought they might be men of the north. Well, whatever might come, she was as ready as she could be. Nothing besides a retreat was more chaotic than the aftermath of a victory, but she’d managed to ride out the chaos. Her men had been promised that the loot of the Faith camp would be divided evenly and that they’d be paid. Now they waited, formed in deeper ranks than before, the banners rippling listlessly overhead in the hot northern breeze.

They’d won today. It had hung on a knife’s edge, but Vittoria Tyrell had fought and won a great victory.

No doubt I’ll truly grasp what that means later on. Mostly I feel . . . empty. She thought.

[Ezekiel]

Pain

Existence narrowed until that was all that there was. No swirling visions in the darkness, no ambition, no identity, just suffering. He floated in a sea of it, cast about by seas of excruciation and drowned in tides of agony. He did not know for how long it was so, memories of anything else bled away. He could have broiled in an ocean of torment for all eternity for all the fleeting concept of his consciousness could register.

Suddenly, it was over. Sensation washed back into the stricken form of the King all at once as he was pulled back into the waking world. Even the sting of the limited light to his eyes, or the sudden burning in his chest from the sudden rush of a deep breath could not hinder the sudden wash of relief that was the absence of the prison that was his own mind. Muscles that had not worked for the long weeks intervening their use burned as he bolted upright in a motion, ignoring the aches and pains that suddenly flooded him. Next to what he had just been, they were nothing.

There was a scrambling of motion about him, but he was barely aware of it. His body was recovering faster than his mind and details continued to elude him. His own name seemed to dangle on the tip of his mental tongue, and the events that had lead him to this place were alien to him. All he knew was the right of his rule, and the duty to ensure it. He forced himself from the plinth like stone he rested upon, even as a clarion of protestations rose from the beings he now suddenly remembered to be servants, his servants, at his continued motion. Only one among the room did not move or cry out such. A figure of feminine darkness at the head of what had been his resting place. He remembered the cruel coldness of her beauty. It had not faded, but she was clearly worn from effort in a way he had not seen her before.

He moved to her, the limited blankets that had covered his form falling away as he did so, ignoring the others that buzzed about him as he took her chin in his hand, tilting her towards him.

“You have my thanks, Witch.” His grip tightened, as he almost seemed to pull her towards him, lifting her slightly from the meerest tug of his strength. He was aware that he should feel weak, he did not know what time had passed but he knew enough of such things to guess. Instead, brutality coursed through him, awakening his strength even if it set his limbs afire. Eventually he released her, finally addressing the complaints of the room. “See to the Lady, your King has business to attend to.”

---

Maegor barely took the time to dress as he moved from the cells of the ever expanding Red Keep, even as he crossed into the chamber that had grown up around the Aegonfort, still a pair of squires nipped at his heels, attempting to fasten armour to the King.
“Explain.” Maegor paused in place, finally, before the short platform upon which the Iron Throne sat, taking Blackfyre in hand as it was passed to him by a Knight of greater standing than the squires that maintained his armour. He spoke to none of them though, instead to the figure upon the throne itself.

Visenya arose from within the confines of the Iron Throne with a steady grace, crossing the short distance to her son with languid purpose. Even her hard features softened somewhat as she raised a hand to Maegor’s cheek, a soft smile touching her lips as she beheld him. “You are among us once more.”

Maegor’s own steel did not waiver, however. Perhaps with anyone else he may have reacted more to the touch, usually he would not be blunt with her of all people, but the fire behind his eyes burned with purpose and even Visenya could earn her share of such.

“The Faith and the Lords who supported them splintered after the Trial, a large host has still gathered, and they claim the city for themselves from the Sept.” Visenya mused, her hand drfiting away from Maegor’s cheek. “Many deny that you live at all, or claim the trial was not won.”

“Traitors to their Faith as well as their King, then.” Maegor lifted his arms slightly to allow the last binds of his armour to be put in place. “They still gather in my city?” Once this was completed, he slide Blackfyre into the scabbard at his belt. Since the Trial his armour had been restored, he noted with a grunt of recognition, before refocusing on his mother.

“They do.” For once she did not offer advice, her own emberous gaze settling with her son’s. There was a challenge there, a test to gauge the strength of purpose the risen King had.

“Summon Vhagar, their period of clemency is at an end.”

---

The steady tread of boots through the streets of King’s Landing was enough to rouse the attention of most of the populace. The city was in a state of middling disorder, the immediate chaos following the Trial had steadily calmed, in part due to the efforts of various militias, in part simply due to the passage of time. A sense of pensive dread still hung over most of the city however, but not so much that curiosity didn’t trump it.

Rhoelle watched from the a window on the second floor of the Three Hill Inn. One of the few establishments within the city that catered to the respectable elements of society, she had made it the central hub of her efforts in the city over the following weeks. She did not wish to open up the Baratheon Manse as a last location of potential security, and the central location of the Inn worked well for her. In reality, she couldn’t bare to remain within the Manse while her father’s body, despite the care attributed to it, rotted in repose. The owners of the Inn had been quite happy to host the effort, they had not even attempted to charge for use of most of the rooms for garrisoning the Baratheon Stag Knights and Men-At-Arms as such a contingent had protected the Inn from the riots and looting that had afflicted much of the city. Whatever was going on was beyond the scale of the militias that had defined the fighting within the city, however. Only two groups within King’s Landing could command this number of men, the Crown and the Faith, who had both simply secured their own assets and allowed the city to writhe and burn. At first the Faith had been different, encouraging citizens to take shelter in the Sept, but after the Trial things had been different. Apparently many of the most conflagatory Septons had blamed the people of King’s Landing and their vices for the Knights of the Faith falling at the trial, and such feelings had not recovered in the intervening weeks.

It was definitely the Crown on the march now, Rhoelle watched as the men-at-arms decked in liveries of red and black marched on past the Inn. They were heading towards the Starry Sept, that much was sure. She did not know why the Crown now seemed to act, perhaps the Dowager Queen had finally pulled herself away from her son’s sickbed to tend to the realm, perhaps the King had risen, or perhaps there was now a new king. All thoughts crossed her mind, as she turned away from the window and began to move downstaires.

“Henrick, gather some men, we should see what this is about.” She spoke to her appointed Master-of-Arms as she hopped from the last step, already pinning her own cloak across her shoulders as she did so. There was a look of concern from many in the room, but not surprise, many were already in the process of preparing after the movements had begun.

“My Lady, there is likely to be trouble.” The short, but solidly built, man offered at least the hint of an objection, but he too now was already preparing to follow her orders.

“I suspect so, but we’ve not spent the last few weeks avoiding trouble, have we now?” With the cloak affixed, Rhoelle patted herself down and stood tall, notably so for a lady but still far from the most domineering in the room, even still, she’d earned most of their respect in recent times, and even if not, her gold still worked. “We’ll wait for the column to pass, then we’ll follow.”

---

Unlike before, the Baratheon party did not move with full fanfare, no mounts were used or banners unfurled as they shadowed the column of Men-At-Arms. Far from the events of before, Rhoelle was keen for them to not attract attention as potential arbiters of law, they were not here to challenge the Crown, her story all along had been that House Baratheon was keeping order in the Crown’s name while the King was prevented from doing so, and the last thing she wished was to be percieved as a threat.

So, Rhoelle and a small but effective force of her swornswords soon reached the plaza before the Sept. Part of a relatively small crowd that gathered in the side streets leading onto the square itself. None dared to approach the rear of the Targaryen Men-At-Arms, who now fanned out to fully cover the steps leading up to the dominating structure of the Sept, the stone building towering above all structures within the city beyond the skeletal build of the new Keep atop Aegon’s Hill.

Rhoelle noted that the men were archers, a moment before they moved in lockstep to ready an arrow, not drawing for the moment, but clearly prepared to. Only one of their number was mounted, and his steed stood at the front and centre of the men. Even before he spoke, various members of the faith, Septons and Knights of the Faith Militant had begun to assemble at the entrance to the Sept itself, looking down on the men below. They were few in number, for the faith in large part was within, gathered for morning prayers. A few calls of concern sounded from these men of the faith, questions or condemnation towards the gathered soldiers, yet they recieved now answers. She flinched as the first stone was throne, the simble projectile bouncing off the helm of one of the archers with a heavy clang that scattered the man backwards. Still, the archers didn’t react, and soon the jeers and accostments began to rise. The noise was growing. The young Baratheon woman felt her breathing slow as she watched the scene, concern and confusion building within her as her eyes danced across the tableu.

“What are they doing.” She mused quietly. Then she heard it.

Most might have mistaken it for a changing in the wind, a gusting of air from the tumultuous Crownlands climate that had such a changeable nature. Rhoelle, however, was a grandaughter of Orys Baratheon, when she was but three years old she had met her Great Uncle Aegon and sat in his lap as they watched the Dragons together. She’d always thought him a surprisngly soft man, when she looked back on those memories.

She wasn’t thinking of that then, however, she turned her head back towards Henrick with a sudden look of terror and grief of her features. “Get back! Back from the Square!” Her order was sudden, but her men were well trained and despite a lack of understanding were already pulling away from the plaza before she could explain. It wouldn’t quite be fast enough.

It hadn’t been the changing of the wind. It had been the beat of a Dragon’s wing, and only one Dragon could be mistaken for the climate itself.

Rheolle threw herself to the floor into the shelter of the side alley, her hands covering her ears, and then a thunder worse than any storm broke over King’s Landing.

---

Little feet slapped against stone floors, sending the small body weaving between gray-robed men. Bright blonde hair bobbed along with the rhythm of his run, fear in his blue eyes. He wanted his mother, more than he ever had before in the two years he had been studying the Faith with the King’s Landing septons. He had watched his uncle fall to knights of the Faith and now he ran with a message through a sea of bodies that had been filling this great sept since that fateful day.

Faith had prevailed, that’s what he had heard from his masters and friends. He should be happy, that’s what they’d said. If he wasn’t happy perhaps he was a traitor like his uncle, they’d warned him. Alyn wanted the faith to win but he hadn’t wanted his uncle to die. His confusion had left him sniffling himself to sleep since.

“Septon Oswald, sir!” His voice rang out, light and airy with a quiver. He was interrupted by a crushing roar even as the aged man turned and their eyes met. The little Arryn’s fear doubled at seeing it reflected back to him by the septon.

The man was frozen before him for just a moment before being shoved aside by a sudden swelling of Swords and Stars. “Run.”

Alyn saw the word form on the man’s lips but couldn’t hear it over the continuing roar. He heard snippets of orders and of prayers as his legs listened to the command before his mind could make sense of it. He could see sunlight, his breath ragged in his throat, when he felt a large body barrel into his side and sent him flying across the stone floor. His knees and elbows stung from the fall.

He pulled himself up to only take another step before being knocked down again, hard. His breath was gone, a large boulder of a marble crushing his leg. Panic took over, and he wailed for the Mother, for his mother. None stopped to help him, men panicked around him, fleeing from something Alyn couldn’t understand. Until he felt a wave of heat, a flash of fire, brilliant unending pain, then nothing.

---

The roar of a dragon was part scream, but not Balerion.The cacophany that the Black Dread could create was as much a weapon as tooth, claw or fire. The shockwave of the screech cast men to the floor and burst eardrums on its own. The Men of the Crown were safe from such, with helms designed for it, but they were alone. Leather might turn aside a blade far worse than any steel helm, but all steel did was echo the noise again. Men atop the stairs of the Sept of Remembrance collapsed in pain even then, a moment of agony before absolution claimed them.

Even across the square and half way down an alleyway, Rhoelle felt the heat. She desperatly ripped her cloak from herself, worried the light fabric might burn from the air itself as it washed over her. The stunned shock of the moment before rippled through the square, then the city, then terror descended.

The great dark shape of Balerion had burst from the cloud layer the moment after the sonic roar, the vast dragon racing towards the gateway to the Sept, before his jaws had oppened a second time and bathed the face of the Sept in Fire. Glass had shattered, stone had melted and crumbled. The men who had been outside simply ceased to be, fusing with the stone upon which they stood. A smaller, shape darted from the clouds, but only relatively so, as Vhagar joined her fire to her companion’s, insteading enflaming the spires of the Sept as Balerion targeted the body.

The purpose of the archers was then made evident, as desperate Knights, Septons, and those who had taken shelter within the Sept for prayer attempted to flee, clambering through fire and stone to do so, the arrows began to fly. Like scythes through wheat, the whistle of arrows went entirely unheard over the roar of dragon and flame, but it spat death all the same.

King’s Landing had become the Kingdom of the Dragon once more.

[Ruby]

_{Lady Vittoria Tyrell, High Marshall of the Reach
Ser William Marston
Garin Sands, Captain}

Though the dust from the battle had begun to settle, the cloying stench of ruptured organs and the piled corpses of the slain was already rising. The oppressive heat would only make it worse. But Vittoria had planned for that. Teams of camp followers and soldiers were already moving to dig the wide trenches that would serve as mass graves for the fallen soldiers of the Faith. Women and men toiled under the sun’s unrelenting fury, their faces shrouded by cloth masks as they broke the parched ground with picks and spades.

Beyond the sound of horses and hurried commands, there was a low and distant sound on the oven-like breeze. The quiet moans and sobs of those who still clung to life or simply hadn’t finished dying.

Vittoria stood in her stirrups and tried to ignore the dull ache in her joints and hands. The tough little mare she’d chosen, munched contentedly on the dry grass, heedless or perhaps inured to the death and pain around.

Her infantry and knights had reformed and dressed their lines. Though her men were tired from the battle, they still had strength enough to hold the line at least longer. Garin’s scouts and the main body of his cavalry were already at work, setting pickets, patrolling beyond her forces, securing the enemy camp and harrying any survivors.

All was . . . not well, thousands of men had just fallen at her command. But things were in order. She ran a hand through her dusty hair and forced her tired mind to think over whether or not she was forgetting anything.

The battle was scarcely over, when essengers began to arrive almost instantly. Lord Theo congratulated her and asked her to see him as soon as she could. She read the scrawl of ink and parchment, barely big enough to hold with two hands, five times…the contents of it never did give way to the power of her gaze, remaining the same as it been when it arrived in her hands from the messenger.

It said nothing about the Faith’s camp. It said nothing about Rowan or Oakheart. Garin Sand’s last missive had little else. The enemy camp and baggage train had been taken, the few Faith servants who’d survived the massacre were being pursued. Her response was loud and deflating; the kind of sigh that came from the depth of one’s gut and slow rumbled its way out of their lips with exasperation.

“…we’re not done, are we?”

The question came from a man with a tone of pain. It wasn’t until the second messenger in quick measure, producing the second missive from the commander of their van, that her mood visibly perked: Davos and his people were only minorly injured. Smiling, she responded to the exhausted sworn shield and cousin of her’s, Ser Ryam, “…no, I don’t think we are.”

The third messenger came, presented his tightly rolled parchment, and left with the urgency of a man worried about his brothers. It was a small reminder that the fighting was still playing out. That danger was still in the air for some of those under her banners. The message made her blink: Ser Morgan Hightower has been taken prisoner.

The world around them was brown and gray, with all colors but blood red. long dead. Even that was already turning black in the summer heat. Another sigh came, smaller, silent, her own kind of prayer in that field of dead. That was when the fourth messenger arrived from the dust and death, a man-at-arms sent from Ser William Marston, the cold-eyed killer who’d held the bridge for her. The disheveled soldier dropped to his knees before her, breathless and gasping for air.

Ser Ryam was suddenly not so exhausted, stepping his horse between the man-at-arms and the High Marshall, but Vittoria placed a hand on his armored shoulder, with a gentle smile. There wasn’t any fear left for her this day. As she leaned from the saddle to take the message, a flash of light off metal caught her eye.

In the distance, she could see Garin Sand’s banner held aloft . . . and the head of whatever poor unfortunate who hadn't run fast enough from the Dothraki warrior who held it. Garin raised his spear in salute as he drew closer. Though he was covered in dust, she saw the easy set to his shoulders and the jauntiness in the way he rode. All must be well then. Suddenly her body didn’t ache so much, and her head felt clearer than ever. She felt as if she could glow.

Vittoria Tyrell felt powerful again. “Tell me.”

“Ser William Marston bade me give you his compliments and to tell you that he has captured a Septon in the field—”Anyone, Vittoria prayed, but—“a Septon Pater. North and east from here.”

Before the name was even out of his mouth she was turning her horse and shouting for her bodyguard to follow her. Ryam was already turning in his saddle to call for his remount. Her hand touched his left shoulder, as she smiled at him, “Thank you. Rest, Ser Ryam. You have done all that I could ask.”

The capacity of Creation for tragedy and pain became the landscape, thick with dust, highlighted in drying blood and rotting flesh and smashed brains. Bile, entrails, vomit—there was every smell contained within men as fragrance of the thick air. Vittoria had hated every battlefield she had ever had to be on.

As she drew closer to Garin, she pointed to the north-east. “If you will ride with me, Captain?”

Garin nodded and the small column of riders he had with him, turned to follow their captain.

“My scouts report that they’ve found only stragglers, the camp is taken and some of your own footmen have already crossed the bridge to go and stand guard there. Lord Theo has sent his men to inventory the baggage train. As for my cavalry, we’ll keep up the pursuit through the night.

“But there’s very little left of the enemy.”

Garin’s voice was raspy from barking orders and dust, sweat had ran down from his helm, through the dust that caked his lined features. His eyes were red and puffy from stress and exhaustion, no doubt his body ached under his armor. But he still rode tall and proud. Then again, he could not afford to show weakness before the kind of mercenaries he commanded.

Vittoria nodded as she blinked her red-rimmed eyes and tried to think through the fog in her brain.

“So you’ve taken the baggage train and the bulk of your cavalry are still in play. You’ve done a great feat of arms here, Garin. It will not be forgotten.”

Sands nodded, no doubt he understood, she couldn’t make promises. But at least Vittoria had recognized the importance of dividing the loot from the baggage train.

Fighting her own Reachmen, fighting the Faith…she had never hated a battlefield more. She had a won battle that many an experienced commander would have found a challenge. But it held no glory for her. Any thoughts of honor and victory were overshadowed by the empty gazes of the dead and sobs of the wounded.

If it were possible to spare the day one more tragedy? She rode quicker than she should have, her little mare moving over the rough ground with the grace of a dancer. There was still some fighting northward, where Northern mercenaries were said to appear—from where, at the expense of what accounts, she was still dying to learn.

Well, regardless of their intentions, her army was deployed and ready for them. If nothing, a show force was sometimes a good idea.

The ground rose before a quick dip in the spot beside a small stream now choked with dead and blood and worse, down the small slope and across that stream Vittoria Tyrell found the men she sought:

“SER WILLIAM!”

It was before they came within earshot, next to Ser William, that Septon Pater spoke in wry tones as he heard that voice and saw the distant figure of the Lord Commander ahorse, “…you’ve done it now, Ser. Both the Mother and the Warrior, entwined, come to judge us, now.”

William turned to regard the Septon with the blank stare of his gore-spattered great helm. If the heat discomfited him under his armor, he showed no sign.

“It seems to me, priest, that the judgment has already been passed.”

Despite himself, the old Septon felt a shiver crawl up his spine. In the same way a man might give pause when having rounded a bend in the trail, to come across an angry bear.

Pater had met such men before. Indeed, more than one old Septon had been a knight in his younger days. He glanced at the carnage around them and counted himself lucky that the hulking knight beside him had seen his bloodlust slaked. If Lady Vittoria was the Warrior and the Mother, then Marston had been the merciless Stranger at this bridge.

He watched as his menacing captor stood in his stirrups and waved his newly acquired lance at the approaching cavalcade. Pater knew little of knighthood but he knew enough to realize Marston was a warrior with great strength and a brutal drive for combat that few men ever experienced. He felt respect for the young knight but there was pity in his old eyes as well.

In his experience, men like that were rarely happy unless they were fighting. Usually they would fall in battle. Or they lived long enough to look back on the life they’d led and begin to wonder what it had all been for. Pater wasn’t sure which fate was crueler.

“Tell me, Ser. Was the death at this bridge all your doing?”

William turned again and his helm moved slowly from side to side. “No, some of those Essossi,” he waved a gauntleted hand at the approaching horsemen, “feathered a few of the ones on the eastern bank.”

Pater nodded gently. “Still, Ser. You showed great bravery today.”

William’s pauldrons clanked as he shrugged.

“He does the most, who is worth the most.” He said, the sound distorted behind his helm.

Vittoria was staring both men down as she approached, as Garin and Ryam took to looking around their surroundings intently and dismounted without a word said. Pater took the opening and ran with it, beginning to explain even before her booted feet hit the dust and dirt and blood of the battleground. “I struck out to find you before this…” Pater paused, but only for a heartbeat, “fine Knight found me and graciously did me no harm.”

“You thought you might be a threat to Ser William?”

Pater stuttered, “Well, uh, um…no, I suppose not, just the grace that I was not immediately thrashed upon discovery from the Knight of the Bridge.”

Vittoria looked past Pater, to William, “…still getting your strength back?” She asked, as if there could be no other reasoning behind why William left Septon Pater unbruised. It was dry, battlefield, humor—the real reason was what she had first alluded to, that Pater had been no threat, so he suffered no harm.

“He told me he knew you. I decided to wait . . . if he was lying I was going to hold his ankles and bounce his head off the bridge.” William said.

There was a long pause and Vittoria made a note that Marston had very little in the way of a sense of humor. Well, or at least anything that she would have considered amusing.

“I would offer my congratulations on your victory, High Marshall…but I’m sorry, Vittoria, I’m sure this day was no happy day” Pater offered the girl he had helped mentor to womanhood.

Her nostrils flared. Deep within the chasm of her spirit, she was as heartbroken as she was absolutely furious…and it was a fury with focus. With intent. Instead of showing it, Vittoria smiled brightly at the man, “Congratulations are in order for you as well, Pater.”

The Septon blinked, the look in his eyes shifting as suddenly as if he’d just realized he were standing on quicksand, “Oh?”

“You will be good for the Realm, your High Holi—”

“—the High Septon lives, Vittoria, it’s—”

Her head dipped to the left, just-so, in as close to a shrug as she’d allow, “Not for long. The Most Devout accompanied the Faith Militant’s host not because of holy purpose, Pater, let us be clear: You didn’t want to burn to death from Maegor’s dragonfire.”

“The High Septon must be chosen, fairly, as a decision from the whole of the Most Devout, you know this.”

Pater looked at her as if he were lost. Or perhaps, as if he did not recognize the young woman before him. He’d seen nearly every side and facet of her being that existed over the long years, but he’d never seen here, like this…he’d never met the High Marshall of the Reach in the aftermath of battle.

When she turned to him, she squared completely, her eyes numb, her body still high on the supply of victory, on the fact that nothing stood between King’s Landing and her…nothing. The tone that followed her dull gaze gave the Septon chills, “The Most Devout allowed this. Men that followed me, loved me…are dead, Pater. Children not yet the age of a grown man died in that dust today, Pater…I KILLED MY OWN REACHMEN, I ORDERED THE ASSAULT ON THE BANNER OF THE SEVEN, MY GODS!”

Even Ryam and Garin had stopped being alert, instead turning in their saddles to stare: by the time she was done speaking, she had been screaming. The careful façade had broken, and the rage, the anguish, had been left bare…even if for one fleeting moment. Her hands busied themselves shoving hair behind her shoulders and ears, her red lips parted as she breathed deep, slow, breaths until her composure returned.

“I have committed sins on this day that I will never be able to atone for…fine,” she said the word like most men spat, something she wanted out of her mouth, now, “Fine, this is my burden. I will bear it…but I will make this day WORTH this burden, Pater.”

He said nothing as he stood there, staring, his inner turmoil plan on his face as her pain was on her face. “Garin, take Pater with you, round up as many of the Most Devout as we can…hiding in their camp? Hiding in the surrounding areas?”

She had asked, turning from Garin, back to Pater, in time to watch Pater nod, and sigh, “Most of us did not ‘hide’, we waited, and we prayed. You will find them in a few of the largest pavilions in our camp.”

Garin smirked, his reverence for the divine was real but he had only contempt for the Septons of the Seven.

Vittoria turned back to Pater, looking him straight in the eyes as she issued her orders.

“Garin, I want them rounded up and escorted into the biggest pavilion they have. Surround it with your most trusted men,” her head snapped back to Pater as her seething rage poured out of her, “the Most Devout will choose a new High Septon. When you have been selected, Pater, it will be over. Until then you will all stay in that pavilion.”

“Vittoria—” his protest began.

She appeared to ignore it, “If a member of the Most Devout tries to leave…fill them with arrows.” Then, only then, did she address the Septon’s protest, “Let us not pretend the Most Devout have never selected a High Septon they were instructed to select, Pater, I know the history as well as any Septon.”

Garin grinned mirthlessly. “Better than that, my boys are itching for sport. I’ll let them draw and quarter any man who tries to escape.”

“You would kill us if we leave? Vittoria…are you hearing yourself?” It was in disbelief that Pater nearly chuckled.

“Today will NEVER happen again, Pater.”

Pater opened his mouth again and then Marston’s gauntleted hand clasped the back of his neck.

“You live only because the High Marshal wishes it and I let you live because I deemed there’s little honor in killing you.

“But do not test me or the Lord Commander again. You and your ilk can bend the knee and obey . . . or be made to.” Martson’s voice was as cold and hard as the steel he was clad in.

Pater stood stock still in shock and growing fear. He gazed up at Vittoria in mute appeal but in her bloodshot eyes, he only saw the same cold ruthlessness of the soldiers beside her.

[Ezekiel]

There was little delay in the progress of two great dragons across the skies of Westeros, the terrible and illustrious beasts of the conquest ranging across the land they had made. Yet still, Balerion and Vhaegar were reported to pause briefly on their way through the Reach. They did not halt for the benefit of any armies, for the fighting was done, but simply that the first of ravens should reach Old Town before them.

The Sept of Remembrance had been destroyed, one centre of unrest turned to ash in the name of Fire and Blood. Now they were coming to finish the task.

It was a terrible awakening for many of the realm. The Dornish had known dragonfire upon their cities and holdfasts, but the Westerosi of more Northern Kingdoms had feared only the destruction of armies. Of course, Aegon and his sisters had spoken of the dangers of their wrath, but only Maegor had now made them real. Many among the faith had been immobilised before, the King had won the most sacred trial and surely entrenched himself in the favour of the Seven, yet he still was not anointed, and had been stricken low. Perhaps that had been a sign of true disfavour, despite his apparent victory. The High Septon had promised that he would not rise.

Now he had risen, and reaped a terrible vengeance, and for all that many could guess, had only begun such. Few places could offer any challenge to dragons as vast as the Black Dread, but if anywhere on Westeros could, the hidden archives of the Maesters might provide such. That was the debate that raged between Tower and Citadel. If not now, when? Such a debate was made all the less believable when the first ravens arrived with news that two dragons now sped towards Old Town. Even if one could be felled at cost, what damage could the over inflict in the interim? Some lords and influential septons fled the city, suddenly less convinced of the zeal of their cause, some remained and debated. The High Septon continued his campaign of fervour.

By the time Balerion and Vhaegar alighted beyond the city, and the warbling scream of the Black Dread's roar ripped through the air, panic had already set in throughout the city. Streets which had only just recovered from the first violence of the Upsrising erupted once again. The tone of desperation had changed, however. Poor Fellows preachers who had roused their flock to riot now found themselves the target of the same desperate mob, attempting to offer up the leaders who had pulled them astray in the hope they may be spared the dragonfire.

For a moment, every inhabitant in the city, from greatest lord to lowest urchin, knew one truth.

Kings, not Gods, ruled them now.

The dragons continued to rest within sight of the city, sometimes one would fly in circuit of Old Town, sometimes they would both remain grounded. A tavern on the road played host to the royal party of two for a pair of nights. Normally such would be the cause of great celebration for any local establishment, but now there was only sullen silence, beyond the roaring scream of dragons.

It took those days for a small loyal host to draw up alongside the dragons, from the fastest of royal riders and a number of local lords who made claim to loyalty. If the King cared for the fact some had no doubt sworn their colours to the faith scant weeks before he seemed not to care, at least for the moment. The small host was unnecessary, it wouldn't outnumber the city guard let alone the banners House Hightower could call, but it was these mortal men that marched on the city, a city that had lived in the shadow of Balerion's wings for two nights and a day. When the first riders demanded the King's entry to the city the gates were thrown open, when they demanded the surrender of the High Septon they were told he was already dead, a fortuitous event which spared the city without a need to surrender the worst of their pride to the Targaryen King.

No sooner had both truths been declared, than Maegor rode into Old Town, as Visenya's will alone held the two largest dragons in Westeros at bay.

[Almalthia]

Westeros Skies

On the way to the Westerlands

_{Collab with @Almalthia, @Apoalo & @Vanq}

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The Princess looked like she had no idea what they were talking about. Melyssanthi had this look that said ‘I'm empty headed and sweet’ and she employed it like a Braavosi water dancer employed their blade. “Oh troubled news? Pray do tell Lady Hogg."

Lady Hogg, widower and mother to knights, grimaced before finding herself again to answer the Princess’s question. “The same troubles as have plagued us before, princess. The Faith is unhappy, and my sons will be off again to prove themselves in support of the crown.” She did not look to her remaining son, while Jon had gone off to King’s Landing, at least Baekyn was still here, for now. “Forgive me, but I must prepare for the days ahead of us.” The mother excused herself, leaving the princess to Grandmother Hogg and her stories - embellished or not - of fair queen Rhaenys and of times that fewer and fewer remembered.

Pheynix is tended to and her wound stitched up. After the almost all consuming agony of that torment she was put through the anguish of the pulling of her movements as she bathed. Finally done she is wrapped and dressed in a dress very reminiscent of Lys. She did not complain since it was far easier than the normal Westrosi clothing. “Thank you ladies. I can walk, no need to have him fuss over me.”

If Pheynix thought that sitting up was a torment then attempting to stand nearly made her pass out. The wave of vertigo washed over her and as gently as she could Pheynix sat back down slowly. “Perhaps I was a bit too hasty. By all means let us go get Ser Baeykin, and by us I really mean one of you.”

Pheynix was moved to the bedchamber that was promised and she had no complaints. Well none that could really be fixed more than they had. The Maester had come to check the wound and had gone. She was exhausted and her brother had hobbled up the stairs to sit with her. She was not convinced that it was not due to the physical appeal of their host. While she could admit she had a flutter of attraction it was not to be measured up to what she saw her parents shared. That ultimately was what Pheynix was looking for. Attraction while it is nice and was helpful was not love.

Having slumped up the stairs to sit with his sister, Castor stared at the door for what felt like all night. Before he knew it the sun had risen and was shining right in his eyes as he had fallen asleep staring out at the night sky listening to the even breaths of his sister. His heart caught as he remembered the blood and the fear of almost losing her. He hopped up and stretched his muscles popping and creaking. Having closed his eyes on the satisfying stretch he peeked at his sister to see if he had woken her. He had not. Her face was still turned away and he could see the bright snow white patch of hair that marked their family. A birthmark that passed on through the rarity of the jet black hair that ran in their Valyrian line. Smirking Castor reached over and gently yanked that patch of hair.

He had been obsessed with it when he was little and it became a way to get his big sister’s attention. She let him know if he pulled too hard, normally with a fist in his eye. Girl could scrap and he blamed Luna and Hesp. Those two were always throwing punches or rolling in the dirt, and normally Luna that started it.

The hand that raised gently brushed his arm away so she could sleep more. Castor smirked as he sat down on the bed and tapped her cheek till he heard her grumble and she turned her head, opening her left eye slightly. He grinned and blew in her face.

The light was bad enough but the blowing in her face was enough for Pheynix to want to sock him in his eye. “By the Old Gods!! You would kill a dragon with that breath!!” She turned her head and sputtered. “The Black Dead is less foul than that!! What privy did you lick?! NO DON’T ANSWER THAT!!!”

The full bodied laugh from her little brother made her reach out blindly and smack. Unfortunately for her Pheynix only beat the bed covers. He grabbed her hand and she turned and glared at him.

Smirking, Castor kissed his sister’s hand in consolation. “Shall I send a maid in to assist with your absolutions or do you think you can do it yourself?” He raised an eyebrow communicating that the latter was not really an option for he would be sending a maid in.

She rolled her eyes but Pheynix knew that it would be far easier and quicker if she had assistance. And the Princess was not going to be one to dilly dally. “Send one in please.” She watched him hobble to the door. “Not so crippled as your sister, eh?”

“Not so foolish as to get stabbed, dearest sister.”

Pheynix stuck her tongue out and sat up slowly shooing him out of the room.

Melyssanthi was bright eyed, bushy tailed and a cheerfully irritatingly pretty morning person. Her hair braided and contained so that she was not a mess when they arrived at their destination. She was in a pair of red riding leathers that were covered in black chainmail. Gold gauntlets with an open palm were mirrored by a golden link belt.

Watching the brother and sister come down the stairs, Melyssanthi looked concerned. “Are you sure you can ride cousin?” Pheynix did not look as bad as she had yesterday and thankfully did not look like she had a fever either. The older woman’s hair was braided simply and someone had raided Ser Hogg’s old clothes as the woman was clothed in leggings that were a deep blue and hugged her frame. The blue matched the trim on the deep gray tunic. Her brother was clad in the reverse colors.

“I am fine cousin. No need to worry.” Pheynix smiled warmly at Melyssanthi making the other girl smile as well. Looking at Ser Hogg she graced him with a brilliant smile. “I thank you Ser Hogg. I shall repay your kindness in time. I know not when but I shall repay you.”

“My sister and I both thank you for the use of your clothes and your… ladies’ clothes.” He said the ladies with a slight question. “As she stated we shall repay you.”

Ser Hogg smiled broadly in response. It had been a late night and early morning, though you couldn’t tell it from his demeanor. “We would do anything to help our Princess, and her friends.” He finished his mug of warmed wine, something to remove the chill from his bones that early morning work which seemed to linger longer the older he got. It had, though, not been an uncontentious night with his mother. The woman was displeased no matter how much grandmother had been beside herself with joy at their company.

Neither woman was present now though, and the gentle giant of a knight rose from his seat and approached the princess. “My brother is a good man who feels that the king will call upon his service again.” He looked the princess in her eyes, youthful and innocent, but he thought now he saw something more beyond that. He knelt, though the act barely brought his head below hers.

“But I swear myself to you. I will follow you now or will wait for your word if ever needed.” He paused in his simple vow, head bent as he considered how to be clear on his point. “My mother is not wrong that these are dangerous times and I think you have known that already though I do not ask for details on what led you to my door.”

He glanced at the Rahl siblings, they should not be moving again so soon. But they had his respect for doing it. “If you must leave now, I will see you off, a final escort until needed again.”

Leaning in Melyssanthi tilted Baekyn's face up. She looked deep in his eyes. “You warm my heart with your words Ser Baekyn Hogg.” She embraced him, placing a kiss of welcome on each cheek. “I will be delighted to call you my personal champion. Unfortunately we must leave. Know that I have started to build my court, and you are the first of many like minded individuals. We will make changes and go far.”

The grace with which the Princess accepted the fealty sworn to her made Pheynix and Castor smile.

[Ruby]

_{Lady Vittoria Tyrell, High Marshall of the Reach
Ser William Marston
Garin Sands, Captain
Ser Ryam Redwyne
Ser Dennet Tarly
Lord Bertrand Tyrell}

“I am standing by the river, Seven wait to take me home,” the voice that sang wasn’t gifted with inherent beauty, but there was an earnestness to it, carried on a gentle feminine warmth, unafraid to be heard, “Kiss me, Mother, kiss me Father. See the pain upon my brow. While I will soon be with those above, fate has doomed my future now.”

The Mander wasn’t as wide here, not as deep, but moved quickly and with a chorus that added to the natural song of river, bird, and cricket around them, the dead, and the Silent Sisters for whom Vittoria Tyrell sang the old song that had been in the Reach as far back as there had been the Seven, if not before.

She stood just upon its bank, her brown eyes locked upon the green-brown water that flowed, rather than the dead and the Sisters, the men with her a forgotten memory as she lost herself in the singing, and the emotions in her heart that spawned the song on her lips in the first place, so seemingly unprompted.

“Through the years you’ve always loved me….and my life you’ve tried to save. But now I shall slumber sweetly, in a deep and lonely grave.”

Deep and lonely were moments where her voice nearly cracked, words drawn out and lengthened in the singing of the song, nearly swallowed by the emotion of it. Every death hurt worse than any she could remember before. This was harder than it had ever been before.

And she was desperately tired of it.

“Throw your loving arms around me, I am weary…let me rest.”

Vittoria was glad for the physical distance those in her escort had provided her in the moment. It gave her freedom to cry, to bend her knees to squat, and to sob into folded forearms resting on her knees.

“I am Death,” she whispered a new song to herself, and herself alone, “come to take the soul, leave the body and leave it cold. To draw up the flesh off the frame, dirt and worm both a claim.”

She sniffed, and closed her eyes tight, as she forced composure onto her face, as the last line came to her silently, within her thoughts: Death is moving upon my soul.

It was several long minutes still until she stood. Double that time until she actually looked up to the sky, and finally back to her escort. Of all of them, it was her brother who had walked down the small ridge, and approached her.

“Are you alright?”

Her brown eyes upon his were the only answer her brother needed.

“I’ve seen that look,” Bertie said, with the careful tone most men reserved for statements such as, ‘oh, fuck.’

“I’m going to kill them.”

By now Dennet had likewise made the short trek down to Vittoria, Ryam behind him, Garin behind him, and William Marston lagging back further. Her brother, her brother by battle, her cousin, the man whose fate was tied closely to her own, and the weapon of destruction Vittoria had found herself closer to than any of them had any right to in the days following the battle.

They should have been enough to calm her.

But nothing was calming her now. “OVER A FUCKING MARRIAGE. I WILL RIP THEIR FUCKING RED KEEP DOWN UPON THEIR FUCKING VALYRIAN HEADS!!”

Bertie blinked, before looking back to Dennet and Ryam: both shrugged. At least Dennet tried something else, “Girl, you just saved their Kingdom.”

Vittoria screamed; guttural, pained, incensed.

Dennet nodded, and stepped back next to Ryam. When Dennet looked at him, Ryam shook his head, quietly. Nope. Not me. Both men looked back at Garin, who just stared at Vittoria, blankly. His thoughts doubtless on his wife, his children, and the future.

There was a pause and it seemed as though Garin might say something but then he shook his head slightly and turned away, perhaps in embarrassment or maybe he simply had seen that kind of rage and sorrow before. None would blame Garin for not galloping in the clutches of the raging dragon that was Vittoria Tyrell in this moment.

“GET THEM MARCHING TO KING’S LANDING!”

The order came hot, angry, and utterly unnecessary. Of course, they wanted to tell her, the host was already on the move. Had been, as Lord Theo had seen to before resigning himself to stay in the Reach and allow the High Marshall to command the march on King’s Landing. Lord Theo believed Vittoria was going to secure the city and keep the peace.

What would Vittoria actually do was worth wondering as they all quietly walked back to their mounts, except the weapon. The silent, hard, Knight never moved from his spot just down off the ridge, the farthest back watched as brother, brother in battle, cousin, and Garin marched past him to their horses.

William was ready for the storm. Unlike the rest of them, when Vittoria went to stomp past him, his hand went out and stopped her, gauntleted hand firm on her arm. Her head snapped up at him, but his gaze held firm. “This is unlike you, my Lady.”

“I’m tired of burying good men for BAD REASONS.” The Vittoria Tyrell that they knew was gone. “This is KILLING the good parts of me. I feel so unafraid. I feel like I am slipping away…” she leaned in closer to him, to whisper to him with a hushed rage, the type of which had never taken her tone before, “I will devour them,” her body literally shook with anger as she stressed the whisper of the word.

“Go on,” William said, but not to her, to the men behind him, back up the ridge, and on their mounts.

“…go on?...who is this?” Bertrand Tyrell blinked at Dennet and Ryam.

Dennet sighed, “It’s the weapon that won the battle for his Lord Commander. Come on. We’ll stay close enough.”

Garin nodded slowly, though he never took his eyes of Marston. “It’s as he says, Ser Bertrand. Marston is a great many things but he can be trusted to keep his word. He’s too arrogant to be a traitor.” He said.

Vittoria felt the rage broil inside her and without thinking she tried to wrench her arm free from William’s grip. Suddenly her body jerked back as William shoved her away, gently, for him. She screamed at him, her brown eyes as big as the pain in her heart.

“I am a child of House Tyrell and I could have your head and more for such a felony against my person.” She spat.

William allowed the ghost of a smile to grace his cold features.

“Such rage is beneath one of your standing, Lord Commander. I’d expect that from a footsoldier who found his favorite whore with a friend but not you.”

She didn’t think, she just rushed the man. Her world was a tumble of sky and hot dirt as she found herself, quickly, on the ground, her head bumped and her breath completely taken from her body. He never worried when she grabbed his ankle, it was just something women did in defiance, and it wasn’t until he saw one of her legs snake behind his own that he realized what she was doing.

By then it was too late.

His weight and size worked against him as her legs scissored his just below the knees and took him to the ground. He hit hard, but she never expected him to recover so quickly, nor did she imagine just how heavy he was going to be as he landed his weight on her upper body, pinned her to the dirt, his hands quickly taking her forearms, and squeezing enough to make her howl; in pain, in anger, or worse.

“I COULD END THEIR DYNASTY! I CAN BRING THOSE FUCKING REPTILES TO HEEL!”

He shook her, once, harder than he ever could have imagined handling the High Marshall of the Reach. Hard enough to jerk her head, to slam her back into the dirt below, to rob her of breath once again to completely silence her, save for the sound of gasping in pain.
Then, with seemingly no effort whatsoever, Marston had lifted his armored bulk from the ground and her with him. His gauntlet closed around her collar and he lifted her not quite off the ground.

Now his famous battle fury framed his own whisper, his face darkening, his blank eyes full of an emotional state he never seemed to show anyone, “Yes, I believe you could. I believe of all the people in Creation, you alone could do that. You could turn the Seven Kingdoms into a battlefield of blood and fire, and you would stand over it, victorious in the end…how many men would it kill? How many boys? How many women? How many children? How . . . how many squires?”

Vittoria gasped, sharp, at the word ‘squires’—not because of the word, itself, but because of the intensity of his grip as he said it, his own anger and loss bleeding through his actions as much as it did his words in that moment. Her brown eyes drowned in tears, in part because now she understood why he used the word ‘squires’.. He hurt her, shocked her, and left her sobbing into him as the dream of vengeance on the House of Targaryen faded away from her, leaving only sorrow of the dead once more. “I’ve become a monster, William. I will let you down.”

“You alone can determine who you are and what you will be . . . and that is far more than most can say.” William seemed to almost say that last bit to himself.

His hand opened and he lowered her back the ground.

“Lord Commander, we will await your instruction.” He bowed and turned then.

Vittoria ran a hand through her hair and shook her head as William walked away, never looking back. For all the care he showed, the entire incident might have never happened. Who knew? Perhaps the killer in the form of a knight really did view things that way. A highborn lady would never do something so lowly as to lose her composure, so William would undoubtedly view his world accordingly.

“You would have made a fine Lord Paramount, all coldness and practicality.” Vittoria said to herself and then regretted it.
If Marston heard her whispered remark as he walked away, he gave no sign. And Vittoria felt a stir of pity for the hulking brute. She had to wonder what kind of father, and mother, could give rise to such a man? If he’d ever had anything like parents. Or maybe he’d been dredged up the darkest depths of the hells, forged into the armor he never seemed to go anywhere without, given a sword and told ‘kill.’

I hope and pray there’s a far kinder end for you than what I think awaits, William Marston. The world cannot hold very many such as you. Else you’d kill us all, I suspect. Vittoria shook himself from her reverie.

She was a Highborn lady, like it or not and as such, there were certain things expected of her.

She rejoined the small party where they waited. They mounted up and the the ride back to camp seemed to be one of the longest of Vittoria’s life. On some level, she supposed she should have burned with shame and self-loathing but in truth she was too tired to care about any of it.

Garin rode up next to her, the little Sand Steed mare he rode seemed to dance under him like an ocean wave in the sun.

“I once made the mistake of crying in front of my father, when I was very young.” He said, softly enough that only she could hear.

“Well . . . you’re a child of a great house and so are your peers. I think you understand.” Garin’s eyes still scanned their surroundings but he was far away in that moment.

“But for all that he was a cold, heartless bastard, he taught me one thing.”

Vittoria didn’t and couldn’t meet Garin’s eyes.

“What did he teach you?” She was pleased at how close to normal her voice came out.

“That anyone can give vent to what they feel but very few ever act beyond. Now, the man who pushes on? The one whose heart has calmed again and can look at his desires in the cold light of day and still acts? That is a man to fear.” Garin smiled gently.

Vittoria nodded shortly. “I think your father was right.”

“First time for everything.” Garin smirked.

The comment wasn’t that funny in and of itself but something about the whole situation and the way the mercenary said it....

Vittoria laughed and laughed.