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@RubyThe Reach
Oldtown
In the immediate moments it became rather clear to Davos why none of the most romantic moments of the old tales had taken place in the heat of martial combat, where maidens were swept off their feet by conquering heroes. He was not a weak man, but as Vittoria became an increasingly dead weight in his arms, the pace of their movement slowed to an intolerable level considering his fear for her. It was hardly the moment as he had envisioned it, but with a frustrated and angry growl, he lifted her fully, holding herself across his body as they moved. He was able to carry her faster than he could drag her, even if it was still a pace that felt like a crawl compared to what he wished.
He made a mental note to inform the next poet he met of the ludicrous nature of a slender woman disguised as a knight being able to do this.
Davos paused for a moment, turned to regard the maelstrom of violence that was the vengeful actions of Vittoria’s deadliest sworn knights. The call of the storm was in his blood, as his mother would have said, and his whole form seemed to ache with the desire to join them in their bloody vengeance. His blood might have been of the storm, but the heart is beat through was for her, and with only a moment passed he resumed his following of the Redwyne blade.
She stirred, still in his arms, and still trying to countermand the chaotic devestation that was being wrought around her. He hushed her with a noise that was more dismissive than any he had ever replied to her with, instead calling to the knight infront of him.
“She needs a Maester, quickly, there may be poison.” It seemed an obvious thing to say, but what he meant in full was that there was no point in rushing her as far as possible if she was only to die of the foulness in her blood, if his fears were correct. They would have to risk something closer, and pray the attack had been blunted in blood before they could be found. So they diverged, away from the most direct route of escape towards where she might be saved, should the worst be true.
Ryam Redwyne didn’t stop swinging until there was nothing left in front of him. His body pulsated; his mind raw as his eyes blinked at the sudden absence of targets. Even those that had remained before them were running off, scurrying. There was not but confusion in his eyes until his ears found the missing piece in the screams from the street they had left behind:
Dragonfire.But even that left him with nothing but confusion until Dennet spat, and came up from their rear guard to help Davos with the weight of the High Marshall, “Vaera’s bloody dragon.” Only after Dennet helped Davos steady Vittoria to a shared weight between the two men did his lift her face, and look at her eyes, “…hells, you might be right about that poison.”
Her eyes were empty vessels, with precious little recognition left in them, despite the fact that the blood came from her shoulder, not her chest, or neck. “Thank the Father whoever shot her missed anything important. What about the tavern?”
It was in front of them, but Ryam turned and shook his head, “Too close to the dragonfire if it starts to spread.”
“Wise, Ser,” the calm voice said, but Redwyne’s response to it was to lift his shield and blade again. The tall, thin, figure in grey sighed audibly and lifted the chain from under the robe, “I’m a Maester. We came for her.”
The gray hood was lowered, and it was only then that the older age of the thin man became apparent. Two other robed figures appeared from behind him, shorter but wider bodied, one of them getting very close to Vittoria immediately, enough for Dennet and Davos to hold out hands.
“We’re friends,” the robed figure explained, instead turning his attention to the face of the woman, “Vittoria? It’s Theyin. Where are they, Vittoria?”
The older man gave another supple sigh, and waved his hand, head darting this way and that, acutely aware of the danger they were still in, “Admirable, Theyin, but we do not have time…and she does not seem aware enough for an answer. Lords, follow us.”
The older man brought his hood back over his head and began to lead the way, as the other two Maesters walked behind the three Lords and the Lady. They went through one alley and to another, then another, and up ancient stone steps before through a seemingly empty building, turning left, walking into another alley, then finally up wooden stairs leading to the second floor of another wooden building, where a brown-haired young woman with green eyes and simply made dress awaited, holding the door open, eyes scanning the area around.
Inside was a perfumed and candle lit bedchamber with steel tub behind a screen off in the far corner. “Put here on the bed,” commanded the older Maester. Even though Davos and Dennet did as he bid, Dennet wasn’t done. Instead, the large man splattered in blood squared up to the older man and unleashed a tone that growled its way from his throat.
“What do you want with her?”
The tall man still wasn’t as tall as Dennet, his slender shoulders drooping, as if irritated with something he had no time for. “My name is Millin. At the moment, I am the best person in the Realm to see to Lady Vittoria.”
“He’s the Archmaester of Healing,” the other one who’d spoken directly to Vittoria, Theyin, interjected. In response, Ryam Redwyne, all but covered in blood, stepped uncomfortably close to him, with a quiet tone that sounded sharper than steel.
“Where is what?”
Theyin scoffed, “If she did not tell you, I cann—”
The dagger from his belt came out, and the woman who had held open the door for them all closed it, gently, before pleading, “Not here, please.”
“You will,” somehow, Ryam’s voice was quieter than before, yet stronger still, “or your Archmaester will need to tend to you, next.”
The third of the hooded Maesters kept by the door, in case he needed to make an immediate escape.
“Don’t start killing them before they have a chance to save her.” Davos spoke to Ryam, but his apologetic eyes were on woman as the door was closed, eyes that turned many a degree colder by the time they settled back on the room, the intensity of his gaze set on the maesters rather than the knight he had just chastised.
"I would answer his question though, I have no authority here." It was the cool tones of someone who knew very much that there were few places across the realm where this was actually true, an ease of command from those born into it, but in this case he had little hope or desire to control the knight in his duty. The only thing that mattered was that their fragile temporary alliance did not fall apart before Vittoria had been saved.
Millin sighed so deep, it appeared as if the man might collapse where he stood, until his head gave a bitter shake, “Scrolls. Vittoria Tyrell has scrolls from the Valyrian Freehold that should not exist. Presumably taken from the Pirate King she defeated in campaign. Scrolls of ancient, dark, magic that could well end the world of reason and man. That is why the Citadel has had her watched. That is why we cannot allow her to die. If you know where they are, you NEED to tell us.”
Ryam’s body relaxed, confusion as his blue eyes looked at Dennet. Dennet’s dark brown eyes looked as stunned as they could ever look, it was Dennet’s low rumble of a voice that answered for them all, “She hasn’t told us. We haven’t seen anything. Knowing her, they’re in some vault of Highgarden. If you want an answer, it’ll have to be from her.”
Millin nodded, “As expected. Vittoria is no fool, she was always unlikely to leave them with the likes of any of you. Now go, we will do what we can. Theyin, I will send you to the Citadel for various substances.”
“I’ll stay right here.” Ryam Redwyne was her sworn shield, an oath to his cousin he would not break.
Dennet looked to Davos, “Let us see to the men that followed us. We need to find a way out of this city, and I may well need your Baratheon name to secure it.”
Davos nodded, the desperate cries of Vittoria even as she faded crashing back to his memory. Even if he wasn't inclined to act on his own accord, he wouldn't allow her to wake thinking he had done nothing to help prevent further chaos and bloodshed. At least towards those not directly responsible for putting her in this state.
He took a further look around the room, at those assembled. He had faith that they could treat her, but it still seemed a cruel jest of fate that this should happen so soon to the possibility of his happiness. He moved to where they had her, lying across and all but dead to the world. He did not fear the potential of any poison as he lent to kiss her, gently pressing his own lips to her's. Memories that were yet to be flooded his mind, of many more kisses and the potential of their years together. If the gods were not kind and they were not to be, he held the moment dearly, the potential last touch of their lips together, committing the feel of her to the very core of his being, never to be forgotten. He hoped there was still enough of her not wracked by the ravaging course of her injury that she might be aware of him, that they could at least share that.
"Farewell but not forever." He whispered to her, before standing tall again, determination set across his features as he strode from the room.
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