[color=darkgray] [right][sub][b]collab with Ruby & [@Ezekiel] and [@Arnorian][/b][/sub][/right] The world was pain, it was darkness, and it was noises she could not place. Consciousness was something that hemmed and hawed, an elusive thing that every time she tried to chase, just seemed to get further and further away. As if it had no use for her, as if her time was past. As if she was dying, now. Vittoria Tyrell would not surrender. In time, she learned what the strange noises were: shouting. Voices she recognized, voices she didn’t. Some she didn’t want to. It lasted days. There was the point where she saw Dennet talk to Davos. Then Dennet didn’t show up again. She had two shadows: Davos, and Ryam. Two shadows with more problems by the day. Whether a fever dream or real, she swore she saw Maesters yelling, then Davos and Ryam yelling. They didn’t want to hide her in the Citadel. Then they didn’t want to allow for Davos and Ryam to follow her. She made a note to ask, just how, exactly, Davos avoided Ryam bloodying his sword with the innards of Maesters. Then it was Davos, with Ryam stepping in-between, as the Archmaesters and Davos fought over and over again, all of it focused on a single word she had dreaded: scrolls. Another note, then, to ask Ryam how he avoided all out violence between House Baratheon and the Citadel. And another note, to remind the Citadel to send a note of thanks to Ryam for saving them the indignity of facing the Storm. Towards the end, she saw more and more of Theylin, and the Millin. The latter was smaller than she remembered him being. Maybe she was just a child, or maybe he had reached the age of shrinking. A final note to not ask Millin to his face. She recalled the Archmaester had something of a delicate temperament in that way. Long white beard, shaved head, more silver on his chain than any man in a century. He sat, his now thin limbs hidden behind a puff of Maester robes, but het sat: his ever beady blue eyes staring intently at the only thing that ever mattered to him…whoever the current soul was he was caring for. “…thank you.” He grunted as he took in the hoarse, whispery, voice of Vittoria Tyrell. “I did what I could about the scar. It’s small, I recall your vanity.” She would have laughed, had everything not hurt so bad, “I don’t have the scrolls.” “I know. But you did, and they know it.” Somehow, Vittoria Tyrell grinned—even if it was the last thing she did for some time, as darkness swallowed her whole once more. It felt like a long nap, but there had been sun, darkness, sun, darkness. The second time she woke up, it was Ryam and Theylin speaking, about preserving her honor. “Ryam, he’s already seen me naked.” Theylin was nearly as red as a bold Arbor Red. “I never told anyone, my Lady.” Even with her eyes closed, Vittoria could see the blush, “…you never told anyone about anything, Theylin, it’s why we became friends. Get me up before he comes back.” “Millin?” The Maester wondered, aloud. It was Ryam who answered him, “No. Davos.” She could hear Orys Baratheon: [i]Hells girl, there’s nothing wrong with you other than the fact you won’t get up.[/i] She was letting Theylin help her put on boots when the door opened, and Davos appeared in the doorway. She looked into his eyes, and spoke, “We need to go. Where’s the host?” Davos Baratheon excused the Maester and the Sworn Shield. When the door closed and it was just the two of them, he smiled, sweetly, “Before we get into palace intrigue, how are you?” “Davos, they could be days away. We need to get going. We need to—” His smile never faded as he walked towards her, and knelt to meet her eye-to-eye as she sat on the bed in the small, stone, chamber in the healing wing of the great Citadel of Westeros knowledge. “How. Are. You?” Her tongue ran over her lips; dried, chapped, they didn’t even feel like her lips at all. “I’m alive.” “Angry?” If she could, she would have laughed, “Sorry to drag you into this.” “…not going to make this easy, are you?” At least she could still grin. As if he’d never met her before. “Why, greetings, I’m Vittoria.” She offered him the hand to shake, as if he’d never met her before. He ignored it as he kissed her, and kissed her…until she was wincing, and he was laughing as he apologized. It was only the quiet moment after that it finally came up. “Vitt, the Archmaesters—” “I don’t have them. I made sure of it. And they’re not together. I’m trusting someone no one would ever expect with one of them, and a few…old friends with the others.” To the eternal credit of Davos Baratheon, he gave her the only answer he could: “Okay, Vitt. Shall I help you up?” “Gods, finally, we have a host to catch.” Though he was gentle and cautious as he steadied her when she rose, his words were brutal enough to be honest, “They’re days ahead. They’ve been hiding you here, but the Faith knows it, too. Alaric controls much of Oldtown, outside the actual tower. The new Lord Hightower stays, and organizes what he can to rid themselves of the problem, but…he’s not his father. The Maesters can get us out, I’ve managed to get word to Garin, but we have to go carefully. If they catch you, Vittoria…if Alaric gets his hands on you. If we go east or west, it will be hard, and there don’t seem to be a lot of friends left.” “He won’t,” she gave him a promise she couldn’t keep, but he smiled just the same, “and I still have a few friends. We’ll go South.” Davos tilted his head at her, with pretty eyes that begged an explanation. So she kissed him, and then she kissed him again, “Go. Get Ryam. Get ready.” The result was pathetic, but Vittoria tried to push him towards the door, just so. When he left, she saw who was waiting. The look shared between Davos and the old men outside told Vittoria what was about to happen. Millin came in, first, followed by four other Archmaesters behind him. Vittoria knew them all; Esrus, Timmott, Larisen, and Albin. They made their final plea. They made their case. In the end, Vittoria was too tired to care. “…you all think your way of thinking is new, different. Valyrian sorcerers thought the same thing, and the Rhoynar before them. Valyrian showed the Rhoynar. You’re going to show the Valyrians? What makes you think you’re better? What reason, what logic? Do you even have an answer that doesn’t sound rehearsed?...you’re just Andals, instead of land you come for…” Finally, she sighed, and let her eyes bounce off each one, “I don’t have them, anymore. They’re not together. Scattered like the wind. You’ll hunt them…if you’re supposed to have them, I’m sure the Seven will grant them.” To their credit, the only thing that was spoken was by Millin; and that was nothing but instructions for her regarding how long it would take for full use of her shoulder, and what she ought to avoid. They left the Citadel by small boat, along the Mander, hidden in plain sight with a dozen other small boats. Near the mouth of the Mander she saw, along the banks, a woman strung up, screaming, whipped by Faith Militant. It was Ryam who moved uneasy, but Davos put his hand on her shoulder, “He wants you to lose faith so that you’ll act rashly.” Vittoria made a note of it, and added it to the pile: [i]Show Alaric the full retribution of the Seven.[/i] It was godless, it was vile, it enraged every part of her mind and body…and Alaric knew it would. They was another woman every hundred feet. All of them hanging with signs that read: FORSAKEN. In the harbor a galley picked them up. Ryam spoke to the captain, as the flag of the Arbor flew upon the vessel. Her cousin asked her only where they needed to go, and she told him: Blackcrown. “…fuck,” was the reaction from her Sworn Shield. When Davos looked to her for explanation, she told him goodnight, and retreated to the small cabin the captain provided her. It wouldn’t take long for Davos to get his answer from someone: it wasn’t Blackcrown, it was House Bulwer. The Reach had no shortage of Knights, but House Bulwers weren’t just Knights, they were older than that. They worked their lands, their saw to their herds, and they had been doing it since before the Andals. Directly descended from Garth Greenhand, yet the only one who preferred House Tyrell in Highgarden as opposed to themselves: they didn’t have the time or patience for, in their words, that shit. Even the Children had left the southern flats of Blackcrown alone, anything was better than dealing with the stubborn, mean, members of House Bulwer. Masters of the horse, and rope, and the brand. The last time they stirred from their lands as a whole House was the Conquest. One Bulwer had been with Vittoria in the Riverlands and the Basilisk Isles, Kit, the Spare. The Lord of the House, Jon, hadn’t been seen off the lands of House Bulwer since the Conquest. Lord Hightower learned to stop asking, and Lord Tyrell just never bothered. Bulwers were honorable; they weren’t going to upset the order of things, especially if you just left them alone. The next morning, before the vessel even embarked them on the docks of the fishing village closest to Blackcrown, itself, there were riders in leather armor on the horizon. The rider that approached as they disembarked was big as a bull, dark haired, dark curly beard, and as absolutely sure about himself as the Seven themselves. “Hello, Kit,” Vittoria offered, sounding tired. The man just stared for a moment, before slowly nodding, “You look like shit, Vittoria. Bringing your brand of trouble to our land woman? Ryam, you ever get any good at riding a damn horse?” “I’ll hold my own.,” the Knight answered, stiff lipped. Kit chuckled at it, “We’ll see. Who the fuck are you?” He asked, staring at Davos. Vittoria might have answered, if they were anywhere else but in Bulwer territory. Here, if she answered for him, she’d be damning Davos to a loss of respect. And, here, that was no more damning of a thing. “Davos.” The Baratheon spoke without pomp or title to begin with, a blunt introduction for a blunt man, pausing nearby to Vittoria if only for a moment to ensure she didn’t need support through the final stage of disembarking. Slighter things than a tumble into the tide had spelt the end of vulnerable people before. He was close, but he didn’t hurry her, nor provide aid unasked. He was under the impression that sort of thing wouldn’t help any judgement he was sure to feel from the Bulwar. “Baratheon, you might have heard of us.” He finally concluded, offer a hand out towards the man in greeting. He might have gone easy on the courtly decorum, but he wouldn’t have it said he was impolite to a host, even if it didn’t end up being reciprocated. Without any of his own people with him, there was little to claim it so other than the distinctly Durrandon features he possessed, a somewhat untamed look that by coincidence had much in common with the features of the man opposite him, even if Davos had a little too much of the lithe Valyrian build to be the perfect match. Kit appeared absolutely tickled, half grin, half laugh, at the offered hand, “I’m on a horse.” It was the height of manners that Kit did not add onto his response, ‘dipshit.’ “Going soft in your old age.” The half grin became a wicked thing at the audacity of the words, “Gods damn it’s good to see you again. Alright, well…come on. We got horses for you.” “Blackcrown?” His head shook, “No, we’re at camp. Father got tired of the Maester and his fucking ravens demanding this, or that, of us.” Vittoria had been afraid of that, “From my father?” “Your daddy’s not dumb enough, I’ll give his soft ass that. Lord Hightower warned us what was coming.” “Martyn?” Another head shake, “Martyn hasn’t earned ‘Lord Hightower’ from us, yet. He knows what he needs to do. Seven guide Lord Hightower’s soul.” There was a pause, an awkwardly long one, during which Kit looked up to the ridge above the fishing village, and back to Vittoria, “How is she, Vitt?” Vittoria felt her heart hurt. The dumbest thing Ceryse had ever done was show no interest in Kit Bulwer. If there was one man, in all the Seven Kingdoms, she thought could out fight Maegor Targaryen…it was him. No blades, no armor, just men and fists. How Vittoria would have liked to have seen that. “She’s alright, Kit.” “…let’s go.” They waited for horses as Bulwer men in riding leathers brought them down from the ridge. When Davos seemed to be too close to her, Vittoria took the chance to explain it, “Everything has to be earned to these men. Everything. You help me on that horse, and I’m no longer the High Marshall to them.” To his credit, Davos just smiled, and backed away. Ryam looked even less pleased. Getting on the mare they brought for her was pure agony, and she only barely bit her tongue hard enough to swallow most of the sounds from that agony escaping her, even if it cost her the taste of blood in her mouth. She looked pale, she looked dizzy…but she was on the horse. On their way up the ridge, Vittoria remembered to ask, “See any mercenaries on horses lately?” “Seen ‘em? Hells, we had ‘em doing fence work all damned day. Give your man Garin credit, though…never said a word. Just picked up a hammer and fence post and went right to it. They should be back about dark, when we get to camp.” The man didn't need much recovery from the slight, Davos was used to men such as these taking the worst of anything offered to them. It made them few friends in courtly peace, but such men were always useful when said courtly peace shattered, or simply when there was hard work to be done. Watching Vittoria almost struggle herself into unconsciousness, or worse, was more difficult. It did far more to sour his feelings to their hosts than a little slight to his person. There was nothing proven out of neglecting the right to heal, it was the same customs which had lead to such things as the Lord's Right. He took his own steed with ease, the powerful flanks beneath the side of his boots in a moment. He was close enough to Vittoria without hovering as they rode, enough that he might have a chance to intervene should she fall. He did not ask about the camp they were heading to, instead seeing fit to regard the world around them, the terrain and the path they were heading. “Now I’m free,” Vittoria said to Davos, before she dared to smile, and gave the horse a bit of heel and let the wind catch her hair as she followed the Bulwer man who’d never died for her years before. The camp was a ride, but it wasn’t as long as she had feared. The land rolled, with pockets of wooded area scattered, the dying orange and blue and pink and purples reflected in the many streams that cut through the plains, the Mander reaching it’s fingers out in every direction. Good for growing, good for animals. Between two creeks they found the flat clearing, stars above and a half-moon above, the glow of cook and camp fires among a dozen plain canvas tents. Horselines were set, and the song of the night were chatter of men, and in the near-distance, the stir and sounds of the largest herd of cattle Vittoria had ever seen. They followed Kit to the horseline, and Vittoria thought she might lose vision when her feet hit the ground, her pain-riddled eyes looking straight to Davos, begging him to do nothing. To just let her stand there, for a minute, and hurt. Her cousin knew what the Bulwers were, but Davos didn’t…she wasn’t worried. Any son of Orys Baratheon knew what to expect. They were welcomed to camp bread, roast onions and sausage drowning in gravy in crude, old, pewter plates that she preferred to any trencher. Kit told them to follow as he navigated the camp. Every tent and fire they passed, every group of men—there wasn’t an eye that wasn’t on them in an instant. She expected nothing less than what they arrived at: Jon Bulwer, broader than tall, just head and giant shoulders, little neck to speak of, dressed in leathers same as everyone else around. He stood next to a fire, cup in hand, as they approached. Seated around the fire were men a generation younger than Jon, one older than Kit, one younger, both of them variations of Jon and Kit, the younger one with a pretty face hidden in road and stubble and slender build, the other taller than Kit, little older, just a shade less strongly built. The younger one got up first, smiled as he hugged her, while the older waited, grinning, offering a hand to shake that he retracted when she got close, and dipped in to steal his hug. She groaned, she winced, and they laughed. Both men took their turns greeting Ryam, commenting on his height, on his ascent to manhood with a mix of humor and sentiment. “This is Lord Davos of House Baratheon, with them,” Kit explained, as he went towards the pot near the fire for food. “Jace,” the younger and more slender of the two offered as he offered his hand to Davos, reserved, but affable. The eldest of the Bulwers was the same, plain, not a man of many words, but the kindness came off him as easily as warmth did from the fire as he offered his hand next. “Cole, well met, Davos.” The voice that came was rough, grizzled, but evenly balanced with a good nature, “Ryam, good to see you, boy. Lord Davos… congratulations.” The Bulwers turned to their father, before looking back to Davos. Then to Vittoria, then to Davos. “I’ll be buggered alive…” Kit said, stopping his assault on a sausage to voice his amazement. Jace and Cole laughed, Jon took a long sip form his simple pewter cup, and chuckled. “You’re a lucky one, Davos. She’s a good one. Better fencer than some of her men, though.” Even Vittoria laughed with them, there, “Did you boys break Garin and my mounted archers?” “That’s Dothraki, right? They’re Dothraki?” Cole sounded genuinely confused when he asked, but Jace shook his head, “No, think I saw a Dothraki with them, though. What you need mounted archers for, Vitt?” “They don’t expect them coming on a Westeros battlefield, son.” Jon explained it for her. “Fools brace for the charge of light or heavy cavalry, instead they just circle you, killing you with each pass, pinning you down so the heavy cavalry can come behind you.” Vittoria’s head dipped to the left, to the right, as she judged the explanation, and smiled, “Close enough, yes.” “I’m no High Marshall, just what I’ve seen, my Lady…no we didn’t break ‘em. They’ve got their own camp, other side of the herd. Garin wanted them to be aware, doing it their own way, like they’re at war.” “We are, Lord Jon.” Jon took an even longer sip as his mind weighed his words, “Manfred die fairly?” “Naturally,” Vittoria explained. Jon Bulwer nodded, “He earned that, good for him. I got the ravens. Hells, Blackcrown Septon was red-faced when I told him we had a herd to look after.” Jon laughed, his sons laughed with him, and Vittoria just kept her smile about her. “You angry, girl?” The smile became a grin on her face, and Jon Bulwer got his answer. “Shit, I would be too.” A few chuckles surfaced around the fire. “Faith took the city?” “Man named Alaric seems to slithered his way into some manner of control. I don’t know if he’s still, or with Oakheart and Rowan.” Jon listened, exchanging a look with Kit, before returning his dark eyes back to her. “Well, Oakheart and Rowan deserve what’s coming to them.” “What’s coming their way, Jon?” This time, it was Jon that grinned through a stifled chuckle, “You, girl. Three of you eat. Talk to your mercenaries. Ryam, we cleared out a tent for you. Davos, sorry son, but you’re not married to her yet, I can’t let you two share a tent. There’s room with Ryam, nice tent.” “Attest to that,” Kit said, nodding along as he took another bite, staring at the fire. “...that’s because it’s your tent,” Jace said, laughing with Cole, and maybe a little laughter from Vittoria. “I managed to last this long, I'm sure I can survive a few more nights of separation.” Davos chuckled with no sign of annoyance, his eyes drifting to Vittoria with a longing that in this case was all concern, an ache to watch over her after a day of having to let her fight her pains alone. “I'll just have to make up for it once she's finally in a cloak of yellow and black.” [/color] --- [color=darkgray] She rose before the sun. The only one that stirred before her was Kit Bulwer, his brothers weren’t far behind, and their Lord Father not long after that. The mare she’d been given to ride was saddled. Vittoria, herself, was dressed in riding leathers. Brown, unadorned, plain but well made. She’d always been good with horses. Better than her brothers. Better than her father. Better than anyone else in her family. Her heart wanted to stop in, wake Davos, tell him she’d be back later. When the sun rose, Vittoria would once again be the High Marshall. She could see the battle in her dreams. All night it played, and when she awoke, it just kept going and going. Reins in hand she tugged and let her heels convey the need to move. Garin’s camp wasn’t far, but it was around nearly two thousand cattle in a field that seemed to stretch from one horizon to the next, with spots of tree line here and there. When she was challenged, her voice sounded different than it had since before she’d gone into Oldtown, before she’d become betrothed; the power of the Gods and the absolutism of a Lord Commander was back. Truly, Vittoria Tyrell had returned. “Who goes there?” They shouted. “The High Marshall. Wake everyone up, get everyone packing, do it now,” she commanded as she passed the sentry, “and point me in the direction of Garin.” First, they pointed, then, they ran off to do as she bid. Vittoria knew she liked these mercenaries for a reason. He was already outside his tent when she approached, staring into his eyes with her own as she slowed the horse, and dismounted, “We’re moving out, today. Your company, and some Bulwer men led by one of Lord Bulwer’s sons.” For his part, Garin Sands looked exhausted, but then so did every fighting man in the camp. The last few days had flown past in a blur. He’d received word of the High Marshal’s injuries and though he’d wished to send his men into the city, his good sense prevailed. Cavalry, especially a force as small as his own would simply get swallowed up in a city as massive as Oldtown. That and he had seen what Maegor Targaryen had done in Essos, he had no desire to be anywhere near a dragon. He’d nodded, roused his family and began give orders while his squire hurriedly strapped his armor into place. From there, the Tyrell soldiers had broken camp, taking only what they needed and riding out into the darkness. Here and there, they’d encountered a few patrols and a couple of men had taken wounds in the handful of skirmishes that broken out between small parties of scouts. Now, all was oddly quiet, his scouts patrolled the lands and the wide expanses of grassy fields made ideal conditions for cavalry warfare. Garin nodded politely and signaled his squire, the boy bowed and ran to pass on the word. He’d served enough great lords to know when to ask questions and when to wait. Though a part of him had to admit that this daughter of House Tyrell was . . . well, she was still a noble from a great house. But he’d taken coin from far, far worse. It made a difference, that was all he knew. “We leave your family at Highgarden. I want them protected, Garin. Still alright with you?” He raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that leaves you in a strong position, High Marshal . . . should I try and defy you or switch sides, if things begin to go poorly for me.” Garin wondered if perhaps he had gone too far, scions of great houses were notoriously prideful. Then again, he would have done something similar if he were in a similar position, if only for very different reasons. But from what he had seen, Lady Vittoria could be trusted . . . he hoped. Why was he thinking like this? Perhaps because this was Westeros and for all that talk of knightly virtue and oaths, there was no shortage of men . . . and women who would happily murder a man’s family. The High Marshall of the Reach…almost smiled. “Look at my eyes, Garin, and you look deep,” she said without hesitation, Vittoria’s brown eyes still unblinking, still staring straight into his, with the voice of a commander sent by the very Gods above, “I am faithful to my Gods, I am just, I am good. I didn’t look your wife and children in the eyes just to betray them. Trust me, and you’ll be a Landed Knight by the time we’re through. Trust me, and we make history.” Garin almost felt inspired, almost. He’d heard his father say things like before to his household knights before they went out to hunt bandits. No doubt, she actually meant what she said. Well, it wasn’t the first time he’d taken coin from a true believer. Coin spent all the same and the prospect of being a landed knight? Well, that would open a number of doors for his children. Things that had been lost to him for a number of years. Besides, his family and some trusted men would be far safer behind the walls of Highgarden than with him on the campaign. He’d seen what men did to an enemy camp or town in the aftermath of a battle and it was . . . well, bestial at the best of times. “As you say, High Marshal, I thank you. You have done me a great honor.” He said with a slight bow. Now, finally, Vittoria Tyrell let that smile show, “First comes the burden, then the honor, Captain…as well you know, I think. When you’re ready, meet us at Blackcrown. We’ll all set out from there.” Within moments of Garin’s command, his soldiers had risen, grabbed their arms and readied their horse. Now, as Garin swung into the saddle, some six hundred horse archers and a score of knights waited for their Captain to ride to the head of the column. Garin leaned from the saddle and kissed Martella from the saddle. Though he was far from the only one. Army camps and mercenary companies always had their share of hangers on, camp followers, whores and bastard offspring. And there were exceptions like himself. Soldiers laughed, caressed faces or hauled their lovers up into the saddle with playful laughs before setting them back to earth. Martella squeezed his gauntleted hand and gave him that secretive smile of hers, the one where her chin dimpled ever so slightly and once again, he was reminded that there was no world and no time where he would have ever chosen anything but her. Rylla had that look she thought was so stolid but she only did when she was trying not to cry. Garin smiled gently and held her hand for a moment. “I know what you’re thinking and I’ve told my men to keep a lookout for any lone riders who keep their face veiled.” He said. “I wasn’t-” She began. “It’s alright, I’m not angry, I’m proud of you. But I need the warrior you will be one day to keep an eye out for the rest of my family, yes?” “I-” “Yes?” His smile was still gentle but there was iron in it too. Rylla nodded and raised a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear and if dashed away any tears, no one would have seen. Myrna for her part set that cursed cat of hers down, gazed up with solemn eyes and raised her arms up. Garin leaned from the saddle and lifted her up with great care, he was clad in armor after all. She tucked her head against his surcoat. “I made you something.” Garin said. He took a small carving of a wooden knight on a horse from his belt and his youngest took with the same gentleness with which one might hold a baby bird. “Can I come with you?” She said, her voice muffled against his armored shoulder. If Garin fought back tears, no one could have said for certain. “No, little one, not today. You’re going with momma and your sister. It’ll be great fun, I promise.” “Will you come back?” He ruffled her hair and handed back to her mother. “Of course I will.” Garin smiled and turned away. At his signal, the column of riders moved out and were gone into the darkness. Before the sun’s first pale light had begun to ascend over the horizon, the horse archers had spread out into thin lines, riding first north and then east. [/color]