Ruby

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

_{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.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

_{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.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

_{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.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

_{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.

Star Wars: Echoes of the Force

“You’re smiling,” the Protocol Droid said, sounding surprised, or scared, or both.

So, Selene just kept smiling as she holstered the K-16 after securing the lightsaber in the custom leather closeable pouch at the small of her back, and before checking to ensure the rest of her equipment was snug and each black leather pouch fastened tightly. It matched the rest of the leather shadow that clung to her body tightly; pants quilted on the exterior and around the ankle of each leg, for extra durability, with a jacket to match, itself quilted on the shoulders and arms and back.

No manufacturer tags. No symbols or any other decoration except for silver buttons, small and round, like a tear.

“It’s good you enjoy this part. As you know, we droids will lock the Wayfarer and ensure the auto turrets are active.”

Selene just looked up as she depressed the Wayfarer’s control mechanism for its main hold door, the magnetic containment field automatically switched off due to the presence of atmosphere, “You’ll all be fine until I’m back. You know what to do if I never come back?”

The droid’s head just twitched, before it answered, “Initiate self-destruct and leave the vessel.”

“The new droid is taking one of the Undicurs,” she said, as she brought the black and grey T-85 Speeder Bike to life, its engine and exhaust notes nothing short of perfection to her ears and hands.

“Is the Undicur rated for that weight?”

Selene shrugged, her lips spreading dagger thin into a full-on smirk, “If not, it knows how to repair it, and modify it, I think. Have it take the reinforced one we used for that Trandoshan that worked for the Hutts.”

“Master, is it worth bringing u—”

“—no,” she cut the protocol droid off, taking her seat on the T-85 and letting its engine roar to life, louder than before, angrier than before. Nothing else was said before the speeder bike, and its rider, were gone.

If the droid could sigh, it might have, but there was no use. It had limited enough memory as it was, even its designation was lost to modifications and re-writes. It was as hopeless an endeavor as arguing to Selene that she shouldn’t take T1. When the woman disappeared in the jungle of the moon, the droid turned its head and addressed T1 as it appeared from the back, from the secondary cargo hold, from the Master’s ‘private stock.’

“Take the heavy speeder left in the speeder hold.”

The wind and thick, humid, air of Yavin 4 hit her nearly as hard as other, less tangible, sensations. Her right hand kept hold of the bike’s throttle and break, her left at her side, as if she wasn’t speeding through an alien jungle, but just out for a casual ride on a salt flat. She rode it like a speed biker, with absolute ease and supreme confidence. She rode it often enough; she had torn it down and rebuilt it nearly a dozen times. Modified it, improved it, gotten to know its every component.

It's good she knew it so well, because her mind wandered: the Force ebbed and flowed in quicker currents on the planet than most places. It quickened her heart and pumped adrenaline through her body. There was something here, if not more than one something. Was it the Temple? Was it someone else? That was harder to tell. It was like trying to spot a glittering shimmer in front of a bright star. The light behind it was blinding, it took real skill and practice to make out the shimmer before the raging brilliance.

At one point she found an abandoned jungle camp, all prefabs; buildings, walls, towers. Imperial, no doubt, as its towers overlooked a swampy portion of the jungle. It wasn’t hard to notice the reason for such a remote camp: there were still large, jagged, chunks sticking out of the swamp—Death Star salvage. It had been an Imperial obsession, as much a reason for their presence on the moon after the Battle of Yavin as making sure the Rebels didn’t return to the moon. A little digging around, a few trinkets found, and she was off again.

She found a path that led to the Temple and followed it until the thickness of jungle suddenly gave way to clearing, as the Temple used to destroy a Death Star dominated the world before her. She wasn’t shy about her approach, speeding straight up to the massive open blast door of one of the Temple’s bays, the contrast between bright Yavin sun and Temple interior shade taking her eyes a millisecond to adjust to, as she recognized the prefabs of the Coruscant teams camp, her eyes taking in the sight even as she came to a stop next to the armed man holding up his hand.

She never looked at him, or his hand, but she stopped all the same next to him.

He didn’t seem to like her. He must have been local. “No visitors. This area is off limits, joint venture of the Wetyin Colonial Authority and the University of Coruscant. Turn around.”

Her hands busied themselves with her ink-black hair, pinned up in a tight bun, as it was, instead of responding to him. When he began to speak again, she was happy to cut him off, “I’m an investor in the dig. University of Charmath.”

He eyes never blinked, they just narrowed, “Wait here,” he said in a dull tone before he retreated further into the Temple. It was Doctor Andrejo Iizia that accompanied the man back to her, his face bright, happy, as he waved and shouted in her direction. She chuckled at him, waiting until he arrived, “Doctor Ramalla!”

“This is the Assistant Dean?” She heard the militiaman ask, in disbelief, believing he was well out of her earshot.

Iizia’s tone grew stern in response to the man, even as he smiled and waved at her, “She’s a bloody Queen, ensure your team is respectful in her presence.”

She could have giggled, instead focusing the energy into a smile for the older man, one of the co-directors of the dig, “Hello Andrejo, it’s been a long time.”

“Thank you, again, for your financial support, Doctor—”

“—Sela,” she graciously allowed him.

His sunburnt face almost showed a tint of reddish pink at the correction from the woman, “Sela, of course.” His intelligence quickly took her in, and his face double-took, even as a new kind of highly amused laugh overtook him, “you are here to do more than visit, you look like you are here to adventure, not just dig!”

“In my experience, Andrejo, the two are often intertwined.”

“Ha! I’ve heard some of your stories, third or fourth hand, of course, but dazzling with excitement none-the-less. Um, you can park your speeder bike by the large building, and I’ll give you a tour?”

She nodded, and thanked him, before smiling up at the guard as she passed him. It was anger, it was darkness, she felt…but none of that was from the guard, but the energies she felt coming from the rest of the camp.

What am I riding into?

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

_{Lady Lorelai Lannister}

It felt like an ocean around her as she rode to the top of Bear Island, even the road up to it rough, its edges appearing as if the natural world around it was just biding it’s time for the moment the men and women of the island might slip away as quickly as they’d come, so that it could reclaim it. She wanted to talk. She wanted to ask the Mormonts of their family, their home, their history. She wanted to ask Lord Stark about so much.

She, simply, was not physically able. It felt as if she was beset by fever, the air of the world trembled at her, the sky dared its currents of air at speeds maddeningly slow, fast, furious, frozen, and every single variation between. She was ill, she told herself. She was drunk, she even tried to pretend…but somewhere far below her surface, in some great below where her very soul had been buried in by the bird and the tree and the angry, frozen, beast…she knew what it really was.

The North had been overwhelming; what were murmurs below the Neck were tremors above it. The very land, the very history, every unseen primordial facet of being screamed at her from every direction she could sense, and some she was still too blind to track. She almost missed the approach of Mormont Keep, such as it were: it was an imposition of earthen palisades and timber, perhaps a stone here or there, but barely even that.

Time was different in the North. At the entrance to Mormont Keep was its great gate; on the gate there is a carving of a woman in a bearskin with a babe suckling at her breast in one arm and a battleaxe in the other. She felt as if there was a time when she knew the woman, not in the impossible and uncrossable distance of ancient tales, but in the way of knowing someone and having their name on the tip of your tongue, and just not being able to grasp it in the moment.

The lines began to blur around her as she saw banks of snow taller than the Mormont Keep where the Keep now stood, facing and people frozen and lost barely peeking out at her, watching her, she saw bears and maidens, she smelled the smoke and meat of the Mormont Hall, she heard the sound of a crowd several turns before you actually saw the gathering, she felt sadness and pride and fear and joy. It began to fade as her emerald eyes blinked, and she realized she was standing in the same timber hall of the Mormonts she had stood inside, beside time, what felt like moments before.

“Is it true?” The Lord of House Mormont demanded, in boiled leather and fur, his chest a barrel and his arms big enough she would believe the man could slap a bear and make it flee, his very voice a deep, earthen, sound, like the cracking of the ground below, or the rumbling drone of a storm far away.

She blinked, lost as her mind teetered between then and now, here and there, “…my Lord?”

“Is it—blessed dammit, girl,” he shifted uncomfortably in his wooden great chair at the head of the hall, exchanges looks with his children, before irritation led him back to her, his giant paw holding up the tiny scroll that had come from the raven, “is it TRUE girl? Are you Lady Lannister of Lannisport?...or are you Lady Lannister of Casterly Rock?”

Lorelai didn’t know how to say it. She tried, parting her red lips, but nothing came.

There was real anger in his tone, now, “Have you brought Westerland intrigue to my home and hearth, child?”

He grunted at her prolonged silence, and was halfway through a command to his son and heir, before she found her voice, and it all poured out of her in the same way the sun came at a man’s eyes: “I am Lorelai of House Lannister, daughter of the last King of the Rock, and I come not to flee from daggers in the dark, but towards the lifeless eyes of the brightest blue, like the deepest ice…I have seen you, Lord Mormont…”

She trailed off, as they cawed the same caw the crows and ravens cawed from dark trees in black of night, some of them already within the smoke blackened rafters of the hall, others from outside the hall, perched with their claws upon the roof of the hall, a thunderclap of birdcall, as the green eyes of Lorelai of House Lannister had turned snow-white. As white as the Lord of Mormont suddenly appeared as he stared at her while the guards and maester and others assembled in the hall gasped, or whispered uneasy, darting their heads and eyes to follow the queer strangeness of the cacophony of cawing.

“I have seen the snows, my Lord, and that is why I have come.”

Though it took several long, measured, beats of the heart within his great, strong, barrel chest, finally the Lord of House Mormont nodded, grave and slow, as if he conversed with the ancient, nameless, old god of death itself, his eyes looking as if they were suddenly steeled for battle.

“...nevermind sending the ravens, Maester. Call the captains, we need to get her to Winterfell.”

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Like a Little Caesar's pizza, he's hot and ready.

Kian Cran'Darack the Flame Priest

Kian of the Flame

Priest of R'Hllor || Flame and Shadow

Kian cannot remember his parents very well. He recalls the smiling face of a woman, the deep voice of a man and a moving picture in his mind of what must have been his father walking past him, asking about the night's dinner. Somehow, the word Riverlands sticks in his mind. Verdant green and blue skies outside a wooden cottage, smoke lazily pouring forth from the chimney. The first smoke. His next memories fade, and suddenly he finds himself in flea bottom. The sun baking the sandstone hovels as men and women scrape for a living. He remembers walking the docks, fascinated with the men hauling ropes and carrying wooden crates of the unknown on and off ships as waves lap against the quay, dancing with coruscating, shimmering white light. It's all in a haze, as if he dreamed the entire affair. He remembers looking up, into the first clear image he can see in his mind.

Thrandos the Fateful looked upon him, his goatee more golden than grey, those years ago. A dimple on his left cheek, pock marks gently kissing the right of his head, just beside his mane of light hair, almost angelic as the sun beams upon him. Thrandos was kindly, Kian recalls. He offered Kian something to eat; a sweet he had never tasted before. The youth followed the man to a ship. The vessel gently rolls away from the sprawling urban center of the Westerosi. Waves and one particularly bad storm staying in his mind, even now. Hiding under the bed, fear gripping his throat.

Volantis awaited. A city that awed him, even beyond the scope of King's Landing. Perhaps so because he could not recall approaching the Westerosi capital from the sea. Only leaving it, and he was occupied with other things. But Volatnis was immense, a place of wonders. It was said the hundred isles of Braavos could be dropped into the harbor and disappear, he recalled one sailor claiming. The nameless ship had docked, and from there Thrandos the Faithful led the young one to a vast structure, almost a plaza of sorts, and yet its varying minarets seemed each as large as the Red Keep from across the narrow sea.

The Great Temple of the Lord of Light.

Kian's memories grow far more pellucid and unclouded. And yet, this is the chapter in his life that must remain shrouded in secrecy. R'hllor is the God of light, but also the God of shadow. His rituals are secret; surreptitious, and even if they were made know, the dimensions would be paradoxical, incomprehensible, and would undoubtedly prove ephemeral in one's limited mind.

What Kian is permitted to recall aloud, however, is the women. Alonta of Braavos, Serana from Lys, Princess Philandrae of Sarnor, and many more. One needs to appreciate the finer things in life when traveling in service to the Lord of Light. Thrantos had told him that, though granted the old priest had meant the occasional glass of wine, not bedding royalty and whispering into the ears of other men's wives. But the Lord had blessed Kian with the looks of a sculpture and the voice of a singer, who was he to question it?

His devil-may-care attitude however, was somewhat tempered when his next pilgrimage was not to one of the Free Cities, but to the land of his birth. The council of flame had given it to him with their full blessing, but he could tell from their eyes it was a penal assignment; a punishment for his extracurricular activities. He was granted no audience with the crown, or any representation with any of the seven kingdoms. He was there to spread the faith, and provide light where there was darkness.

Well, he supposed he would have to make do, now wouldn't he?

@POOHEAD189

Approved.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

_{Collab between @Arnorian and Ruby}

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

Their relatively small force was scouted the night before as they camped; Knights of Highgarden had appeared at their camp, men she knew. Ser Wesley and Ser Kace, former knights of the hedge, had impressed the other Knights of Highgarden over time enough to be invited a life at the great keep. She’d known them most of her life, and that was a good thing, given the tension that had erupted upon their arrival at camp.

The pair of Knights had arrived at the Bulwer side of their camp, and the Bulwer men-at-arms were far from courteous. According to the men-at-arms, the two Knights hadn’t been very courteous, either. She had been out walking when it happened, and luckily nearby enough to hear shouting. When she approached, she watched Wesley and Kace look, look away to the Bulwer men, then quickly double back to her:

“Lady Vittoria?”

That had been the end of the tension. The Maester and High Steward of Highgarden would be pleased to find her unharmed, as much of the Reach, and Realm beyond, had believed the worst. It wasn’t what Vittoria cared about, but her primary concern wasn’t something she would speak of in front of people she didn’t know…or even people she did know. The family had been quiet about that, much like Bertie’s attack on her years ago.

She bid the two farewells as they ran off to tell Highgarden she was arriving tomorrow. She rose before the sun, on her horse and awaiting before Garin appeared outside his tent. When he spoke…she didn’t hear him, her mind drifting over the flower hills and lush green of the Reach that surrounded them, over secrets. When she looked at him, he was staring at her, as if expecting her to say something. Instead, she tried not to frown.

“Pick a handful of men to accompany you and your family into my home. Men who deserve a fine day at Highgarden, Captain, I’ll be waiting for you all just outside camp.”

She spent the time waiting racing the mare against some invisible competitor. Further and further she went, one eye on the ground and one eye on the way ahead, again and again, pushing the animal harder, faster with each sprint. The horse came to a sliding stop as her body positioned itself near perfectly atop the beast. It was rare Vittoria Tyrell showed off the rider she was, but something had changed the closer they got to Highgarden.

Her heart raced nearly as hard as the mare’s as she sat there, staring at the sky. For once in her life, she didn’t care who heard her. The scream came angry, filled with the fire of pain and the weight of grief, so loud it shook her entire body and discomforted the animal she rode for a moment.

She could march against the Seven themselves. She would if it kept her out of Highgarden…but there was no escaping it, and now, with the castle in the distance, she knew it. Highgarden loomed like a white rose amid an endless landscape of flowers. If only the very sight of it didn’t fill her heart with misery.

Her only respite was seeing through the eyes of others. Today would be a day to remember for Garin’s wife and daughters; Vittoria would see to that. It was the only reason she rode back towards camp, instead of just riding off in any direction that wasn’t Highgarden as fast as the mare would take her. It would be impossible to see the earlier outburst on her face she rode up on the waiting group. Six men rode with their captain, among which were two that bore the look of the Dothraki, she’d read of. Though curiously, neither one possessed the braids the men of the horselords were said to have. In fact, their hair was cut almost brutally short.

Perhaps a penance for some secret misdeed? Either way, it was hardly the Black Rose’s intention to pry. They looked to be just as hardened and dangerous as their master.

Vittoria nodded to Garin with a bright smile that was really meant for his wife and daughters. To them, she could have glowed like the sun in warmth and joy. “Ladies, are we ready?”

“We aren’t la—” his youngest started with a blurt, but Vittoria corrected her before it all poured from the girl’s mouth.

“—today you ride into Highgarden at the front, next to me. Now. Shall we?” His wife looked at Garin, before looking back, until Vittoria surprised her with a request regarding the woman’s youngest daughter: “May she ride with me? I will care for her like she was my own.”

Hesitation gave way to the motherly instinct to let your children enjoy life. How often would the girl get to ride into Highgarden with the High Marshall of the Reach and eldest daughter of House Tyrell? After a moment, Martella nodded and smiled gently, Myrna slowly approached Vittoria and very carefully raised her hand up, the other held a very patient kitten that never seemed to leave the young girl’s side.

Martella and her daughter swung into the saddle with practiced ease, though Rylla rode more like one of Garin’s horse and scanned her surroundings with the same care as the mercenaries. Though clad in a crimson dress - at her mother’s gentle but adamant insistence - she bore herself more like a reaver, seeking prey, than a member of fine lady’s retinue . . . more so for the trousers she wore beneath her skirt and the broad-bladed dagger she had strapped to her leg.

The small cavalcade rode on and by the time they arrived, it was a scene: news of her survival, and arrival, spread like fire through the area. Tyrell men-at-arms lined the Rose Road branch that led to Highgarden, with smallfolk three to four deep in most places behind them to get a look. Myrna smiled and waved right along with Vittoria, the pair of them riding back and forth along the road to greet and thank those who came.

It took a short trip to the main gatehouse thrice as long because Vittoria Tyrell and Myrna Sands played the assembled crowd. Though she only wore a green dress with a high collar covered in a burst of colorful flowers threaded in bright, shiny, thread, she moved with the confidence and joy she normally had when she rode in armor.

Once past the main gates, Vittoria began pointing and explaining every bit of history, and anything else half interesting, to the small child riding with her, one hand always firm around the girl’s body, the other pointing. Every question was carefully and enthusiastically answered. The briar maze, the walls, the various heights of the towers, their different shapes, the climbing roses, vines, grapes, and every last flower that decorated the walls and buildings of the magnificent seat of House Tyrell. When Martella and Rylla had questions or comments, Vittoria went out of her way to ask them to be repeated if she missed them, so she could answer them.

“Papa says I will have a horse when I am older. He said it could be black and white like my cat. But I can have red boots like Rylla.” Myrna said at one point.

“Ah, well, those are good things to have.” Vittoria said, trying not to laugh.

Garin, for his part rode along, hand never far from his weapons but a small smiled graced the corner of his mouth at Myrna’s happy chatter. His cold eyes seemed oddly gentle at times, showing a hint of the man he might have been in a different life. For a moment, one could see why a miller’s daughter would have given up all she had to follow a sellsword, across the sea and stand by him.

The second ring of Highgarden that was nearly nothing but shady courtyards and endless gardens and fountain squares wasn’t as visible from the main entrance, but Vittoria still described it at length, letting them see it through her eyes as much as she could. Past the third gatehouse they were arranged and awaiting, what household that hadn’t gone with Lord Theo, with the exception of her mother. Vittoria waited for Garin before she thanked Myrna for joining her and helped her down to Garin’s awaiting arms. The girl waved shyly and then tucked her head against her father’s shoulder.

“She’s nice, Papa.” Myrna whispered.

Vittoria’s features dimpled in a cheerful grin, though she couldn’t have said exactly why she was so happy. Then she turned to the High Steward, “Captain Garin’s family will be staying with us for a time.”

The man gave a look to Garin, to his family, and nodded, slowly, “Guests?”

It mattered, and Vittoria knew it, “Yes. Find them jobs should they want it. If they want to learn a trade, arrange someone to teach them. Make sure no one is confused on their role here, please.”

“As you wish, Lady Vittoria. We do need to speak—”

“—I’m going there now. We’ll speak after.”

Martella nodded her thanks, turned to follow the steward and chivvied her children along.

Yet she didn’t move except dismounting so Ryam could take the mare to the stables. It wasn’t until Garin dared to ask her something unrelated that she looked at the man with hard, dark brown eyes, and blurted it out: “Come on. You’re coming with me,” before she finally began to move towards the one of the near countless beautifully kept paths that branched from the main bailey towards a side entrance, and stairs.

Her only explanation was given when they walked into a tower door and began to climb stairs, her voice sounding anything but the sunshine and honey it was for his wife and daughters, “My mother is sick. My mother is dying…don’t say anything, just…walk me to the bedchamber door and wait for me, please.”

Garin raised an eyebrow, but nodded his assent. Such things were hardly his concern. But then he’d served far stranger lords. Though this Vittoria Tyrell was certainly keen to try and win the whole damn world over, it seemed. Still, her coin spent as well as any and she had been kind to his daughters.

The room had been filled with joy and love and warmth. She remembered so many spring and summer mornings when it seemed like laughter and hugs would last forever. The large hearth with the timber frame, carved with a hundred and more flowers and vines. On cold spring mornings with large furs spotting the stone floor to keep chill from toes and the bottoms of feet. The large, wide, chair with its impossibly soft cushion next to the bed.

She’d learn to read there, with either her in the chair, her mother in the bed, or the opposite. She’d confessed her first heartbreak in that chair. She’d broken her mother’s heart in that chair, telling her of her intention to go to Oldtown. She’d taken more afternoon naps than she could count in that chair. And yet, today, now, she wanted to be anywhere but in that chair. She entered the room and didn’t even want to walk away from the doors that led to the bedchamber.

Somehow, she did. The woman laying under the coverlets was a ghost of the woman who had once been her mother. When she neared the bed, her mother seemed to push past the ghost, and reclaim her features…even if just for Vittoria, even if just for this moment.

“Hello, High Marshall.”

It happened so quickly she was taken completely unawares. Her mother smiled at her, with the greeting filled with Lady Bethany’s typical warmth and wit, yet before she knew it, Vittoria found her vision lost behind the crystalline lens of tears, her heart falling in what felt like an endless agony as she took desperate steps to the side of her mother’s bed, and dropped to her knees to hug her, to cry on her.

“I don’t want to do this without you. I don’t want to, please,” the High Marshall was gone, Lady Vittoria was gone, all that was left was little Vitt, scared and hurt.

She was sure when she looked back, she’d be amazed at her mother’s strength in the moment, as barely a tear filled her mother’s eyes as she leaned over and hugged her, the woman’s body almost half the strength and size had been before her illness took hold. Despite that, the embrace was as strong as she ever recalled her mother being, as laughter mixed with sadness in voice she would always remember, the voice of her mother, “My love, if ever there was a child of mine who I wasn’t nearly as worried about…”

Her tear-stained face stayed, even if the act of sobbing stopped, her mother holding her cheek with a hand, to look and smile and talk to her, “Do not despair, love, and do not dare mourn me while I still remain. Now sit here and talk to me. Tell me about Oldtown, tell me about the battles, tell me about this betrothal. Tell me it all!”

When Vittoria left the room, it was steely-eyed. They talked about everything, including, eventually towards the end, what Vittoria would have to do: Lord Theo, Lady Bethany was certain, would be okay, but would need Vittoria to nudge him into being happy again. Once she found Lady Mina, Vittoria would need to ensure the girl’s future, however she wished it done, on her terms, as Lady Bethany stressed that part of the deal. The boys…the boys she would have to be more to. Especially the youngest, Lorent, would need her, perhaps at times in the role of motherly figure. Vittoria promised to be there for him, even if it meant a direct conversation with Davos.

The look she gave the awaiting Garin was raw, and private beyond measure, but nothing more. “Let’s see how your family is settling in, Captain.”

Star Wars: Echoes of the Force

The outreaches of Coronet City spider-webbed across too much of the planet, auto-mated plants and construction yards, ore processing and gas refineries. In Coronet City she preferred a lounge of gentle music, low lighting, and heavy, pure, whiskey—that was not where the meeting was set up. The location was picked because it wasn’t in the city, it wasn’t directly around wandering eyes, it was in an area filled with workers who had better things to worry about and other things to focus on.

And because it made the two men stand out. She knew the one, but other…something told her she should recognize him, but she didn’t. One was older, grittier, the look of a spacer about him. The other clean-shaven, kept and combed hair, he reminded her of an accountant, or an academic…which he likely was, given the deal. She watched from the unseen booth in the back of the dim red glow of the bar’s inner lights, whether steam or fog from the bar interior of the heavily industrial world outside helping to shroud her from view.

“Her name is what?”

“Rama.”

The younger of the two men, the polished one, gave a shrug and took a sip of his drink, “Never heard of her.”

The older, gruffer, spacer stared at him, “…yeah? You’ve never heard of the mysterious antiquities dealer even though I’ve only met them in person once before? Wow, imagine my fucking shock.”

Whatever their conversion, the younger man looked sheepish, out of place. There were no back-alley instincts to that one, no lower-level smarts. She waited until they started to look bored before she told one of the waitresses to ask the two men to join her in the back booth. Both human men approached with their drinks, squinting to find her in the shadow until she leaned forward into the rust-colored hazy glow of the bar lights.

She watched the older man take her in with hard eyes, and nod, carefully, casting glances this way and that—looking for hired muscle, assuming she needed such a silly thing. The younger stared at her, harder than he had any right to. Even as his companion sat down in the booth, he lingered, staring.

“Sit the fuck down,” his ‘friend’ told him.

But he didn’t. Finally, the young man smiled at her, “…I know you. You were the girl at the RCU North Library, third floor? Always third floor, always at like…four in the morning? Never earlier than two?”

‘Rama’ smiled her dark painted lips and motioned to the seat across from the older man, adjacent to her in the booth, “Sit, please.”

The older man had ‘what the fuck is wrong with you?’ written across his face as he stared at the younger man, before he took on a pensive look when he turned to her, “I apologize for my friend, here, Rama. I needed an expert on this era, and I promise you, he knows what to look for in Late Republic era weaponry, even if maybe he doesn’t know how to have a meeting to save his life…whatever the fuck a RCU is.”

Her head tilted, though her lips remained flat, there was a hint of amusement in her dark eyes as she looked back to the younger man, before turning to Gaer, “He’s right,” she began, before turning back to the younger man, “It means Royal Charmath University. Renowned for its historical and archaeological archives. I was that girl, once, long ago, far, far away. I don’t remember you.”

His smile faded, like he was disappointed, “I would say hi from time to time, I asked you about a text you were reading once, about the history of—”

“—Taris,” she finished his sentence with a revelation of memory. “I remember you, now. Shy, quiet, bookish…with wandering eyes. You never introduced yourself, just clumsily walked into my focus and attention, praying for graciousness and kindness.”

“You weren’t cruel,” he said, having regained some of his smile with the knowledge that she recalled him.

She shrugged, “What’s your name?”

“Oh, uh,” he nearly stammered at her, “Tavian, Tavian Wyr. What’s yours?”

When she looked at Gaer, she saw more frustration, it amused her enough for her to be kind in her response to Tavian Wyr, “I suppose you should have asked me that back then, Tavian Wyr. Now it’s ‘Rama.’ Did you look at the item?”

Gaer took a long drink, as the older man and she watched the mirth of the young man drain out of him as she soundly rejected his nostalgia and attempt to be a new, older, man rather than the timid boy he’d been at RCU.

“Uh, yes. I would agree, the piece is missing some of the tubing, but it has what appear to be original filters…where did you find such a complete helmet of the Nihir pirates? I’d heard of some items from the excavation on-going by friends from Corellia but that was just mention of records, no actual items.”

‘Rama’ laughed out loud, and loudly. Gaer, to his credit, grimaced and cursed under his breath. “You’re satisfied, then, Gaer?”

“Yes. It’s legit. I have a client for it lined up. Is it where the last time was left for pickup?”

“He can go, then,” she said, abruptly, looking at Gaer.

Tavian Wyr sounded like he might protest, until anger flashed dull in Gaer’s rough voice, “You’ll get your fee, Wyr. She said leave, so fucking leave.”

She felt Wyr’s stare. It made her smile, to feel his angst, to feel his anger at rejection. She was even a little disappointed when he just turned and left, as if trying to re-establish some manner of pride.

“You said your expert had some questions regarding the authenticity of the item.”

Gaer all but grunted, “He said he did.”

“Bring another child around me, Gaer, and I’ll never answer another request from you again.” She took a hard, final, shot of her smoldering drink in the short, stubby, glass with it’s heavy metallic base and went to leave, abruptly, “Transfer the credits.”

On the way out she she found him just outside the establishment, his mass-produced coat and pants, synth-leather shoes, none of it matching the grim roughess of the outskirts of Coronet City. His glare was sullen, hurt. She rather enjoyed it, looking at him under her dark brown leather coat, and black tights, heavy leather boots with big dull metallic buckles. “You were a coward.”

He laughed, but it wasn’t a real thing, just a defense, and bitterly done, “What was I supposed to do?”

“Ask me my name, ten years ago…c’mon. Let’s have a drink.” She wanted to shock him, she wanted to hurt him, she wanted to leave him haunted for the rest of his life. “No names. You can tell me about this magnificent excavation of your friends.”

When she left the hotel room the next morning, she left him asleep, ankles still fastened to the frame of the bed, exhausted from the cocktail of pleasure and pain…she left with his personal devices, with information on his friends, and what they were up to on Yavin IV. By the time the light of day began to hit the streets of Coronet City, she had changed into sleeveless black on black tights and black slender boots. Her hair was down, loose, and her dark eyes wild as she came aboard the unnamed Wayfarer as quiet as a ghost in the dark.

It was then she caught the new droid in the back cargo bay. If a droid could jump in surprise, it might have, finding her staring at it from the other side of the aisles of shelving littered with everything from junk to parts to priceless artifacts. “We’re leaving. Careful, droid, you never know what’s back here…”

“We are departing to Chandrilla?

She grinned, “Unplanned detour. Yavin IV. I’ll get you to Chandrilla after, as agreed. Just…” she motioned to the treasures in the back cargo bay of the Wayfarer, “don’t touch.”

Star Wars: Echoes of the Force

<Snipped quote by Ruby>

Way to hurt my feelings

@Byrd Man

Get bent, fuckboy.