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[sub][color=037a03][b]Lady Vittoria Tyrell, High Marshall of the Reach[/b][/color][/sub]

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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:

[i]”Go home. She’s dying. I can handle this. Go home.”[/i]

[i]"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.”[/i]

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.
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