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
Ser Ryam Redwyne
Ser Dennet Tarly
Lord Bertrand Tyrell}

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

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

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

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

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

And she was desperately tired of it.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you alright?”

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

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

“I’m going to kill them.”

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

They should have been enough to calm her.

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

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

Vittoria screamed; guttural, pained, incensed.

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

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

“GET THEM MARCHING TO KING’S LANDING!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By then it was too late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His hand opened and he lowered her back the ground.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I once made the mistake of crying in front of my father, when I was very young.” He said, softly enough that only she could hear.

“Well . . . you’re a child of a great house and so are your peers. I think you understand.” Garin’s eyes still scanned their surroundings but he was far away in that moment.

“But for all that he was a cold, heartless bastard, he taught me one thing.”

Vittoria didn’t and couldn’t meet Garin’s eyes.

“What did he teach you?” She was pleased at how close to normal her voice came out.

“That anyone can give vent to what they feel but very few ever act beyond. Now, the man who pushes on? The one whose heart has calmed again and can look at his desires in the cold light of day and still acts? That is a man to fear.” Garin smiled gently.

Vittoria nodded shortly. “I think your father was right.”

“First time for everything.” Garin smirked.

The comment wasn’t that funny in and of itself but something about the whole situation and the way the mercenary said it....

Vittoria laughed and laughed.

Vampire: The Masquerade - Heaven Seemed Insane

Name: Carolina 'Yanci' Cabrillo
Age: 30s
Title: Vice President of Creative Development, Warner Brothers

Biography:

Hollywood wunderkind, producer/director/writer who moved into the Seven Circles of Hell that is executive leadership. Despite being one of Hollywood's Most Powerful People, despite having a peaceful and happy (if somewhat empty) personal life, something isn't right. Dreams keep Carolina awake at night, dreams of hell on Earth, dreams of a desperate push to save the world. Dreams of an angel with black hair, black eyes, and the brightest smile.

'Vampyre: the End Times' is a screenplay that Carolina wrote in a single weekend, like it just poured out of her subconscious and onto the screen. She almost did nothing with it until a Director friend, Matty, read it and declared he had to make the project come to life. Something about it, he said, just spoke to parts of him that he didn't even know existed. He even suggested a change to the title, one that he can't explain the source of:

'Vampyre: Gehenna'

Vampire: The Masquerade - Heaven Seemed Insane

Epilogue RP to a decade long series of V:tM RPs.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

<Snipped quote by Ruby>

I be there. No see this. ):

@Frog Dog

You don't see the Discord link?

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

<Snipped quote by Ezekiel>

All g. I’d like to join in post-holiday.

@Frog Dog

Jump in the Discord. Duh. :)

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

Lovely posts, Estylwen, some really great lines in the three posts I read.

I read because...I am getting tagged in them. lol I don't mind, don't change a thing, just wanted to say good stuff!

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.