Ruby

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

House Wylde

House Wylde of Rain House

Rain House sits at the eastern edge of Cape Wraith, emerging from the Rainwood along the southern shore of Shipbreaker Bay. Although the Cape and the Rainwood are rainy, the land is fertile. Despite no large cities in the area, there are numerous villages throughout, especially along the coast, as well as a large and thriving port town, Mistport. The area is known for it’s large trade of fur, wood, and amber.

House Wylde is a principal house sworn to House Baratheon. Given the resources of the Rainwood and their long history dating back to the First Men, those sworn to Rain House tend to be loyal. In the wake of House Baratheon’s takeover from House Durrandon, the Rainwood and Shipbreaker Bay allowed for House Wylde to largely isolate itself and let events take their natural course.

Their current Lord, Waylon, a man in his early thirties, has maintained the path for House Wylde and Rain House that his father did. His wife is Lady Ella from House Whitehead, their two children are Lord Casper and Lady Sylvie, both children. Other notable members of the House include Ser Elyas Wylde, an older Knight that fought with renown in numerous campaigns, and Lady Mariel, widow of the Lord of Stonehelm, Myles of House Swann, known as the Lady of the Mists.

Their House motto is “Rain Must Fall.”

Lady Mariel Wylde, Lady of the Mists

↣ Six and Twenty | Lady of the Mists ↢

The Lady of the Mists presents a challenge for more than a few Lords and Ladies of the Stormlands. Beloved sister and friend of the current Lord of Rain House, Waylon Wylde, and widow of the immensely popular and respected Lord of Stonehelm, Myles Swann, there are few in the Stormlands from the Dornish Marches in the south to the Wendwater River in the north that do not know Lady Mariel.

Given the tragic and mysterious death of Lord Myles Swann, as well as the loss of Lord Wyatt Wylde, her father, against the Dornish, few could blame Lady Mariel for her grief. Yet, even in her youth, Lady Mariel acted unusually. Known as one of the better survivors and rangers of the Stormlands even when she was barely a Lady grown, few in the Stormlands are unaware of how the late Lord Myles, one of the finest warriors in the realm, met his wife:

She beat him, and all the others, in an archery contest at a small tournament held at Mistport.

Although technically it was Lord Myles who won, as Lady Mariel was no official entrant into the lists of the event, but was invited to the field by Lord Myles after some lively banter between the two. Although her extensive time in both the Rainwood and Mistwood had made Lady Mariel well known to most Stormland nobility, she seemed as equally known to the commonfolk of the Stormlands—as the cheers of those present at the tournament of Mistport seemed to support.

Lord Myles’ death is often attributed to Dornish treachery, but the truth of it still remains unknown. What is obvious is the secrets within secrets, like wheels within wheels, that surround Lord Myles and Lady Mariel. Some claim she was with child when he died, others that she killed Lord Myles after a quarrel between them became violent. That she returned to Rain House, one of the least approachable fortresses in all the Stormlands, largely left only rumor and stories in place of known truth.

The Mists, however, are where rumor and story really begin trouble for Stormland nobility. Originally believed to be a small band of woodland bandits, few still believe that, with the leading theory regarding them as an enigmatic and wide-ranging secret organization capable of everything from petty thievery to elaborate and systematic campaigns of spying and assassination born out of the chaos of the Conquest and Dornish Wars. It’s unknown just how, precisely, but the trouble regarding Lady Mariel for the nobility of the Stormlands revolve around tales of smallfolk that Lady Mariel is the Lady of the Mists; depending on who you listen to, either an alley of the Mists, or the actual leader of the organization itself.

Lord Waylon dismisses these as stories of the smallfolk born from his sister’s survival, hunting, horsemanship, and archery skills. He points to her folkhero status coming out of the Tournament at Mistport and her marriage to one of the realm’s finest warriors killed under still mysterious circumstances, Lord Myles, as the true origin of the fanciful tales. In truth, he insists, is a widow that wallowed for her lost husband and spends the vast majority of her time wandering the primordial forests of Cape Wraith, isolated in her grief.

The Maester of Rain House, Setharyn, himself Essos born and there originally educated, has reported to the Citadel that Lady Mariel is exceptionally bright and physically capable. That it is entirely possible that she is everything, and more, that the smallfolk rise her up to be in their folktales and hero worship of the woman. If the stories of her prowess with bow and arrow are true, she may be one of the finest archers in the realm.

It's worth noting that the Maester, personally, doubts most of these stories of her prowess are true and has seen little direct evidence outside the tournament at Mistport to support them.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

House Wylde

House Wylde of Rain House

Rain House sits at the eastern edge of Cape Wraith, emerging from the Rainwood along the southern shore of Shipbreaker Bay. Although the Cape and the Rainwood are rainy, the land is fertile. Despite no large cities in the area, there are numerous villages throughout, especially along the coast, as well as a large and thriving port town, Mistport. The area is known for it’s large trade of fur, wood, and amber.

House Wylde is a principal house sworn to House Baratheon. Given the resources of the Rainwood and their long history dating back to the First Men, those sworn to Rain House tend to be loyal. In the wake of House Baratheon’s takeover from House Durrandon, the Rainwood and Shipbreaker Bay allowed for House Wylde to largely isolate itself and let events take their natural course.

Their current Lord, Waylon, a man in his early thirties, has maintained the path for House Wylde and Rain House that his father did. His wife is Lady Ella from House Whitehead, their two children are Lord Casper and Lady Sylvie, both children. Other notable members of the House include Ser Elyas Wylde, an older Knight that fought with renown in numerous campaigns, and Lady Mariel, widow of the Lord of Stonehelm, Myles of House Swann, known as the Lady of the Mists.

Their House motto is “Rain Must Fall.”

Lady Mariel Wylde, Lady of the Mists

↣ Six and Twenty | Lady of the Mists ↢

The Lady of the Mists presents a challenge for more than a few Lords and Ladies of the Stormlands. Beloved sister and friend of the current Lord of Rain House, Waylon Wylde, and widow of the immensely popular and respected Lord of Stonehelm, Myles Swann, there are few in the Stormlands from the Dornish Marches in the south to the Wendwater River in the north that do not know Lady Mariel.

Given the tragic and mysterious death of Lord Myles Swann, as well as the loss of Lord Wyatt Wylde, her father, against the Dornish, few could blame Lady Mariel for her grief. Yet, even in her youth, Lady Mariel acted unusually. Known as one of the better survivors and rangers of the Stormlands even when she was barely a Lady grown, few in the Stormlands are unaware of how the late Lord Myles, one of the finest warriors in the realm, met his wife:

She beat him, and all the others, in an archery contest at a small tournament held at Mistport.

Although technically it was Lord Myles who won, as Lady Mariel was no official entrant into the lists of the event, but was invited to the field by Lord Myles after some lively banter between the two. Although her extensive time in both the Rainwood and Mistwood had made Lady Mariel well known to most Stormland nobility, she seemed as equally known to the commonfolk of the Stormlands—as the cheers of those present at the tournament of Mistport seemed to support.

Lord Myles’ death is often attributed to Dornish treachery, but the truth of it still remains unknown. What is obvious is the secrets within secrets, like wheels within wheels, that surround Lord Myles and Lady Mariel. Some claim she was with child when he died, others that she killed Lord Myles after a quarrel between them became violent. That she returned to Rain House, one of the least approachable fortresses in all the Stormlands, largely left only rumor and stories in place of known truth.

The Mists, however, are where rumor and story really begin trouble for Stormland nobility. Originally believed to be a small band of woodland bandits, few still believe that, with the leading theory regarding them as an enigmatic and wide-ranging secret organization capable of everything from petty thievery to elaborate and systematic campaigns of spying and assassination born out of the chaos of the Conquest and Dornish Wars. It’s unknown just how, precisely, but the trouble regarding Lady Mariel for the nobility of the Stormlands revolve around tales of smallfolk that Lady Mariel is the Lady of the Mists; depending on who you listen to, either an alley of the Mists, or the actual leader of the organization itself.

Lord Waylon dismisses these as stories of the smallfolk born from his sister’s survival, hunting, horsemanship, and archery skills. He points to her folkhero status coming out of the Tournament at Mistport and her marriage to one of the realm’s finest warriors killed under still mysterious circumstances, Lord Myles, as the true origin of the fanciful tales. In truth, he insists, is a widow that wallowed for her lost husband and spends the vast majority of her time wandering the primordial forests of Cape Wraith, isolated in her grief.

The Maester of Rain House, Setharyn, himself Essos born and there originally educated, has reported to the Citadel that Lady Mariel is exceptionally bright and physically capable. That it is entirely possible that she is everything, and more, that the smallfolk rise her up to be in their folktales and hero worship of the woman. If the stories of her prowess with bow and arrow are true, she may be one of the finest archers in the realm.

It's worth noting that the Maester, personally, doubts most of these stories of her prowess are true and has seen little direct evidence outside the tournament at Mistport to support them.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Ser Tytan, The Berserker

Tytan, The Berserker

Age:28 Winters (17th day of the Evening Star/12 AC)

Appearance:
Height: 6'10
Weight: 380 lbs
Hair: Red
Skin: Pale
Body Type: Strongman

With Pale skin,that has recently been feeling the kiss of steady sunlight, the gargantuan Thenn is built heavily in favor of great strength. His body is padded with muscle, and despite lacking the pure definition that many men within the South have and are proud of, there is no doubt there are few that could match him in strength. His hair blazes red, more so when the Summer sun catches it and gives him the appearance of being wreathed in flames, all the more terrifying when he is caked in blood.

Description & biography:

He was a Thenn, that is what the Southerners called him, those at least that knew of his people. It was mostly the Crows that spoke of it, how they described him when he spoke of where he came from when he was asked. However he had always felt ‘distant’, from his people. They were content to sit and worship at the Magnar's feet. They were content to live in the mountains, to remain at the Frostfangs and only travel when it came time to claim a woman. He felt that the life they lived was not his destiny, because he wanted more. He felt a calling in his blood each time he looked at the wall, that great barrier of Ice and Stone. He needed to see what was beyond it, to experience what it had to offer. What Drink would he find, what food would he eat, what women would he lay with? These questions danced in his mind, demanding answers, demanding satisfaction. What more was there to the world?! He needed to know!

So he sought it out.

He eventually gave in to the call, and on his 22nd winter he set out, but he did not just wander out without preparation. He was not a fool, he had prepared himself well, and supplied himself with knowledge. He traveled to Eastwatch, as the Crows call it, and played his part well. He traded supplies and gifts for knowledge and language. The 'Maesters' there were easy enough, simply by trading his language for theirs he learned the common tongue of the Kneelers, and even managed to earn a fair bit of coin in the duels he had with the guard there. He offered to teach them how the Free Folk fought, so they would be better prepared in their outings, and in return they would supply him with Stags and Dragons for his work. In over a year, he had a purse of dragons and stags, and he had felt it was finally time. So on his last trip to the Eastwatch, he stowed away on an outbound ship, some other merchant vessel headed towards some port city called White Harbour.

It was there that he spent his first days within the South. He commissioned a new set of armor, clothing, and even bought a horse in order to make himself blend in more. He had seen plenty of fighting men, in armor and regalia, and the respect they had been given by the people. What better way to blend in then to become one, and to be honest he was quite entranced by the need to fight. His time however was well spent in the weeks in White Harbour, he learned much and even came to appreciate at least a portion of the Southerners faith. The Warrior seemed to be an Old God of War and Battle, honor and Courage were traits he could respect in a fighter though he did see the necessity for more dubious means sometimes.

He found himself blending quite well with the people despite the clear differences between him and a majority of the Kneelers, given he could see clear over the heads of nearly all of them. He took to calling himself 'Tytan', after a remark in the tavern from one of the Milksops there had got himself pissed off of the watery fluid they called attempted to pass off as Mead. It seems he would have to settle for this weak drink for a while, if only to blend in. He had been called 'Big as a titan' by a man who tried to get him to fight a well known brawler at the tavern, though it did not end the way they wanted. Deprived of their pride, and a handful of stags, 'Tytan' left that Tavern with a wide smile, if an unquenched thirst.

He knew he could not simply coast on the grace of luck, so he set to crafting a tale for himself. So as he traveled, he spun tall tales, each different from the last in order to test how the people reacted. Eventually he settled on the unfortunate outcome of a woman of the North running afoul a Wildling, and ending up with a massive bastard of a boy. It was a simple, and easily believable story that the people ate up and understood.

Given his talents, it should be no surprise when he found himself falling into the habit of working with the Men at Arms in the Riverlands. From Bandit hunting at the like, to the simple actions of working as a Guard from time to time within the city proper for various peoples. He eventually began doing mercenary work all across the realm, eventually ending up being swept into the fighting within the Riverlands. At first he did not know what was happening, so he ended up fighting for whichever side had paid him the most, falling under Harren the Red’s banner. Yet as he fought the warriors sent against him, he began to notice the weakness present within the commanders and the growing competence of the men he was fighting. It was clear there was a breakdown as the forces of Harren the Red were continually being pushed back. His use as both a tracker and a scout were pivotal, because they offered him value that he could negotiate with, alongside his knowledge of the area as well as key points of interest, it gave him something to offer when he approached the Reachmen. So tossing down his allegiance with his previous benefactor, he approached the Reachmen and offered his blades and the information they would need to pursue their battle all the better. The names and locations of camps he knew of, the men he knew were important, and more importantly he offered to be the man in the front in order to prove he was willing to kill those he had once fought with.

He was placed in the Vanguard of one Lady Vittoria Tyrell, and began to prove himself as a capable and dedicated warrior. Tracking down the roaming bands of his once allies, he was first in and last out when the slaughter came. Bathing himself in the blood of many, as his crude brass axes left little mercy to be had. The Days passed, and Harren was pressed further and further back until he was trapped west of God’s Eye. Upon the passing of Lord Alyn, he proved himself further by taking the village the Hand had fallen in with a storm of blood. Crashing through thin hut walls with all the force of a Berserker, he fell upon the foe as the rest of the Vanguard dived into the bloody melee. He stood over the corpses of the ones who had slain the Hand, and returned his body to his Lady, for he knew that it was important. With that in hand, Harren soon fell and he had, through his actions, earned a Knightship. It had such an impact that even his new little lady had the grace to reward him with gear, proper armor and weapons befitting a knight.

Blood Red Armor, a Brass Rune in the language of the First Men emblazoned on his chest piece, he looked more the fearsome demon than the knight. Standing near 6 '10, he was in fact a Titan of a man, as the nickname given to him in the Tavern attested. He weighed nearly a full 380 lbs, and was so strong he could carry his own horse up flights of stairs should he wish. He was a merry man, feeling the need to drink and share stories with those he fought alongside. He was known for Tall Tales, things so fanciful that the men simply enjoyed them for what they were, entertainment. Yet his horror stories of the North, of the men with skin like ice and the living dead were known to lower the temperature of rooms, and chill the blood in a man's body despite their obvious exaggeration. For there are no men that live past death in the Frozen North.

Owing much to the Brave and Bold Steel Rose of the Tyrell family, he swore an oath to follow her so long as she led the Order of the Golden Rose, his little Lady Vittoria. The ‘Ardent’ Maiden, the words themselves bringing a chuckle to his lips. He was not the most wise, nor the most intelligent, but he was learned enough to realize the double meaning of the title. The Irony of the description of Ardent being applied to his Calm and Calculating little Mistress always made him chuckle just a bit. If there was one thing his Lady was Passionate about, it was knowledge, and she continued to amaze him with the sheer scope of things she knew. And so he marched with her, at her side and in her Vanguards. He tracked her foes, he slew her enemies, and he watered the Steel Rose with a river of blood so that one day it may bloom the most brilliant red.

@Bigbagel12

Approved.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

_{Lady Vittoria Tyrell and the Order of the Golden Rose
Location: The Order's camp outside the walls of Oldtown // Port Market Street, Oldtown}

“Two inns, the Last Cobblestone and the Lord Pennifer, separated by a chandler. The Chandler and his family have graciously accepted a stay at Highgarden, his eldest boy will stay behind to run his shop on the first floor. His name is Nate, seemed to want to be anything but a chandler when I talked to him, so he should be no thorn in our side. The family hasn’t been sick in the past year, which might be a miracle in Oldtown. Den will have his Lady Wife and young son, they will be at the chandler’s second story home.”

There was a chorus of immediate chatter that snapped Vittoria’s eyes shut in an instant, as she took a long, long, sip of her morning cider from the short cup. “Yes, yes,” she began, trying to calm the clatter. A normal council was five to six men. Today, there were over twenty. They had met at the baggage train. Her eyes opened again, and her smile pressed onto her lips like a dagger in her hand come a fight, “I understand nearly a quarter of us are bringing their wives and children in. Some of you will stay here at our camp outside the city walls, a few of you will be inside the city at various other inns, and a few at the Hightower. The Rose Garden has enough room for the rest.”

The Rose Garden was her favorite inn within Oldtown; it had a private courtyard, it was surrounded by old stone walls covered in thick vines that flowered in Spring and Fall. It had also been owned by House Tyrell for all of living memory. But it was too far from the main stretches of merchants and markets, and too far from the Hightower to be of ideal use. As an inn that almost only served highborn and wealthy merchants, it was ideal place to house the men of her Order with family that didn’t want to stay in the camp and didn’t have a better option.

“WHERE EVER,” she shouted as she began again, to talk over the reemergence of chatter amongst themselves, only continuing when it died down again, “If you are not in the camp or at the Cobblestone or Lord Pennifer, report to the Pennifer by mid-day, each day. The Maesters and the Squires will be there to relay any information or orders.”

“And the Lost Alehouse?” Ser Brenden Cuy asked. He was his father’s third son, a squat, barrel of a man. His arms seemed as thick as his legs, and that was by far a compliment to both. Few seemed to take him serious in a fight, until the fight began. He talked little, usually, but when there was fun to be had he almost became a different name.

“Ah, the Alehouse,” Vittoria tried to keep the smirk off her lips, but failed, and a loud mix of holler and cheer went up among those assembled, even to the ring of men beyond them that were just trying to overhear. “The Lost Alehouse is in an alley behind the two inns. There is no sign, there are no windows on the first floor. If you’ve never been, just follow one of your brothers. Our last night in town, we will all try to meet there.”

“DO NOT BRING YOUR WIVES”, someone from the outer line of eavesdroppers shouted, loud, to the laughter of nearly all present…including herself. Her hands waved high in the air, and the deafening clatter of men speaking was back again, council over. She caught Den saying something to Ser Ryam; her cousin had been chosen to be her Shield in the city, Vittoria didn’t have to hear what was being said to know what Den was telling the young Knight. Her attention turned to Garrett and Mina, both of them ready, both of them staying at the Chandler’s house with Den and his Lady Wife, Merna of House Oakheart.

When Garrett asked why they couldn’t all be in the same place, Vittoria explained that there wasn’t a suitable place in Oldtown’s walls that could house a hundred Knights, and members of family. She said nothing of the other reason: there was no way she would insult Lord Manfred by bringing a hundred armed and armored Knights into his city without his leave. He had allowed half of them, she considered it a gift. Both her siblings, to her, seemed sad that the journey was over and their time with the Order of the Golden Rose possibly over, though nothing had been absolutely decided. She knew, however, their father was on his way. The decision would be his.

The ride into the city was more spectacle than she had wanted. None of them wore armor, except, at Lord Manfred’s request, herself. His written message to her had been plain and blunt, not unlike the man himself: ’Damn your caution and care, girl, this city won’t shut up about you, I am told, so I plan to give them the Ardent Maiden.'

Worse, the armor he had made for her was silver, covered in the flowers of the Reach, each enameled and bejeweled, a golden rose in the center of the breastplate, prominent and larger than the rest. Her great cloak was cloth-of-gold, shimmering and shadowing as the morning son touched it. She wore no weapon but the dagger of the Order, with it’s green handle and golden rose pommel. Her hair was brushed out; as much as Mina seemed to spurn the life of a Lady, her hands were incredibly efficient and practiced at some of the more useful aspects. Garrett and Mina would rise beside her, Den and Ser Ryam flanking them, with the rest of the fifty man column behind them. She forced Garrett and Mina to practice, a few times, the art of stopping their horses and letting the rest of their column envelop them in case of danger.

Den said nothing, but the idea was his: his Lady Wife reported that her sister had overheard Lord Oakheart saying he and Lord Rowan were less certain of the Order and their ‘Lady Commander.’ Then something about the Faith Militant being less than pleased about them, even as his own counselors stated Lady Vittoria had always been a true friend of the Faith. That kind of talk was dangerous. The streets were lined with smallfolk, the noise was near deafening, but she tried to appreciate it all the same. Perhaps more than normal, Vittoria kept her smile, her eyes and hands busy by looking and waving, engaging the crowd.

Towards the end, they saw Poor Fellows and Warrior’s Sons, looking less than pleased, but not appearing hostile, either. The moment she saw the Septon, however, she was off her horse and forcing the column to stop, suddenly: “PATER!” Vittoria rushed to him, best she could in the horribly heavy armor, and knelt on one knee when she got to him. He was older than he was last time she saw him, gray sneaking into his beard and his hair. There were a few new wrinkles about his eyes, but he was still her Septon Pater.

The moment she knelt to him, the gathered Faith Militant cheered, though she noticed Pater seemed less than joyous, yet his smile didn’t abandon him as he forced her to her feet. “Look what the Mother and Warrior have done with you! Where is the little girl that would argue the Seven-Pointed Star with me all day and night?”

She couldn’t help but hug him, before quickly, waving Garrett and Mina forth. “Septon Pater of the Most Devout, this is Lord Garrett of House Tyrell, soon to be Squire Garrett, and Lady Mina of House Tyrell.”

“Lord Garrett, Lady Mina, may the Seven bless you, your family, and keep you both safe. May I accompany you all?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling, even as Ren was at her ear from behind, whispering about the break of their column as men began to filter to their lodgings, that the Maesters were setting up at the Pennifer. When she turned around, she found Lady Merna behind her husband. Vittoria could have screamed at the woman in joy to see her; if she ever had an older sister, it would have been Lady Merna, Den’s wife. Ten years her senior, shy, but always kind and caring and giving. And, above all, always understanding.

“Be careful!” The shorter woman all but squeaked, “I’m not wearing armor!” They laughed, though Vittoria was careful in the hug she gave.

“You look like you’re dying in that.” Lady Merna began to wave with one hand about Vittoria furiously, taking Vittoria’s hair up with other, to fan the beads of sweat falling down her neck.

“It’s awful, I need to change clothes.” Vittoria made a groan, or a whine, or a pout, or some alchemist mixture of all three, and turned to find Mina telling Septon Pater all about the trip, and the training, and the sparring. Pater listened intently, his gentle warmth ever present as he knelt down to be eye-level with the girl.

“Don’t worry, girl, we’ll have the horses ready and make sure she doesn’t run off, go change.”

That Merna knew what she wanted, what she was thinking…it was a blessing from the Gods to have her back around. The moment her parents parted, she saw him.

“VITTA!”

Vittoria threw herself at the largest boy she had ever seen. They said he was four years of age, and Vittoria could have called them liars. For as large as Savage Sam and Dennet Tarly were, Lord Rycherd Tarly, Dennet and Merna’s first born, was destined to be larger. The child nearly knocked her off her armored feet as he rushed into her like a bull. Had it not been for Den just behind her, she would have found herself on her butt, careful to wrap the child up and squeeze.

“You little wild thing! Have you met my sister Mina? You’ll like her,” she grinned, promising. Lady Merna shoo’d the boy off her, promising he could ambush her later, and Den helped her back to full balance.

“C’mon, I’ll show you where we had your dresses put, and help you out of that armor. I like the cloak. It’s pretty.”

“Do you want it?” Vittoria asked Merna, as Den’s Lady wife led her into the Chandler’s Home.

Merna laughed. “It would be a blanket on me. You forget how tall you are.”

“I don’t feel tall.”

Merna was having none of it, “You’re surrounded by Knights all the time. Of course you don’t feel tall, fool girl.”

Inside the door, Merna introduced her to Nate, the chandler’s eldest. Vittoria thanked he and his family as graciously as she could, covered in sweat and feet hurting from the sheer weight of the armor Manfred had sent her. She had helped his family, he explained, by ridding the seas of the Pirate King of the Basilisk Isles. She was cheery and warm as she gave her happy surprise, thanking he and his family again, before Merna cut in and asked him to lock the door behind them, and pushing at Vittoria to stop being so nice and MOVE. The short woman helped her out of the worst of it, though she asked Nate’s help for a few pieces, the buckles stubborn and plate heavy.

She nearly laughed as Nate did so, sheepishly, closing his eyes as he did it. The two woman held their giggles until she was light enough to go up the backstairs, where Lady Merna could help her out of the rest.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

_{Vaera Balaerys, dragonrider}

Shadow fell over King’s Landing at the late morning hour. Wide, though not as wide as half by other shadows that had surely been sighted across the city before, with a blue and purple color if a person managed to look up fast enough. It was fast, and it flew low. Saeryx made little sound but for the motion of it’s wings and the beating of air to gain speed and momentum before it spread and glided again. The pattern repeated from Blackwater Bay, to over the site of what, she had been told before departing, one would day be the keep of House Targaryen.

To Vaera Balaerys, from her view, it just looked small as it blurred by. As soon as she passed it, Saeryx turned and dipped to round about for another pass. By the time it moved on, the dragon and it’s rider made another three passes to get better and better looks, going lower and lower each time, until workers on wooden scaffolding went to their bellies in fear of being hit—which she laughed at as wind whooshed about her as Saeryx climbed again, moving on.

As if we’re clumsy enough to hit you fools. I thought these ones had dragonlords of their own?

Down and northward, Saeryx and its rider found nothing of immediate interest, just an endless daze of low rooftops that seemed, to her, pressed too far together. There was barely a clearing to be seen, just little canyons between where streets obviously, probably, were laid out. There were few public squares, few fountains. The worst of it seemed to be creeping up the northern most high hill of the city, like a bad weed growing up the side of a shed. There was a long, mostly stone, structure atop it with little brown ants scurrying all about, pointing up, shouting. She thought she saw some of them…throw things?

A temple, of some sort, with priests more irritable than the red ones from her city. And, at least, her priests appreciated the flight of a dragon. They certainly didn’t bloody throw things. Even still, Saeryx gave no noise, just a side glow and a little back-and-forth shimmy of their shoulders. Vaera laughed, and loudly, patting the blue and purple scaled creature, “It’s okay, Saeryx. Let fools be what they will be.”

Westeros is less friendly than I was led to believe by that Maegor Prince.

Or maybe the brown priests were just foul. Best not to judge a realm by it’s holy men, she thought, neverminding the exception she would always make for Qarth and their bizarre Warlocks. Open-handed as the Warlocks had been with some of their knowledge, getting anything beyond that out of them had been a long, long task. And they did so only thinking they played her in a long game.

So she disappeared, leaving under pretense and just flying away, never going back. She’d gotten some curses and some petty threats, but outside of Qarth, itself, the Warlocks weren’t at all what they claimed to once be. If they ever were at all. Their very nature just reminded her of the shadowbinders in Asshai. A cold, creepy, feeling down the spine that was best moved in opposite directions of as quickly as business allowed.

Still, she had learned enough. Enough to see a quickly constructed city that was already starting to fill up with all sorts, below here. It lacked the grace and careful considerations in design that Volantis had. Clearly, Aegon and his sisters had not been schooled in the ways of Freehold city building, a thought she thought with a smirk and a chuckle as Saeryx seemed to pick up speed. She saw a few squares, at least, this time. She smelled fire and baking bread during one of Saeryx’s lower swoops over the city below on her way between the second, northern-most hill, and the third western-most hill. Much to her dismay, she saw another bloody temple being constructed, and frowned.

Just how pious were these Westerosi? My, Gods.

The old, Valyrian, gods she kept were still just as good as the Seven that the Westerosi prattled on, and on, and on about. And that was even after the Doom. She doubted the Seven could handle a spell of sickness, let alone a Doom. The thought was less than amusing, however, as Vaera had seen her fill of sickness sweep over cities. Every time it started, she departed, quickly, on the leathery wings of her dragon. Maybe she’d been lucky. Or maybe she’d just been quick enough to escape, each time.

She returned to the highest of the hills, the one next to the water, the one in which Targaryens were building their hold upon. She admitted a certain appreciation of the view. True enough, give the city another twenty years and it was likely to smell of shit more often than it smelled of salt from the sea, but at least, for now, it was mostly salt and pleasant enough views as she circled, letting Saeryx slow with each lap, until it landed as gently as a cat upon the empty dirt clearing that looked like it may one day be a square before the castle, but for now just housed tents, wood, stones, and other sort of material.

It took them little time to come ‘greet’ her. It was a term she used quite loosely, given the unrest they seemed to have. Again, she couldn’t help but wonder what the devil had them so spooked—it was a dragonrider. Had they not seen them? Often? What did the damn Targaryen do, ride around on palfreys so the smallfolk could pelt them and jeer them? How depressing that must have been for them.

Some old man wearing robes and a chain waddled up to her and started saying…something. She smiled at the poor thing, before turning and saying something just to Saeryx. The dragon slid it’s tail between her and the man with chains, as it saw other men approach, it’s head beginning to raise…until Vaera bopped it’s chest and laughed. “Stop that, they’re scared enough in this land without you doing that.”

She gave a simple wave to those who looked to stand behind the one with robes and chain, before she climbed up on Saeryx just enough to retrieve the blade in its jewel-blue scabbard, affixing the belt around her waist, as it rested on her left hip, opposite the two daggers sheathed on her opposite hip, one longer than the other. Leather and mail sounded as she moved, but less than someone used to the sound would expect, as it had been a gift from the forgers of Qohor, after Saeryx and she had assisted them.

The blade was Valyrian steel, and was light on her frame, a bastard sword with numerous names over the years. It’s original was named for a Valyrian God, and had been renamed after the Doom, as was the decision of her ancestor. It’s second name was a private thing among their House, a remembrance, the name of their home in the Freehold. Their parents hadn’t worn it, and Vhandyr didn’t want it, though he was kind enough to name it for her: Ascendant. She knew it as well as it knew her, as well as she knew Saeryx, though likely not as well as the dragon knew her. She wasn’t sure such a thing was possible.

She needed food, and down the hill, towards the river, the Blackwater Rush, so the maps had named it, was her best bet. The other direction was the hovels and streets too tightly packed, and surely, there was ever very little good that came from such streets, in her experience…and she had quite a lot of experience in such things.

“Leave the dragon alone, and it won’t bite you,” was her parting wisdom to those gathered, before departing, glad she had worn her boots that went half up her legs, given what she was bound to step in on the streets of such a backwater.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

House Balaerys of Volantis

H O U S E B A L A E R Y S

_{Though House Balaerys follows the ancient Valyrian nobility in not having official heraldry, it is widely known that when necessary they use the image of Verrax and the words of their lady dragonriger who landed in Volantis after the Doom when asked how they survived.}

House Balaerys was fortunate. Unlike House Targaryen, fellow nobility of the Freehold of Valyria, House Balaerys did not move away following the dreams of a dreamer. Instead, they survived the Doom simply because the grand sire and mother of the current generation of House Balaerys simply happened to be traveling on the dragon Terrax over the coast of Sothoryos at the time. They heard a sound that sounded like the world breaking and saw the ground tremble and seas frenzy.

Though they attempted to guide Terrax back to the Freehold, the dragon would have none of it—he flew around where the Lands of Forever Summer had been, and landed in Volantis. The sights and sounds the couple saw from the back of Terrax during the trip removed any doubts in their hearts and minds that there would never be any going back to Valyria. When they arrived at Volantis, after seeing the couple safely to the ground, without warning, the dragon Terrax sounded his anguish and pain before launching into the sky, riderless.

House Balaerys largely believes this was Terrax being lost in grief for the loss he understood on a level they simply did not, could not, until reports of what remained of Valyria began to slowly trickle into Volantis as the result of voyage after voyage of the Volantene either not coming back, or coming back and almost immediately dying of mysterious illness and wounds. So chaotic was Volantis after the Doom that House Balaerys removed itself from the city, stealing away to a remote, fortified, manse manned by household guards and slaves named Casmus Valelyx by dragonlords long before House Balaerys moved in.

In time they released the slaves from bondage, though some would stay behind as free men and women and allowed the guards to share the residence as fellow Valyrian survivors instead of simply servants. Most of these men would perish in defense of the compound when it was attacked by a small, elite, force sent by wealthy Lyseni and Myrish merchants, believing House Balerys actively behind Volantene aggression in the chaos after the Doom. Those that survived, including the members of House Balaerys, survived only due to the timely return of the dragon Terrax.

Terrax was home, and had grown even larger than before, returning to his old riders. Slowly, over a generation, House Balaerys would begin to reintegrate with Volantis. Though they largely married the sons and daughters of the original Valyrian house guard that survived the defense of Casmus Valelyx. Though the property is still a well defended property largely hidden in a shallow canyon holding an oasis, the current generation of House Balaerys primarily resides in Volantis.

The death of the current generation’s parents still holds mystery in it, yet Volantis nobility has largely settled into the belief that their deaths were a tragic accident of higher mysteries gone wrong. Though very few of the original House guard descendants remain, politics have began necessitating House Balaerys begin at least entertaining the idea of marrying with other Valyrian pure blood nobility of Volantis. The current leader of their House is the eldest of four children, Vhandyr, a renowned warrior and poet. His heir is the second eldest of the current generation, Vaera, the two younger siblings, a girl and boy, not yet having reached adulthood and heavily taught and trained by a small army of priests, artisans, archivists, and more, secure in their Volantis home.

HOUSE BALAERYS

Dragonlord Vhandyr Balaerys, _{Head of House Balaerys, Elected Ruler of Volantis, rider of Terrax}

Dragonlord Vaera Balaerys, _{his eldest sibling and heir, rider of Saeryx}

Rhaxes, _{boy of two and ten, called the Elder}

Aenara, _{girl of ten, called the Unseen}

Vhandyr

⫷ Six and Twenty Years Old ◾ Rider of Terrax ◾ Elected Ruler of Volantis ⫸

Vhandyr of Houes Balaerys was once often seen in Volantis. Dragonrider of the famed Terrax, Vhandyr was a quiet and shy child that grew into a quiet and determined, dutiful, young man known for Cyvasse and martial prowess. A large child became an immense man, widely known as a breathtakingly handsome man.

Those that know him best say he is as gentle and bookish, known to be more impressive with his wit to those he is comfortable with. Though many thought of him as shy, there is never a known instance where Vhandyr the boy shrank from a moment, or held his tongue when something needed to be said. There was, to any with eyes, a noticeable difference in Vhandyr after the loss of his parents. His connection with Terrax was immediate after the death of his parents, and it those who care to observe such things closely say the bond between Terrax and Vhandyr is deeper than nearly any rider of the dragon since the Doom, their shared grief of those lost a powerful connection between them.

In his adulthood he has became as well known for his voice and skill with lute and harp than he is his skill in cyvasse or fighting. Unlike his sister, Vaera, Vhandyr preferred teaching himself at Casmus Valelyx, alone with no one but the children of the original House guard as company. And even they would tell you there would be weeks and months that Vhandyr would simply climb atop Terrax, and the pair would disappear off the face of creation.

In his adulthood he has taken a more active role in leading the city of Volantis. Though there is a natural inclination for many of the Valyrian nobility to follow such a strong, striking, figure with a renowned dragon, there are quite a few who bristle under the idea of a single leader of the city. Yet that has not stopped the nobility from electing Vhandyr leader twice before. The third election seemed to be more of a debate, until the appearance of Prince Maegor of House Targaryen with Balerion the Black Dread.

The idea that the two remaining dragonlords of pre-Doom dragons would unite was enough to make the third election of the Volantene nobility the most lopsided yet. Interestingly, second place in the vote was Lady Vaela, his sister. There is a distance and melancholy still to Vhandyr, and his long absence from the city fighting alongside Maegor would been more of a problem…had the pair not spent their time devastating Dothraki hoards.

Few things please the Volantis nobility like dead Dothraki. It is enough of a boon in opinion to make news of Vhandyr planning a tour of Westeros at Maegor’s invitation pass with little in the way of dissent. Some believe Vhandyr a dreamer in the old Valyrian ways, and are glad to see him depart to Westeros.

Vaera

⫷ Four and Twenty Years Old ◾ Rider of Saeryx ◾ Heir to House Balaerys ⫸

Vaera of House Balaerys is often times viewed as the opposite of her older brother; outgoing where he is inward, charming where he is shy, and more prone to instinct and action than he. Whereas Vhandyr’s youth was filled with dutiful learning and service, Vaera would wander on the back of her young dragon for days, at times weeks. When pressed by tutors on her lack of discipline, Vaera would often simply response that she was born to fly. Indeed, before she was even a full grown woman she had seen more of Essos than most of those living in Volantis. She would be the first to admit, however, that it certainly helped having a dragon to grow up with.

Not even the death of her parents changed her, much, at least on the surface. Those close to the family say it is perhaps Vaera that was even more affected than her older brother, Vhandyr; it just took longer for the shockwaves of what she felt deep inside to break upon the surface of her character. Years later Vaera would declare she was to learn what there was to learn, throwing herself into learning of every stripe and standard from one end of Essos to the other, traveling fast and free on the back of Saeryx, but doing it with a newfound purpose of learning. Be it from the artisans of Myr, to the merchants of Pentos, to the bankers of Lys, to the smiths of Qohor, and the warlocks of Qarth. Even from the sailors of Braavos (though the Sealord refused her entry on Saeryx).

She has a long history of fighting pirates along the shores of Essos, Dothraki in the plains of the continent, and sellswords in the Disputed Lands. Not only does she claim to have seen more of Sothoryos than any other living soul in creation, she has sketched enough maps to back the claim up. As easy to smile and laugh as Vaera is, it is little wonder that she has made a great impression among the nobility of nearly every Free City she has visited, not the least of which includes her home city-state of Volantis. Though she is often a favorite of the war-minded party of Volantis, it seems easy enough for even those inbetween the two parties to find something to like in Vaera Balaerys.

And unlike her brother, Vaera is well known to the nobility of Volantis. She is often hosted at numerous feasts and functions, and is known to be a true child of the fires of the Freehold; she has the glow and charm of fire, and the fury and anger of a dragon. Vaera is even known to have something of a history of lovers, the complete opposite of her older brother, though it’s hard to say whether Vaera favors men or women.

Like her brother, she is dedicated to the upbringing of her younger siblings, though both seem keen on the idea that she join Vhandyr in a tour of Westeros, one of the few places Vaera has not seen extensively. She is quite fond of tales of the Vale, and the North, and Beyond the Wall, to say nothing of a strong desire to see the Lonely Light, to the point where she has sent letters to Houses Arryn, Stark, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Targaryen, Hightower, and Farwynd announcing her intent to visit with Saeryx.

A fair warning given should a mysterious dragon appear over their skies, as, in her experience, a forewarning is usually best…

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

H O U S E B A L A E R Y S

_{Though House Balaerys follows the ancient Valyrian nobility in not having official heraldry, it is widely known that when necessary they use the image of Verrax and the words of their lady dragonriger who landed in Volantis after the Doom when asked how they survived.}

House Balaerys was fortunate. Unlike House Targaryen, fellow nobility of the Freehold of Valyria, House Balaerys did not move away following the dreams of a dreamer. Instead, they survived the Doom simply because the grand sire and mother of the current generation of House Balaerys simply happened to be traveling on the dragon Terrax over the coast of Sothoryos at the time. They heard a sound that sounded like the world breaking and saw the ground tremble and seas frenzy.

Though they attempted to guide Terrax back to the Freehold, the dragon would have none of it—he flew around where the Lands of Forever Summer had been, and landed in Volantis. The sights and sounds the couple saw from the back of Terrax during the trip removed any doubts in their hearts and minds that there would never be any going back to Valyria. When they arrived at Volantis, after seeing the couple safely to the ground, without warning, the dragon Terrax sounded his anguish and pain before launching into the sky, riderless.

House Balaerys largely believes this was Terrax being lost in grief for the loss he understood on a level they simply did not, could not, until reports of what remained of Valyria began to slowly trickle into Volantis as the result of voyage after voyage of the Volantene either not coming back, or coming back and almost immediately dying of mysterious illness and wounds. So chaotic was Volantis after the Doom that House Balaerys removed itself from the city, stealing away to a remote, fortified, manse manned by household guards and slaves named Casmus Valelyx by dragonlords long before House Balaerys moved in.

In time they released the slaves from bondage, though some would stay behind as free men and women and allowed the guards to share the residence as fellow Valyrian survivors instead of simply servants. Most of these men would perish in defense of the compound when it was attacked by a small, elite, force sent by wealthy Lyseni and Myrish merchants, believing House Balerys actively behind Volantene aggression in the chaos after the Doom. Those that survived, including the members of House Balaerys, survived only due to the timely return of the dragon Terrax.

Terrax was home, and had grown even larger than before, returning to his old riders. Slowly, over a generation, House Balaerys would begin to reintegrate with Volantis. Though they largely married the sons and daughters of the original Valyrian house guard that survived the defense of Casmus Valelyx. Though the property is still a well defended property largely hidden in a shallow canyon holding an oasis, the current generation of House Balaerys primarily resides in Volantis.

The death of the current generation’s parents still holds mystery in it, yet Volantis nobility has largely settled into the belief that their deaths were a tragic accident of higher mysteries gone wrong. Though very few of the original House guard descendants remain, politics have began necessitating House Balaerys begin at least entertaining the idea of marrying with other Valyrian pure blood nobility of Volantis. The current leader of their House is the eldest of four children, Vhandyr, a renowned warrior and poet. His heir is the second eldest of the current generation, Vaera, the two younger siblings, a girl and boy, not yet having reached adulthood and heavily taught and trained by a small army of priests, artisans, archivists, and more, secure in their Volantis home.

HOUSE BALAERYS

Dragonlord Vhandyr Balaerys, _{rider of Terrax}

Dragonlord Vaera Balaerys, _{his eldest sibling and heir, rider of Saeryx}

Rhaxes, _{boy of two and ten, called the Elder}

Aenara, _{girl of ten, called the Unseen}

Vhandyr

⫷ Six and Twenty Years Old ◾ Rider of Terrax ◾ Elected Ruler of Volantis ⫸

Vhandyr of Houes Balaerys was once often seen in Volantis. Dragonrider of the famed Terrax, Vhandyr was a quiet and shy child that grew into a quiet and determined, dutiful, young man known for Cyvasse and martial prowess. A large child became an immense man, widely known as a breathtakingly handsome man.

Those that know him best say he is as gentle and bookish, known to be more impressive with his wit to those he is comfortable with. Though many thought of him as shy, there is never a known instance where Vhandyr the boy shrank from a moment, or held his tongue when something needed to be said. There was, to any with eyes, a noticeable difference in Vhandyr after the loss of his parents. His connection with Terrax was immediate after the death of his parents, and it those who care to observe such things closely say the bond between Terrax and Vhandyr is deeper than nearly any rider of the dragon since the Doom, their shared grief of those lost a powerful connection between them.

In his adulthood he has became as well known for his voice and skill with lute and harp than he is his skill in cyvasse or fighting. Unlike his sister, Vaera, Vhandyr preferred teaching himself at Casmus Valelyx, alone with no one but the children of the original House guard as company. And even they would tell you there would be weeks and months that Vhandyr would simply climb atop Terrax, and the pair would disappear off the face of creation.

In his adulthood he has taken a more active role in leading the city of Volantis. Though there is a natural inclination for many of the Valyrian nobility to follow such a strong, striking, figure with a renowned dragon, there are quite a few who bristle under the idea of a single leader of the city. Yet that has not stopped the nobility from electing Vhandyr leader twice before. The third election seemed to be more of a debate, until the appearance of Prince Maegor of House Targaryen with Balerion the Black Dread.

The idea that the two remaining dragonlords of pre-Doom dragons would unite was enough to make the third election of the Volantene nobility the most lopsided yet. Interestingly, second place in the vote was Lady Vaela, his sister. There is a distance and melancholy still to Vhandyr, and his long absence from the city fighting alongside Maegor would been more of a problem…had the pair not spent their time devastating Dothraki hoards.

Few things please the Volantis nobility like dead Dothraki. It is enough of a boon in opinion to make news of Vhandyr planning a tour of Westeros at Maegor’s invitation pass with little in the way of dissent. Some believe Vhandyr a dreamer in the old Valyrian ways, and are glad to see him depart to Westeros.

Vaera

⫷ Four and Twenty Years Old ◾ Rider of Saeryx ◾ Heir to House Balaerys ⫸

Vaera of House Balaerys is often times viewed as the opposite of her older brother; outgoing where he is inward, charming where he is shy, and more prone to instinct and action than he. Whereas Vhandyr’s youth was filled with dutiful learning and service, Vaera would wander on the back of her young dragon for days, at times weeks. When pressed by tutors on her lack of discipline, Vaera would often simply response that she was born to fly. Indeed, before she was even a full grown woman she had seen more of Essos than most of those living in Volantis. She would be the first to admit, however, that it certainly helped having a dragon to grow up with.

Not even the death of her parents changed her, much, at least on the surface. Those close to the family say it is perhaps Vaera that was even more affected than her older brother, Vhandyr; it just took longer for the shockwaves of what she felt deep inside to break upon the surface of her character. Years later Vaera would declare she was to learn what there was to learn, throwing herself into learning of every stripe and standard from one end of Essos to the other, traveling fast and free on the back of Saeryx, but doing it with a newfound purpose of learning. Be it from the artisans of Myr, to the merchants of Pentos, to the bankers of Lys, to the smiths of Qohor, and the warlocks of Qarth. Even from the sailors of Braavos (though the Sealord refused her entry on Saeryx).

She has a long history of fighting pirates along the shores of Essos, Dothraki in the plains of the continent, and sellswords in the Disputed Lands. Not only does she claim to have seen more of Sothoryos than any other living soul in creation, she has sketched enough maps to back the claim up. As easy to smile and laugh as Vaera is, it is little wonder that she has made a great impression among the nobility of nearly every Free City she has visited, not the least of which includes her home city-state of Volantis. Though she is often a favorite of the war-minded party of Volantis, it seems easy enough for even those inbetween the two parties to find something to like in Vaera Balaerys.

And unlike her brother, Vaera is well known to the nobility of Volantis. She is often hosted at numerous feasts and functions, and is known to be a true child of the fires of the Freehold; she has the glow and charm of fire, and the fury and anger of a dragon. Vaera is even known to have something of a history of lovers, the complete opposite of her older brother, though it’s hard to say whether Vaera favors men or women.

Like her brother, she is dedicated to the upbringing of her younger siblings, though both seem keen on the idea that she join Vhandyr in a tour of Westeros, one of the few places Vaera has seen extensively. She is quite fond of tales of the Vale, and the North, and Beyond the Wall, to say nothing of a strong desire to see the Lonely Light, to the point where she has sent letters to Houses Arryn, Stark, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Targaryen, Hightower, and Farwynd announcing her intent to visit with Saeryx.

A fair warning given should a mysterious dragon appear over their skies, as, in her experience, a forewarning is usually best…

Marvel: Judgment Day

Is this RP still alive?

@Eviledd1984

Yep. I wanted to give some people besides myself and a few others time to post if they wanted. Doesn't seem to be happening, so I'll adjust storylines and go from there.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

_{Collab between @LadyRunic and Ruby}

She entered to find candlelight, and a plate of half-eaten food; he ate some of the roast squirrel, none of the bread, and most the sausage. The strong red Arbor wine looked a quarter gone, and the small camp bed was a matter of multiple bed rolls, and a wooden frame with leather straps in support.

She had used it during the Vulture Hunt, she knew it wasn’t that bad. She came in with just the green dress and a cream colored great cloak nearly completely covering her but for a few inches of her body. Leather riding boots had been replaced with more mundane leather slippers, and her hair was now tied with a cloth-of-gold ribbon behind her.

The tent had belonged to Ser Wyatt, but Ser Wyatt was one of the lucky fellows who drew the overnight sentry, and thus had packed for the departure to Oldtown due in the morning, leaving the tent all but empty so they had a place to Lord Elmo. The tent was in a ring of tents, across from Ser Dennet Tarly, with a single guard outside, a squire named Pate who smiled big at her as she passed him to enter.

She held up two candle sticks after walking in, “A gift, Lord Elmo, in case you want to stay up reading.” He seemed, to her, like the type of man who might just do such a thing out of habit, more than anything else. “Our Maester came by to do what he could?” she asked, staying just a few feet inside the tent’s entrance.

There wasn’t much room in a tent of this size, and she tried to be polite.

Elmo was sat on the camp bed, his frame not so hidden in the black tunic. It had been shed to reveal a cream lighter shirt beneath the stiff jacket. In one hand the man had a tankard, which he was in the process of setting aside with his left hand. A small tremor showing it had been through some strain causing the wine to swirl. The other held a book just as the Lady had expected to find. A battered thing talking of Essos and the various illnesses there of the title was aught to go by.

"A more welcomed sight I would be hard put to see," The young man drawled, squinting at the woman as she entered. Lines of that constant creasing etched about his eyes."Your Maester is a capable man, though there was nothing new he could console me on." From his tone it seemed bitter, but accepting of that fact. The said leg stretched out across the tent, in the limited light Vittoria could see the way it twisted under his leggings. The foot looking clubbed at an angle that was not natural. In truth, Elmo could sit and stand with it looking normal under long robes. It merely cost him pain and aches. Now, he let the leg rest, the muscles he had kneaded to relax. His cane set near his side. "I've more than enough medicine to dull it, and your Maester had a interesting concoction. Don't touch the wine." The advice was not quite an order but it was not idle. The pain dulling dose had been mixed with the tankard, a potent thing."Sit if you wish, Lady Ardent. I would bow, but getting up in this small a tent would be impractical."

“No one bows to me in this camp, Lord Elmo.”

The tone was as far from declarative as it could be; merely a casual statement of what was known. She nearly said that she had ‘seen worse’ in the Citadel, but she was no fool: it would have been no comfort to a man grown like Elmo. Maester Lyonel, though not the Archmaster of the silver link, was still the best she had known in the field during her time at the Citadel, and she would never forget the one time he remarked on such a thing:

”Broken men are still men. They will never forget their misfortune, but they would also rather everyone else did most the time.”

Vittora smoothed her skirts as she sat in a small chair near the entrance, setting the candlesticks aside. “We depart for Oldtown tomorrow. Your horse and saddle, or one of our wagons, it’s up to you. We got nothing from the brigands.”

A tired sigh came from her as she leaned her head back, her right hand going up to where her left shoulder and neck met, rubbing at it absently, “I will deposit you at the Citadel if you still want. Although, if so, I will walk you in myself. Women can’t be Maesters, or I’d be one. Still…they were kind enough to give me something for my time.”

Her right hand left her shoulder, as her left hand went to her right sleeve, and folded it up. In the dim light it was hard for him to see, but she removed it, and ably gave it an underhand toss to fall where he could easily retrieve it: a bracelet of Maester links.

“For the Initiates and Acolytes, it’s often back-breaking in the early years. I remember one scene, in particular, with the silver links…they were cutting flesh, and part of it was rotten and…” Her right hand came up, palm out, as her face twisted and eyes snapped shut. Her voice strained, like even here and now, she might vomit at just the memory, “Less said, mayhaps. I was just present, an observer, and yet the Maesters just said to me: ‘Then vomit, girl, there’s work to be done and you can clean it up later.’” Her voice mimicked the cold, dismissive tone the Maester had used that day. “So, I did, on both accounts. I think the Acolytes were grateful I returned to clean it up myself.”

A laugh, even if a hard-fought one. “I meant to ask,” she began, pivoting even after her laugh faded from her lips, “is there anything you can tell us about Harrenhal? Anything beyond the ordinary? Quite a castle, even in its melted form. I know next to nothing about the family that acts as its overlords…despite helping to clear it of Harren the Red.”

The bracelet surprised Elmo, for women were generally not welcomed in the Citadel. They may be amused and humored but they could not be Maester themselves. “A wagon.” He spoke evenly as he examined the links, his brows neatly raised in surprise. For whatever he expected from this woman? This was not it. “For while I do enjoy the mobility of riding, it is not worth this ache.” His words were absent as he let the links run through his fingers. There was a greed in his eyes, not for the links and chains a Maester wore but for the knowledge that he gained. The books, the scrolls and aught else.

“Harroways of Harrenhal…” Elmo’s gaze moved away from the bracelet and back to Vittoria, reaching out with his stronger hand, the book set aside, he offered the links back to the woman. “And while I know more than even they would expect… Tell me, what would make it worth my time to tell you more than the public faces?” His lips curved into a mocking smile as he took a deep swallow from the goblet, grunting at the sour taste that even with wine was not hidden. “Foul concoction.” He swore, coughing heavily into his arm. “Maester will either see my dead of their ramblings or their brews.”

Her mind traveled to the secret vaults of knowledge she should not have. That she was unsure should even exist, let alone wind up in her possession. She fretted the reaction to it more than she did the Faith Militant or the High Septon. Her momentary distraction broke only as she leaned forward and retrieved the bracelet. Her brow perking when he posed his question, as she slipped the bracelet back on and lowered her sleeve over it.

She leaned back into the small chair as her mind weighed the question as it might the timing to strike on a battlefield. Too early, and you risked exposing your own lines to a fault. Too late, and your host might lack the strength and will to execute as required for victory. In the end, she shrugged, “One cannot reasonably offer a price without knowing the value of the product of service in question. You ask a question there is no equitable answer to, Lord Elmo.”

“The fact I am the firstborn son to the heir of Harrenhal, Jon Harroway. The grandson of Lord Lucas Harroway himself and retain informants in the castle itself?” His languid and dry voice was humored as he revealed exactly who he was, or would have been if not for his deliberating accident. “Had a horse not fallen on me, I would have been Lord Elmo of Harrenhal in time.” He pointed out reasonably. “My price would not be a small thing, my Lady, but I am not so greedy as some I could name.”

The stillness ended not with a sound, but with a motion; her body raising from the back of the small chair, the top of her leaning forward, the only thing keeping her long dark auburn hair from spilling forward as she rested her knees on her thighs was the cloth-of-gold ribbon restraining it into a loose ponytail.

“I suppose, then, Lord Elmo…it comes to this: do you think me capable and willing to properly appreciate what it is you might say, compared to others you might say it to, given the limited opportunities to put two people in the same quiet room together that life naturally offers? That is your decision to make.”

Her back straightened, as her pretty features tilted to the right, and the slowest shrug seen in a day full of them rolled about her slender shoulders, “Such judgment calls can be difficult to make with limited information. What do you think of me, Lord Elmo? Am I that one noble that you will meet in your life, at the right time, with the right appreciation of what you might say, both capable and willing to pay whatever price it is you desire most?”

For a reason known only to the ghosts of Highgarden and Harrenhal, both, in that exact moment, a tiny shadow of a smile crept over the pink lips of the Ardent Maiden.

“Your family holds sway with the Maesters and the Citadel. It is perhaps that we could achieve what we both desire. I desire for those lovely links without being bound to the Citadel by the Maester’s Vows as is expected.” His head cocked to the side, his pale hair and sallow looking features looking perhaps a bit more grim in the faint light. “You want information on the Harroways, Harrenhal, perhaps other places. If I can stay outside of those irritating orders while seemingly to comply with them as is expected of me, there need be no worry about a bastard taking the seat of Harrenhal’s Lord.” He did not wish to reveal that, but it would be a tasty tidbit for the woman to chew on.

If the Maesters don’t have me assassinated for what I already know… Her head dipped to the left, back to the right, before again to the left, and a pause…then the second child of House Tyrell nodded, firmly, as if she had debated it and come to a firm conclusion. “This can be done. There is precedent for going nearly to Maester and leaving. Rarer still, some examples of full Maesters leaving the service…but this requires mitigating factors, and is far more rare and difficulty done. Either way, once you leave, you will be exposed: it is doubtful House Harroway would welcome you back. Doubtless still any reputable Lord or even merchant would support you. The alternatives are dark, and unsafe,” she thought of the former Maester she found mutilated about Saan’s ship, immediately. “You sound half-whisperer in this night, already, Lord Elmo. Learn what you wish, and yes…I will make a full whisperer master out of you. Truth be told,” she admitted, her smile widening, “there are few things I value in this world half as much as whispers.”

His smile to some would be sinister, but it was often lopsided and rarely met his eyes. “Oh, then we understand each other. I have one important line I will not cross, my Lady.” Now flint was in eyes and voice and he spoke firmly. “No harm is to come to the maid in the Harroway House going by Elayne Rivers. She’s outside their House, despite being apart of it. Do you find these terms suitable? That you will leave this woman be and take her out of harm’s way if possible, that you shall aid me in this forging of my chain without being a Maester myself, and in return I shall give to you whispers and the full extent of my knowledge?” He offered out his hand, the grip strong and ready to accept the bargain if she was.

“Lord Elmo,” her voice took on a deeper, harder, sound than he would have ever heard from it before, “I am uncertain if there has ever been, will ever be, a Lord Commander in this realm that would be more apt to take a girl out of harm’s way than myself. These are terms I accept.”

Her smaller hand reached to his, and sealed their pack with as firm a shake as she could manage.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

_{@LadyRunic, [@Amorian], Ruby.}

The small pavilion crowned the tallest hill to be found this side of the northern Reach, a modest thing with three sides to it and a rough wooden table in the middle, only one simple camp chair assigned to it. A scattering of locked trunks lined the walls, and a few stuck outside on a wagon that rested next to it. Two Knights wearing the Golden Rose of House Tyrell stood sentinel outside the entrance. The only noise was the song of a camp, and the mixed voices of men and children a heavy stone’s throw from the pavilion.

Lady Vittoria Tyrell’s eyes glazed over as she set the quill down, her left hand gripping the wrist of her right, as the fingers of her right hand curled and stretched, curled and stretched, and curled and stretched. Sudden as a snake, her right wrist flicked—once, twice, and then thrice. She had read and written more letters than was proper, and her eyes, nevermind her poor hand, required reprieve.

She found it with a soft sigh as she stood, straightening out the green boiled leather armor with gold enameled plate at shoulders and chest, worn over a simple green dress, black leather riding boots, well made but simple, on her small feet. Her long auburn hair was dark without exposure to the sun, yet she brushed it away from the armor with a single brush of her left hand a backward dip of her head as she passed the sentries. There, in the early afternoon light, she watched Lady Mina and Lord Garrett drill with Knights of the Order.

No sooner did she smile at the sight than her smile was dashed as another sight caught the corner of her hair: Lord and Ser, Dennet Tarly of Horn Hill, approached with haste upon her position on his dirty brown courser. She waited until he was close enough hear her, his dark features and intense eyes flashing at her immediately.

“What is it, Den?”

His throat cleared as he swung off his horse and approached her, nodding a greeting to his brothers of the Order standing sentry outside their Lord Commander’s pavilion. “You ordered us to include your sellswords into our outriders—”

“—to get them acquainted with us, and us acquainted with them, yes.”

He grunted at that, but just moved on, “Well, they found something. A lordling with two men-at-arms for escort. The escorts are dead. They were searching the lordling when your sellsword captain and some of his men came upon them. They tried to make for the nearest treeline, but…”

Her smile returned. Say it, Den, she thought, as she tried to hide just how pleased she was, waiting for him to say it.

“…well, their horseback archers did their job.”

Oh? What was that you said? Instead, she hid her smirk from the large, sweaty, broad-chested son of Savage Sam Tarly that she had known since the Vulture Hunt. She turned to one of the sentries, “My palfrey, please, Ser Ronnet.”

The sentry moved with quickness, as Den turned his head in response, and unleashed the thunder of his booming voice to the group taking time with Lady Mina and Lord Garrett:

“WE’RE MOVING. SMALL ESCORT FOR THE LORD COMMANDER.” Den’s dark brown eyes smoldered in intensity even as his voice lowered and quieted to match the reduced distance between he and the other sentry, “You too. Mount.”

Most of them immediately moved for weapons and horses, while a half dozen from a nearby campfire moved for the same. She only sighed. It was enough to make Den snort. “Yes, M’Lady, we are.”

She walked close enough to the small opening and the two men left tending to Mina and Garrett, holding up a left hand, palm out, to her siblings, “I’ll be back soon. It’s nothing to worry about.” Then she turned back to Den, to the smoke gray palfrey that was brought up for her. Once out of camp, she instructed them to make a line, and encircle once they got closer, with their fourteen horses, including her.

Light clouds interspaced between pale blue sky in the early afternoon sky of the northern Reach, low hills rolling between vast plains of grass and wild flower, straps of wooded area surrounding the numerous creeks that woven in and out of the area. They had been headed south to Oldtown when they stopped for the night, before it was decided by Ren they would send outriders during their trip south, despite them being in the Reach with no known threat or conflicts to worry them. There was, she knew, too much energy in them since they had taken their vow as Knights of the Golden Rose just two nights before.

It also gave her an excuse to start incorporating the sellswords she was paying for. And that, she liked quite a bit. That it was Garin and his men that had found the highwayman at work only pleased her all the more. Eyes were on them as the sound of their procession announced their presence. The line breaking out in alternation behind Ren and she, making a loose encirclement around the dead men, and the living lordling.

She expected, given the term lordling, a little lord. What she found was a thin, pale, grown man on a thick, modified saddle. Crippled, she thought, immediately, knowing the handiwork of a Maester of the Citadel to accommodate a broken lord when she saw it. She and Ren stopped some ten long paces from Garin and his men. Ren stayed, and she slowly approached on her palfrey to come up next to Garin, her eyes on the dead, their horses, and then the mysterious broken Lord.

She looked off, to the tree line, and found two highwaymen held at sword point by Garin’s men, horses dead. Their horses were a rounsey and a dray. Finally, she looked back to the broken Lord, and saw no obvious heraldry. Her face was blank, her pretty green eyes narrowed. It matched well-enough the expression of her escort: stern, but otherwise detached.

Like Watchman coming upon criminals bungling a crime scene. Finally, she turned to Garin, and her expression changed in an instant. Her eyes warmed, drinking in the scattered sunlight of the valley, her pink lips breezed into an easy smile. “Well done, Captain. What do we have here?”

“Instead of asking your captain, who I assume he is, why not ask the one who happened to witness the matter?” The voice was dry and languid. The ‘lordling’ folded long pale hands over the pommel over the saddle, his pony looking grey about the muzzle and was missing half of it’s teeth. A beast merely to see him to the Citadel and then be sold along with the saddle per his grandfather’s orders. Of course, Lord Lucas had not expected his eldest grandson to be set upon by brigands, nor this rescue. “Though why a woman is leading a host…” Elmo mused and his thoughts flickered through that very short list as well as the heraldry he could see.

His two guards had been slain quickly as they had tried to run, there was no point in protecting a crippled son after all, and Elmo had better sense than running as the men had. In fact he was more than willing to go along and be ‘ransomed’. His grandfather would probably not have paid it but there would have been a rescue mounted by his father and uncles, perhaps there was some luck to be rescued by this woman. It was some how less humiliating. Still Elmo Harroway sat in his black tunic and leggings, looking like a crow if not for the trim of gold and silver that hemmed his clothes. The subtle keys and links of chain his mother had made for luck at the Citadel. The color did nothing to offset his pale skin or hair, making him appear all the more sickly. The choice of clothing had been his own and black suited his mood, it also made people pause and think him perhaps the Stranger, giving the young man some amusement.

Bowing slightly in his saddle lashed in as he was, Elmo arched a brow. “I presume I address the Lady Vittoria Tyrell? I can think of no other maiden with your colors and a company of… men.” His tone turning ‘men’ into something close to brigands, or the way some said Dorne.

Garin’s studiously blank expression remained unchanged. Beneath the silk-wrapped steel of his spired helm, his gray eyes were as cold and as dead as something from the depths of the roiling seas. He raised an eyebrow and turned to his new employer.

He had played this game before, many times in Essos. Whether you were a captain or some new addition to the company, a noble was much like any other, no matter where you went. Nobles could be an source of money or a foe, or both as was so often the case across the sea.

Vittoria’s smile stayed right where it was on her lips, as a tiny laugh of amusement escaped her. “The end of royal lines to the left of us, rebellion and bandits to the right, dragons over us, and women leading hosts about us…strange times, no, Lord…?”

“I would hardly call it strange. Rebellion and bandits are as common as rivers in the Riverlands.” Elmo intoned in his dry voice, sounding rather irritated at the fact. “Nor would I call myself ‘Lord’. Elmo of House Harroway, and as of current- sent off to study at the Citadel. As you seem not of the type of woman to simper or flutter about pathetically, I am sure you can see why.”

“Ah, well, welcome to the Reach, Lord Elmo of House Harroway. You will find a noticeable lack of bandits in this country.” She said as matter of fact, her head turned back to the bandits, then back to Garin.

“Please, Captain, have your men lead them just down the road. I’m thinking they stalked Lord Elmo and his escort for some time before striking.”

It was all done in handful of heartbeats. Garin stood in his stirrups, turning the small black mare he rode with a slight touch of his knee. The little sand steed turned in place as her master lifted the recurved bow he held lightly in his left hand. His standard bearer lifted the crimson banner high and waved in a circle three times. Five men in plated mail and orange silks turned and rode towards the captain at a steady canter, each gripped a heavy bow like that of Garin’s and had a quiver full of javelins hanging from their flat, high-stirruped saddles.

All rode in a loose line, their eyes constantly scanning over the rolling fields and the wood-shrouded patches of land around them. Vittoria smiled, these men seemed quiet, capable the sort who carry out a task with a minimum of fuss. So far her investment had proved well worth it. She turned back to Lord Elmo, her smile gone, her tone having changed to something with less mirth, a stricter thing. “You will provide the names of your escort. I will conduct the letters to their families. You will be coming with us. Do you have any weapons or correspondence on you, Lord Elmo?”

“Do I look like I have weapons? Unless you mean to take my mind, and I do wish you luck with that, there is a distinct lack.” Elmo drawled, his green eyes cast up the wide sky. “May the Seven save me from suspicious women with fluff between their ears.” He muttered in a undertone to himself, more than anyone else. In truth, the only weapon Elmo had was a dagger and eating knife. Neither he would be useful with in a fight. “My Lady,” His voice more audible. “I am tied to the saddle of a horse that would see it’s better days roasted on a spit. Do you think that I, even if I did may the Seven forbid, have weapons that I would have the ability to use them?” The disapproval in his tone could have drowned the God’s Eye.

“More to the point. No, I do not know which men were sent with me. I hardly saw a reason to care. Guards against my return I would think. The names I did catch were something along the lines of Royce and Sherd. My book,” His green eyes flicked to a book, now trample into the mud of the road by the bandits and horses, “, was far more appealing than conversation with men who rattled when they thought.” Perhaps he could be more polite, but Elmo was a realistic sort of man. He was a cripple and, more to the point, one who had been put under guards to go to the Citadel. Politeness was pointless in the general sense since the world was constantly going to dismiss him out of hand for a lame leg and a bad arm. As it was, he had been forced to squint as Vittoria approached to see her symbol. Yes, the manners of the gentle lords and ladies and their quibbling games could go and rot in the deserts of Dorne for all Elmo cared.

“Discipline and training are important things to an effective fighting force, Lord Elmo. These Knights would look for weapons and correspondence on any man of suspicion they came across. How do these men know what man may hold some choice scroll with valuable information? Daggers, knives can be used to cut more than flesh. They can be poisoned. Unlikely as it is, I do grant you, ‘fluff between my ears’ aside, I do expect my men to do what they are disciplined and trained to do. You can cooperate with me, or they can conduct their business in a much rougher style. I have spent quite a lot of time at the Citadel; I assure you they are even less patient of such a disposition as I am being.”

She looked to the dead escort, and heard herself sigh, a genuine sadness fresh on her face as she looked back to Elmo. “Truly, I am sorrowful for the traumas of the day that have befallen you and your escort. You are angry, resentful. Let us not make it worse. Declare what you have, you will be searched when we reach our camp, either way…Den?”

She said, turned in the saddle, twisted to look at him.

The large Knight of Horn Hill pointed to the two Knights closest to the dead men. “Take only their weapons and anything that might explain them better. Take them to the village down the creek, bury them there.”

“Here,” Vittoria said to get the attention of the two Knights, removing the purse from her belt and throwing it to the nearest of the two. The catch was far superior to the throw, but it made it into the Knight’s hands, just the same. “For their eyes. Get yourselves food and drink, there’s a small inn in that village.”

“Yes, Lord Commander.”

Elmo watched as the men were searched and then carried off, coins given by the noble lady for their eyes in a proper burial. A grudging respect was granted to the Ardent Maiden for the act. Even for her words and she was right to demand to know or else, to search, him. Relenting, Elmo’s expression was still cross as he sighed. “I contain several vials of willow bark and sourleaf, in my bags on this flea bag is a flask of milk of the poppy. On my belt is a dagger and my eating knife. I only carry a correspondence of my father and grandfather for the Citadel to admit myself.” Ruefully, he hesitated before adding in a more quiet voice. “I also have a vial of concentrated sweetsleep in my boot.” He did not wish to admit that, but it would be better to say such lest they think him some kind of assassin upon discovering it later. As the Lady Vittoria had said, it was a troubling time in their land. Chances were better not taken. He gaze was steady on her own, his hand twitching as he wished to rub at the ache in his leg. “Need I tell you of the cane, you can see strapped behind me?” It was a handsome thing of carved wood and ivory, brought from Essos by his Uncle Damon.

Her eyes had narrowed, again. This time, however, it was the intensity of trying to see what was not plain just to the eyes. The escort to guard against his return. The surly nature. Admittance to the Citadel to be presented on arrival. The sad horse in which he sat… Just then, her head tilted, as curiosity hit her, her eyes returning to their normal gaze.

He was being discarded.

“Do you wish to be a Maester, Lord Elmo? Truly?”

There was a bitter laugh from the man. “Truely? I wish for their books and knowledge. I have no wish to be locked away in a tower playing politics with slackgraced men who comb their beards and lose their wits.” He admitted, leaning back in his saddle and studying her over the flopping ears of his mount. “The answer you seek is not so straight forward. I would willingly wear a chain, but chains tend to bind and are quite heavy.”

There was nothing on her face in terms of reaction. Only a quick nod, as her mind moved onto the next thing: “Lord Dennet Tarly of Horn Hill will see you to our camp, Lord Elmo.” She didn’t, this time, turn around in the saddle to look at him, instead tilting her head back, and in a far more casual manner than had been thusly observed, simply threw her voice behind her, “Please be accommodating, Den.”

Den smiled, big, and sarcastic. “Northeast, Lord Elmo,” he said, pointing ‘that way’ with his thick gloved finger so the direction could not be mistaken, “after you.” Den’s eyes looked around once more, before turning his horse after Elmo once he passed by.

“As you say, Lady Ardent.” Was the ever dry and languid reply. His head inclining to Lady and Lord as he gave a sharp whack to his horse’s rear with his reins. The beast slowly plodding off as Elmo grimaced as his leg was wrenched by the movements. After passing the Tarly of Horn Hill and being sure the woman had turned away the man reached into his tunic, a small glass vial being pulled out. Wedging the cork in his mouth, Elmo pulled the stopped out then spat it into the grass off the road. Corks were easy enough to make. Pulling out the willow bark he slipped the now empty and drained vial into this tunic, chewing at the bark. “How long?” He asked the man shortly. His green eyes sharp as he grunted around the mouthful.

She could feel the pleasure in the man that she hadn’t had anyone else go with him and Lord Elmo. He wanted the escort to stay with her. All of them, now that two had been assigned away to burial duty. It irritated her, but she refused to let him sense that. Now, however, her attention was back on Garin. “Captain, ride with me. Let us go speak to those bandits.”

Garin bowed slightly in the saddle. “As you say, Lady Vittoria.”

He turned his little mare again and rode ahead with his standard bearer and two horsemen in tow. He held out a hand. “Squire, attend me.” The youth was big for his age and his dark skin and hair were reminiscent of a Dothraki. He lifted the polished steel of a great helm from his saddle and took his master’s lighter casque. Garin, his helm under his left arm, his bow sheathed in its case and with the plain hilt of his longsword hanging from his saddle, suddenly looked less like some foreign mercenary and more like the epitome of chivalric arrogance.

He gazed down at the beaten and filthy brigands, one hand on the pommel of his sword. “My Lady, in . . . my own land,” he refrained from mentioning Dorne at the last moment, “we’ve dealt with many bandits.

“If you like, we could hang them upside down from one of these trees. A man will tell you everything he’s ever done wrong in his life, it doesn’t even take a day.” He gazed down at the prisoners.

Garin’s words were as cold and empty of life as the winds beyond the wall. “I am knight milady. High justice, middle justice and low justice sleep in my scabbard. Say the word as these dogs will trouble you no longer.”

Though such a thing was cruel, even to think, much less say, it was all calculated. Garin had no real desire to kill them. Truth be told, he felt a certain pity for them. The difference between a loyal soldier and a bandit was often a matter of the last time a man had eaten. But on the other hand, a terrified brigand would happily turn on his compatriots if they thought it might mean a chance of mercy.

Once they came to a stop near the brigands, Lady Vittoria Tyrell just stared at them. They were dirty. Their clothing and armor, such as it was, amounted to little more than riding leathers. Their heads were bowed as Garin’s men hovered over them. After a rather brief, but intense, study of the two her eyes flickered back to the Captain speaking to her.

If any of what he said surprised or disturbed or pleased her, it would have been easier to read the future than read her face. In the end she, actually, softly, smiled at him. “These are hard times, Captain, I thank you for your capabilities in the unpleasant.”

Her head turned back to one near dozen knights of her escort. One had slowly gotten closer than the rest—as if this wasn’t the first time, and he knew what came next. When she nodded at him, he made up the ground between himself and the Lord Commander quickly, dismounting as she did.

He handed her the blood red leather pouch, cinched tightly. She spent a moment loosening it, her slightly longer fingernails making the task a little easier. The bag inside that was a brighter, blood red, dye in appearance.

From there, she walked to within five paces of the two men, the Knight wearing mail and leather, his blade at his hip, his half-helm kept on, became her steel shadow. His voice was no thunderous boom like Den’s, but it was deeper than her own. “Look up at her.”

They did, and she watched the eyes of one, before watching the eyes of the other. The younger, skinnier of the two was first. He simply spat in her direction, and had he not undoubtedly been dry of mouth, he might have reached his target. His hair was short, cut rough, like with a dagger. The other’s hair was longer, black, his pale skin reddened by exposure, his small eyes hardened, but not lost.

Her eyes stayed on the one with black hair.

“Do you know who I am?”

He looked first at the mercenary closest to him, then to the Knight that was her shadow, and then, finally, to her. A long look, before his head simply shook. “No, m’La—”

“—it’s Lord Commander,” she said, her voice trampling his own like a war horse on a charge. His eyes took new life as they stared at her, realization dawning upon him, the other, the spitter, suddenly snapped his head up and stared, too.

“…yes, you chased us across the bloody Riverlands, like the Stranger himself. Led the Hand straight at us.”

Ah, Harren the Red men. “Take that one to the camp,” she nodded to the spitter, before her eyes returned to the other one for good. “Tell Maester Etarin to begin his work with him,” she said it to the men around, even as she stared into the eyes of the other, older, brigand. She waited until two of her escort took the man away. A prolonged pause that seemed to stretch on and on as they grabbed the spitter up, slammed a mailed fist into his skull to leave him without consciousness, and tossed him over the back of one of their horses before taking off.

It was code. Maester Etarin was not fond of torture, and she did not relish forcing an ugly business on the Maester. She meant simply take the man out of sight and execute him. There were times she did not want it done in front of another prisoner, there were times she wanted the other man to imagine what Etarin might do. Death from a Knight? Known, expected, easily imagined. Death from a Maester? Unknown, and nothing scared men like the unknown. Their imaginations ran wild.

When they were clear, Vittoria knelt, and presented herself closer to eye level with the man. “Do you have a family?”

The longest stare she had encountered in a long while was stuck upon her by the brigand. Finally, he nodded, “Boy. His mum and her family. They live in a village near the God’s Eye, small farm.”

As he answered, she had opened the red dyed pouch, and retrieved from within it the small glass vial manufactured by Etarin. When he stopped speaking, her eyes flashed from the pouch and vial to his eyes once more, “What is your name?”

“Karl.”

Was he lying? She thought not, but it could be hard to tell in such moments. “Do you know what Sweetsleep is, Karl?”

He shook his head, his eyes on the vial, and her. As if he had completely forgotten the near two dozen men around them. When her big, bright, brown eyes kept staring, he gave a quick nervous stutter, realizing his mistake, before correcting it, “No.”

“You drink, you go to sleep. It’s peaceful, it’s fast, and you dream of the things you love on your way out. Do you believe in the Seven?”
It took him a few, long, beats to fully understand what she had just said. She could tell, as pure truth came from him on the question of his belief: men distracted by the former usually gave instinctive, honest, answers on the latter. It was a technique she had picked up from a book the Archmaester of Higher Mysteries lent to her.

“..I don’t believe in anything anymore.”

She nodded, smiling, and smoothed her skirts as she re-settled to sit upon the grass with her legs tucked neatly under her. “Do you know your son’s name, Karl?”

“Thom.”

“Was he born from love, Karl?”

“No,” his eyes drifted away from her. Skyward, this time, instead of downward to the grass. He sniffed, before going on just when she thought he might not, “just youth and wine.”

“Drink this, Karl,” she said, staring at his face, “Since you do not believe I will spare you prayers, instead I will sit with you and talk.” Though her tone had grown warm and her eyes were bright, she was intently studying what happened next. If he looked around, if he looked for the prospect of hope, it would be telling. But if he simply took the vial and drank, it would be all the more telling.

After a few dramatic, loud, beats of her heart, the man took the vial, sniffed again as emotion threatened to take hold of him, and threw his head back to empty the contents. The vial and cork dropped to the grass as he simply let go, and relaxed his body back.

This man has lost all hope in the world.

“Tell me about Thom?”

When he looked back at her, his eyes had become glassy. The absolute certainty of death now working on the man much harder, much faster, than a rope and a tree. He spoke of Thom, he spoke of the boy’s mother, Hella. He gave unimportant details that seemed to mean something to him. He spoke of his parents. He spoke of hard times, harder times. He asked her about her youth, he asked her about Highgarden. He had wanted to see it, one day, he said. So she described it for him as he cried.

His name was really Lyam, he revealed, with his first big yawn. They spoke of the days he spent with Harren the Red, war stories between veterans of the same campaign. They shared laughter at how Harren the Red cursed the ‘damnable girl’ during her chase of him across the Riverlands. She had them all scared, he admitted. Her men were everywhere they tried to go. No village or farm would willingly help them, always her men had been their first, with kindness and gold, while the Hand’s men had always just demanded and threatened.

It wasn’t much longer before he was laid down, curled up, asleep on the grass. He fell asleep talking of Thom, and his father, and asking her to look after the boy. When it was over, she straightened her body so she stood straight on her knees, pressed her hands together, bowed her head, and gave him prayer to the Father, the Mother, and the Stranger. She prayed to them for forgiveness for Lyam. She prayed for his soul. She prayed for Thom.

“Goodnight, Lyam,” she whispered, as she climbed up to her feet and walked back to her horse and Captain Garin. This time she accepted her steel shadow’s hand when it came time to remount her palfrey, looking at Garin with a side glance.

“Do you disapprove, Captain?”

The big mercenary shrugged his mailed shoulders with a metallic rustle of riveted links. In truth, the fate of the brigands was far kinder one than anything he or his men would have done to them. Especially if they had been given over to the handful of Dothraki he had under his banner.

“I once saw a man spitted on a spear near Slaver’s Bay and turned over a fire like he was a boar hog. You wouldn’t believe how long it took him to die, Lord Commander.” He said.

Garin’s tone was even, polite, as if he’d been discussing the weather with an acquaintance. But as he glanced down at the dead mercenary, something like pity shone in his eyes for a moment.

“In all honesty, I’ve seen far worse than you . . . and I took their money just the same.

“So I suppose, it doesn’t really matter what I think. Great lords and ladies can do as they wish. That’s the power of coin. It’s just a matter of how much you have.”

He turned his little mare, his eyes roving over their surroundings and nodded approvingly as his scouts continued to patrol around their position. Like any knight, he relished the chance for great deeds that storming a citadel or a massed charged afforded a man. But light cavalry allowed a commander to dictate the terms of a battle and set the stage for those great deeds.

“Signal them push further out, but not so far they can’t return by dusk.” He said to his standard bearer.

Signals were relayed and soldiers turned and moved off the rolling hills or down the narrow paths through the clustered stands of woodland that broke up the grassy land.

“The rest of you, fan out and set up a screen, but stay within sight.” He said to the soldiers who’d ridden with him. The largest among them, a scowling Dothraki nodded, barked out a single command and rode past with an arrow nocked on his great bow.

Her eyes never moved from their forward facing position. But her time changed dramatically; it became softer, tired. As if, in an instant, the Lord Commander was gone and the girl of Highgarden who spent most of her life on the road was all that remained. “It matters, Garin. Either that matters, most, or none of it matters at all. The war table will meet shortly after sundown at my tent to discuss tomorrow.”

The palfrey took off, the Knights of her escort picking up their pace to try to match her, at a distance. They were learning when it best to give her space.