Ruby

What Are You Listening To?

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Casterly Rock was still and dark in the silvery moonlight of the Sunset Sea. Lorelai felt uneasy as she watched the sea rumble and roll far below the balcony of her private bedchamber, wrapped in a crimson silk robe, and little else. Sleeplessness had clutched her mind and body, the echo of a cawing raven haunting her nearly as bad as the face of the dead, or the screams of the burnt.

Loren was wrong. She knew it in her soul, she felt it in her heart. Everything she had told him had missed its mark with her brother. There was so much work to be done if she was going to have any chance at keeping the Westerlands from blood and fire. The grief of a Princess, the loss faith in both the Faith, by some, and the Rock, by others.

It should have consumed her. It should have ignited her to action…it didn’t. Instead she saw only the endless blue of the man’s burning gaze, his icy, crystalline armor and the crown of horns upon him as he said it again and again in a cold rage that she knew would never die:

They started this. I will end it, all of it.

Had he said those words? Had she just…understood his mind from the very manner of his gaze? She couldn’t, in the darkness and shadows of the silent, far too early hours of Casterly Rock, even remember. There was too much to parse, there was too much she had seen, too much she’d been told.

What hope did she have of understanding what any of it really meant? The raven with it’s three eyes made little sense. The flight of her mind from Rock to Lands of Always Winter, far past the Wall, made even less sense. And the sight of the little, forest, people stabbing the man with the burning blue eyes?

Fever dream, maybe?

She nearly chuckled but for the sound. Her head snapped behind her, and in the shadow a figure emerged. Another trick? Another vision? Another damnable bird? It was too late that she realized none of that.

Worse; a man. She stepped further away from the doors that led to the balcony, until the small of her back hit the stone ledge. In the pale moonlight she saw a face she didn’t know, but a look she had seen before: murder.

“Your Lord Uncle sends his regards, Lady Lorelai. He knows the secrets you keep. He wants to silence your whispers.”

The steel all but glowed in the moonlight as he drew the long dagger that looked impossibly sharp to her emerald eyes. She didn’t gasp, her lungs seemed to refuse the notion on principle. It wasn’t the fearless pride of a lion, but the sheer shock of a young woman with a mind dizzy from everything that happened and was suddenly happening with a finality that had a hard time, for some reason she couldn’t explain, accepting.

“…you’re a pretty thing, shame it has to be like this.”

Emerald eyes stopped watching him. Instead, they fixated on the dagger, and the way the moonlight played off it, dappling and shadowing as he rose it high and stepped out onto the balcony.

Neither of them heard the sound until it was too late. The sound was light enough, but the very pattern of it grew into a cacophony of inevitability: footsteps of a dead sprint coming from within the private bedchamber. By the time the assassin heard it and his heard turned, it was far too late as Keano’s body flew in the air and landed a devasting kick straight into the midsection of the would-be assassin.

The hired killer screamed as his body flew, flipped over the stone ledge of the balcony, and went flying to his doom in the blackwater of the early morning Sunset Sea waves below Casterly Rock.

Lorelai Lannister was still blinking when Keano moved into the room, retrieved a wooden chair, and hurled it over the ledge of the balcony, sending it, too, flying down to the blackwaters of the Sunset Sea. First the splash of the surely dead would-be assassin, then shortly after, the second splash.

He stood there, watching, his brown eyes flickering this direction and that—getting a full picture of every other balcony and window he could see upon the Sunset Sea facing side of Casterly Rock. When he seemed satisfied, he let out a deep breath, and finally looked at her. "You need to go.”

“…I’m oka…wait, what?”

Confusion hit her like a freezing ocean wave. He simply, calmly, repeated himself, “Two splashes. You can stay dead for a while if you disappear now, but it has to be NOW.”

“Stay dead? You saved me, Keano, I don’t—”

His right hand suddenly had her by the left arm, his brown eyes staring deep into her emerald eyes, his voice slowing, tone dropping,
“Lorelai, we’ve practiced this. Get to the drainage room. Change. Make your way to the servant’s stables. The boat is always ready at the tollhouse dock. Go.”

“But—”

“—GO!...I’ll deal with your Uncle, and meet you where we always planned, or else we’re both dead.”

---

Shouting began as Lannister men began the chain-reaction of reporting the splashes. They feared someone falling from a balcony, but it was far more than that. Tytos was awake, quill and cup and tankard upon the small desk tucked away into the corner of his private chamber within the Rock as he began to hear the shouting.

He seemed certain the vile dead was done. A heavy sigh fell from his lips, and his eyelids fluttered closed for a moment, as if in some small prayer of regret, or final farewell. It didn’t matter. His eyes were barely opened, his mind already back on the quill and the cup of wine, simply moving on, waiting for the guards to reach his chamber and alert him to the certain tragedy that had befallen his niece, Lady Lorelai Lannister, in the overly late hour.

Then the hand was over his mouth, and the grip upon him was more than he could struggle against in the short time allowed before the low voice hit his ears so quiet it was no more than a whisper, the cold edge of vengeance upon the tone that would be among the very last things Lord Tytos Lannister, Castellan of Casterly Rock, would ever hear.

“She loved you, so much,” Keano, the once Sorrowful Man finished, as the blade wrote the bloody end on this night, instead of the assassin and quill of Tytos Lannister. The grip was gone, but there was no calling out from Tytos Lannister, there was barely a sound at all as the blood began to rush a crimson pool around the golden wine cup of the Castellan of Casterly Rock.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Port Market Street was filled with roughspun and steel. What started a glare and a shove turned into posturing and shouts. The Faith Militant swelled in pride and posture. The Knights of the Golden Rose simply stood their ground. In the center of it, Lady Vittoria and her intended, Lord Baratheon, were having a heated discussion with Morgan Hightower. It should have stayed that way. It would have stayed that way.

Then from somewhere up high the sound sent a shockwave through the haze of noise and kinetic tension: thrum.

No one quite knew where it came from, or what it was…but she did. From a nearby second story overhang, Vaera Balaerys saw it. Before the bolt even flew, her face tightened, and her jaw set in a kind of anger that was never a good thing—not for her, not for those around her, not for anyone. But the moment the woman’s howl of pain echoed?

The very heartbeat that crossbow bolt hit Vittoria Tyrell and the sound of pain clapped through the crowded street like a shock of thunder in the dark? Vittoria screamed in pain as she fell. The Faith Militant and their poor followers cheered, jeered, and hollered. The Knights of the Roses howled in anger.

Vaera Balaerys howled in pure bloodlust heat. By the time Baratheon, Tarly, Redwyne, and those closest to the fallen High Marshall closed in like a shield of armored men, the melee was already aflame. The ground was bloody by the time Vaera was on the street, across it, and bathing dragonsteel in the blood of the Faithful.

At first they barely saw her; their eyes so focused on the Knights of the Rose, they almost missed the smaller but lethal woman in leather and mail cutting through man after man, leaving limbs and guts and brain in her bloodlust wake. By the time they realized she was behind their line and cutting them apart, the Knights of the Rose were showing their thorns. Maybe not even fifty of Vittoria’s knights were ignoring every command given to them by anyone that might try to give it.

This wasn’t the battlefield, and their High Marshall was down, bleeding. It was now a bloody free-for-all melee between Faithful and Noble Knight. Tarly tried to scream something. So did Hightower. No one heard. They wouldn’t have listened even if they had. Vaera didn’t even notice Vittoria’s inner circle start to move her off the street, or that the City Watch started to come in from behind the inns the Knights of the Rose had stayed out, coming from some hidden maze back-alley access to the street pulled from the terror of a child named Dake.

No, in that moment, all Vaera Balaerys noticed was the dark eyes of the tall, armored, man slowly pushing through bodies towards her, wearing armor that looked like an officer of Oldtown’s City Watch. Dead men stood between them, swaying and falling and crying out in misery as they collapsed from the bite of Valyrian steel.

“YOU SHOT HER!”

Vaera pointed with a Valyrian dagger in her off-hand. Lord Alaric thin lips smiled as he pushed a dying man out of his way and draw the longsword he carried. Her booted heel slammed into the side of his knee as he checked a quick thrust from her sword, snarling in pain as he unleashed an elbow that caught her between neck and collar. It was almost enough of a shock to allow the pommel of his blade to crash in her fine Valyrian featured face but for a last moment back stumble, and a quick rediscovery of her balance allowed her to simply turn away from one heavy cut, and side step another, landing her off-hand dagger a taste of the man’s blood along his left side, cutting straight through his mail under the breastplate of the City Watch.

Vaera smirked, winked, and Alaric straightened; outright denying pain access to his mind, murder in his black eyes.

---

“GET HER UP!”

Dennet Tarly bellowed as Vittoria Tyrell looked sheet white and blind drunk in pain. She was trying to say something, but nothing was heard as Davos Baratheon kept her either on her feet, or just off them, secure in his arms and following right behind Tarly. Ryam Redwyne was a pale figure in pale armor, round shield and sword acting in the kind of precision that a knight his age had no business possessing. The Faith Militant went for Vittoria, to take her, or to finish her—it never mattered. They never got close with Ser Ryam holding them off like the jaws of a dragon.

Tarly felt a pang of relief until he saw the men pouring in from the back alley behind the inn weren’t Knights of the Rose, but City Watch. “COME DIE, CUNTS.” The giant of a man unleashed his large blade, discarding the sheath to the ground as if he would never, ever, have need of it again in this life. One swing, two, a giant shove throwing two Guardsmen reeling in reverse, and more blood. Vittoria Tyrell screamed.

Stop! Stop it!

For the first time in years, no one listened to the Lady’s commands. The mammoth Tytan of the Wilds berserkered his way through a wall of flesh and steel, taking a Guardsman up by the back of the collar, and smashing him like an egg against the stone wall of the nearby inn, smearing blood and bone and death against the inn that had been their refuge in the city. Spears hit the giant of a man, but only a prick or two before Tarly cut them down like boughs to be splintered before him as the men worked their way off the street and towards the back alley.

The Tytan twitched as crossbow bolts bit into him, Tarly directing Redwyne to switch them him as they moved one bloody, besieged, step at a time. Redwyne’s shield and blade began to offer some cover to the massive wildling turned Knight of the Rose, though the sweat and the blood were beginning to slow the man as they neared the alley. As the Faith gave chase, the Knights began to fall in upon them, crushing them between the anvil of their ad hoc flank and the hammer of Dennet Tarly’s armored fist and longsword.

“Shut up, we’re saving you, love,” were the words Davos Baratheon offered his pale and growing paler betrothed High Marshall of the Reach, in a tone equal parts anger at her attackers, and irritation at her stubbornness, “stay alive, woman. Up, keep moving,” he said, pulling her up as her eyes rolled back, and he feared poison on the bolt given the coming and going of full consciousness on her pretty face. If something were to give him hope in that moment, it was the awe striking display of martial prowess before him as Ser Ryam Redwyne made every step, every motion of that shield, and every flash of steel against Guardsman look as if Ryam were moving at twice the speed of their attackers.

Behind them Dennet’s brutality was unleashed, as the man nearly the size of the wild giant named Tytan helping Ser Ryam up front bathed the wake behind them in blood. Before long there was nothing between Dennet and the push of Knights of the Rose that had collapsed on the flanks of the Faithful trying to reach Lady Vittoria.

---

“FUCK!”

Vaera Balaerys growled as her eyes rolled in searing pain, the length and reach and technique of the Watch Commander allowing him a piercing strike into at her left side. What felt like a gush of sweat or water at her hip was blood, and she knew it as her pretty purple eyes narrow, and her mind simply shut down the pain. She was too stubborn, she was too determined, and her legendary pain tolerance was on full display as she left a badly angled blow from the tall man deflect off her mailed upper arm, allowing Valyrian steel to bite at him again.

Once became twice, became thrice as she moved in a blur of quickness that the melee should have long robbed her of. The imposing figure growled low in anger and pain as fury nearly caught his mind…but to her surprise, he simply stepped back once, then again. She nearly moved forward before she saw it out of the corner of her eye; dagger and sword catching the Faithful coming at her from either side with just enough to allow her to stumble back.

When her back ran into something, someone, behind her, she cursed to herself and prepared for the worst. What she found was Knights of the Rose surging around her. “Get to her!”

“She’s off the street, get to your DRAGON!”

Saeryx. The sound burned through the street as screaming began, and heat emerged. Fuck. Black and purple spread like a midnight shadow over the street overhead. Dragonfire had half the street ablaze before any of them knew what was happening. By the time Vaera looked forward again, the tall Watch officer was gone, and half the Faith with him. She nearly tripped over the dead as the ground trembled upon the dragon’s landing.

Before she moved, she grabbed the Knight who had told her to get to her dragon, who told her Vittoria was off the street, “IS SHE ALIVE?”

The man nodded, and exhaustion atop relief flooded into her body. “Thank fuck.” She barely recalled making it back to Saeryx, but the dragon craned his neck to all but scoop her up. Dragonfire had a way of ending a melee, leaving both sides of the street burning as the Faith pulled their dying and dead to safety, while the Knights of the Rose did the same.

All she could imagine was the face of the tall, dark, man. And the image burnt into her mind of him letting loose the bolt that struck Vittoria Tyrell. This wasn’t over, she had a feeling, and in the back of her mind she had some idea that perhaps it was just beginning…but for now it was time to leave the Reach.

It was time to head for the Rock.

Post a random fact about yourself.

I've finally come to the conclusion that I will always be a batshit crazy, barefoot, free spirited, foul mouthed, Southern Applachian child.

I might be goth, or a hippie from time to time - but I'll always default back to the little girl that likes to play in the river.

@HaleyTheRandom

Would be disappointed if this was anything but the true reality.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

_{Mina Tyrell // @Espada Emi}

The Sept of Upper River Road had not been what Dake had expected. Instead of just serving one or two Septons of the Sept, he found himself running around what the Faithful called the septry—the Septry of the River as the Faithful called it. The Sept, itself, was part of it, but there was more to it: there was the common hall, the infirmaries, the scriptoriums, the dormitory, the kitchens, a brewhouse, the cells, the gardens, the Sept, and the small Sept. And that didn’t even include all them other outbuildings.

Rarely did Dake find himself helping an actual Septon, of which there were more than two, he learned. Instead, there were Protectors and Holy Brothers, though mostly they just called themselves brothers, and even then, there was an Elder Brother apart from the Septons and the Proctors and the rest of the Brothers. Dake didn’t understand it all yet, but they just told him to listen more than he talked and respond to someone asking something of him with “Yes, brother” or “No, brother.”

He helped with the garden some days, but mostly he scrubbed floors when he wasn’t helping in one of them infirmaries. Brother Stohl told him the Sept of the River had the most, and largest, infirmaries in the Reach, maybe all of Westeros. The bile and the blood and the vomit and the spit and the piss…Dake didn’t know all them bodies held so many things, and he was used to the streets of Oldtown. But Dake didn’t waiver none, Brother Stohl called Dake blessed by the Seven because nothing seemed to turn his stomach.

The worst of it was the early mornings, but Dake got pretty good at waking up before even his mother, often sneaking out and making it to the Septry in time for the morning prayer. Because if you didn’t make it to the early morning prayer, you didn’t get to break your fast with the brothers, and Dake liked the stew the brothers typically had in the morning. After that was the work.

But after that was the mid-day meal, which was usually the same vegetable stew. After mid-day meal he’d sometimes be told to see Proctor Robin in the scriptorium. Dake wasn’t allowed to touch anything down there, but he would scrub floors, and the Proctor and Brothers who worked there would show him numbers and letters. Dake could write to ten, which made Brother Otho proud, cause none of them other ‘street boys’ did that half as fast as Dake was able to do it. The faster and more he learned, the more Dake was told to go work in the scriptorium, and Dake liked Brother Stohl the best, but the infirmaries were full of groaning and crying and sometimes worse.

The scriptorium was quiet, peaceful like. Dake liked that. It was Brother Otho who tapped his shoulder today as Dake went about scrubbing the stone floor, whispering in his ear about someone asking for him. They wasn’t allowed past the gatehouse ‘cause they was a girl, said Brother Otho. Dake rushed, ‘cause if the Proctor caught him gone too long it’d mean trouble, Brother Otho warned him. But at the gatehouse he was met by Septon Arlo. Arlo was old, thin, with shoulder length white hair and a blind eye…but he was the nicest man Dake ever met ‘sides Brother Pater.

And Proctor Robin wouldn’t do nothing if Septon Arlo said it was okay. Septo Arlo looked out for all the other boys in the Septry, too.

“Dake? You have a visitor,” The Septon said, as he moved aside, and motioned the Brothers at the gate to let the visitor into the gatehouse. Dake blinked when he saw Cissy.

“They don’t have girls here, Cis.”

“Go on,” Arlo gently urged the girl, with a calm tone and warm smile, like he was everyone’s grandsire, “you are safe here, child.”

Something wasn’t okay, though, Dake saw it. Dake could always see that kind of thing, and Cissy’s skin wasn’t usually so pale, and she never looked scared. Nothing scared her, except maybe Big Bill. “What is it, Cissy?”

The girls big eyes went to the Septon, to the Brothers of the Gate, before slowly falling back to Dake, “It’s your mum, Dake, you gotta come quick.”

Silence was the response. Dake just blinked, again, thinking…he’d seen his mother this morning. She was tired, but she was always tired, her labor was long and hard, she always said, but she was glad to do it, she also always said.

“Go, Dake. You may return on the morrow, I will explain it to Proctor Robin.”

Dake felt himself nod and leave with Cissy. Outside the gate she took his hand, which just made him feel more confused. Cissy didn’t hold no hands, but now she was squeezing his, “What’s wrong with—”

And then it just burst out of Cissy, like a cry that was all hushed talking, like she was afraid they’d be heard, “Big Bill needs your help, Dake! He said only you can help him, said it’s about your mother, and there’s gold in it. Real gold, Dake. But we got to hurry!”

Dake just ran with Cissy after she all but pulled him along by the hand at first. Dake tried looking back when he thought he heard someone shout out to him, but Cissy just yanked all the harder, leading them quickly down an alley, down a shortcut.

Scrapstone Alley once wound behind the North Silver Street. Disease had cleared out most of the shops and homes that had boxed it in tightly on its southern side, leaving Scrapstone Alley wider than most streets in Oldtown in some places. Though it was mostly mud and exposed foundations with nothing left on them instead of cobblestone, there were still one of two buildings that had been gutted by fire, or further disease, or banditry. The Square of Scrapestone was the largest ‘square’ of the alley. Its where Big Bill had held court for the past two years, after stabbing another, older, street urchin in the neck to take control of the band of urchins they called the Scrapestone Boys. Where once it had been makeshift seats and benches and tables filled with urchins of nearly all ages, some of the bordering buildings used for hideouts and makeshift brothels of the girls ruled by the Scrapestone Boys, when Dake and Cissy got closed, they saw now the square was bordered only by the mail and blue cloaked members of the Oldtown City Watch. At least a dozen of them.

Death and blood was everywhere. Big Bill’s body was broken and bloody, headless, thrown aside his big chair. All the others boys and girls Dake knew for years were laying around, some looking asleep, others with heads missing, or giant gashes flowing with guts and blood where they had once been whole. In Big Bill’s old big chair was a large man, shoulder length black hair, face covered in black hair. He didn’t look old, but he didn’t look young, neither, to Dake. Dake turned around, but his heart sank when he saw more of the City Watch when just moments ago had been the alley. Dake knew a trap when he saw one. When he looked to Cissy, she wouldn’t look at him, even as the members of the Watch behind them grabbed him, lifted him, and carried him forward to dump him at the feet of the large man wearing the uniform of a City Watch officer.

The man’s eyes were black, and seemed to smile in a way that didn’t hold any joy.

“Hello, Dake,” the man said sternly to him, before his black eyes looked up and past Dake, to Cissy, “dispose of her.”

Dake tried to move, but felt only a fist upside his head, sending him spiraling to the ground of mud and blood, all he could see was the officer’s booted feet. All he could hear was the screams of Cissy…before, suddenly, he heard steel, and then heard Cissy no more.

“M’Lord, ask Septon Arlo, ask Septon Pater, please M’L—”

Silence came to Dake in the form of a heavy gloved backhand from one of the two who’d threw him down.

“I know of your favors, urchin. Given not by the Seven, but by a certain sinful noble lady. But worry not, Dake. Your mother will live, your mother will keep her place in the service of her merchant master, and you will be forgiven for your sin of acting as a pawn of such sinful nobility…and in return, you will tell me how it is you got to Lady Vittoria’s inn on Port Market Street. How you managed to sneak past the patrol of the City Watch. Tell me this, young Dake, and forgiveness will be given to you.”

Mina had wasted no time in saddling back up and riding to the Septry of the River as she was bid. She was still running off of the electric high of what had happened at her father’s great tent earlier this morning and it wasn’t until she pulled up to the gatehouse and asked after Dake that her mood started to deflate a bit. She’d just passed him, said the old Septon with a milky eye as he pointed the lad out, running hand in hand with a pale street girl away from the sept on some urgent business about his mother. Mina wheeled around, trotting forward and shouting after Dake, but the girl just tugged him away down a side alley. Cursing, Mina leapt off her horse and went after the two before she lost them completely. If something was wrong with Dake’s mother, Vitta would want to help the boy further, she was sure.

Fortunately, the two younger children’s trail wasn’t hard to follow. The alley lead to a wider one, disused, worn and muddy with visible footprints. Mina slowed as her eyes caught their tracks, not just to better follow them but because of what surrounded them. Dake and the girl had left the freshest footprints, but they were overlaid onto a background of bigger, heavier prints, dozens of them, made by what looked like sturdy, hobnailed boots. Mina stopped completely, closing her eyes and focusing. A Water Dancer must learn to sense danger and see with more than her eyes, that’s what Master Athos had taught her, and something about this already felt wrong.

Yes, she wasn’t sure how she’d missed it before, but there was an unmistakable smell in the air too. Blood and spilled viscera, coppery and nauseating like someone had been doing a bad job slaughtering animals...or people. Mina shivered and moved more carefully, and as soon as she spotted the first blue cloaks she ducked quickly out of sight, pinned flat against a husk of a burned out building as she took in the scene.

There were children’s bodies littering the square, some with guts spilled and giving off the foul odor she’d smelled moments ago, some headless, some twisted and broken, all in pools of blood and mud and gore. The blue cloaked guards, a dozen of them visible, ringed the sight of the massacre uncaringly. Their eyes were fixed on the young boy sprawled on the ground rather than at the horror around them. If the girl slumped limp and blood-soaked at the feet of one guard currently wiping off his sword blade was anything to go by, the reason for their indifference to the hideous crime was plain enough. Mina fought down a wave of cold terror and nausea, breathed in, breathed out, trying to center herself. Now was not the time for fear. She could still save Dake. Besides, the bearded man towering over the boy had just mentioned ‘Lady Vittoria’. He might well be a threat to her sister.

Mina steadied her shaking hands and slipped away from her hiding spot. She could do this! The guards were distracted by Dake and she’d practiced stealth by sneaking up on tree cats in the forests off the River Mander. Quiet as she could, Mina slipped by the guards at the outer ring of onlookers and pulled her thin Braavosi blade from its sheath. Stalking up to the man who was still cleaning his blade of the girl’s blood like she’d stalked any number of animals, she readied herself to deliver a clean thrust to the gap in the armor near his neck.

Dake heard the words as they left his body, unbelieving he was saying them. Was his mother really even still alive? What had Cissy been screaming when they killed her? Mostly, his mind circled and circled around the same question that left him stunned, barely able to think, barely able to understand this was real life, that this wasn’t just a bad dream: Dake would’ve told the man whatever he wanted to hear. So, Dake told him, and when he was done, he finally looked up, and stared into the man’s black eyes.

“Why, m’Lord? I would have told you.”

The man sighed, a great weight upon him, his voice turning into a tone of wisdom, of a master taking a hard lesson to an apprentice, “They were criminals. Rapists. Murderers. Thieves. Your friend, the girl? Caught last night snatching the purse from a man of the Watch visiting the brothel her own mother worked at, as the man took his pleasure. Street urchins, Dake, do you not see?” His body shifted, from a comfortable seated position into Big Bill’s big chair to leaning forward, knees on his thighs, gloved hands clasped tightly together before him, half-helmed head lowering to bring his eyes almost level with Dake’s.

“You thought a sinner from the nobility was your savior, though you were wrong, I will give you that at least you tried to turn away from this life and serve the Faith. But these…things?” He said, raising his head up and unclasping his hands to motion all about, at the corpses of street children around him, “They had no sinner to save them, Dake. All that awaited them was a life of crime and pain and sin. Instead, we have given them the mercy of a death for a noble cause, in service of the Seven, for justice and the peace of the city. Their struggle is over, they now bask in the glory of the Seven. Grieve them, boy, but be glad to know their struggle has ended. The very sinful noble that saved you called banners to raise an army to oppose the Faith. Today, Oldtown will see just how mortal this ‘Ardent Maiden’ is.”

“Lady Vittoria is good, m’Lord, please. She protects the Realm, she—”

“—is an afront to the natural order as given to us in the Seven-Pointed Star itself. A sinner and hypocrite who says she dedicates herself to the Faith, while only serving her House and herself. The very creature who would raise an army against the army of the Faithful. Is this the person you would tell me is so virtuous, boy?”

Madness took him, as he didn’t blink before he heard himself say it, as he looked at the bodies around them, “...she wouldn’t have done this.”

The Commander of the City Watch stood suddenly, the song of steel ringing out as he drew the short sword that rested upon his hip, hanging from his belt, “The Stranger has bid you to come and see, Dake, and so it seems only then will you understand. Goodbye, child.”

In truth Mina wasn’t sure she could go through with killing anyone in cold blood, even supposing the man in front of her had killed children. It was different, skulking like this and committing to it deliberately, rather than defending herself in the chaos of a battle. But hearing his commander rave so coldly about her sister, about sin and slaughtering children, then watching him draw steel on Dake, her resolve and anger solidified. She stabbed out with her blade, quick, clean and forceful just like Master Athos taught her and shouted “Run!”

Alaric’s eyes narrowed in on the sound of the voice, and Dake saw the man…smile, like he’d seen a welcome surprise. The rest of the Watchmen just seemed stunned, but Dake didn’t so much as breathe again before he darted past the Watch Commander. Steel flashed as the man swung the blade after him, but it was a hair late, and Dake weaved between two Guardsmen who took bad angles in the chase, leaving both behind him. A single look over his shoulder was all he gave, enough to see the two guardsmen re-gather and start after him—while their Commander made a deliberate pace in the direction of the other voice, the one Dake didn’t recognize. He hadn’t time to waste, he had to lose the two men on him, and he had to make it to his mother before they did…if she was even still alive. Dake ducked into one of the empty shells of a building and went quickly up a barrel and into a hole in one of the floors, the kind of shortcut he knew that the two watchmen would not. He went out the window to the left and was quickly on another rooftop, his boots simple things but better and with more grip than his old ones. The Brothers had given them to him just two days prior.

He had failed the Septons. The Proctors. The Brothers. He couldn’t go back now. All the hope Lady Vittoria had given him was just gone, like that, because of a Watch Commander and an order. His face was wet and hot as he ran, and it wasn’t until he flew down to cobblestones that he realized…he was crying.

“Dake?”

Loud Lonnie stared at him, confused, from the door of his shop…but Dake just looked at him for a moment, felt nothing but shame, and kept running. It wasn’t until the pot shop that he wheeled around a surprise hay wagon along the side of the building and up back stairs, only to find the door open, certain they’d already gotten to her. What felt like tears before nearly took him to a sob before shock splashed upon him as he went through the door…and saw her there, shoving things into a basket.

He walked to his mother and cried and tried to tell her all of it. She probably heard none of it, as he blabbered and sobbed, hugging him close for a moment before lifting his chin to look her in the eyes.

“Babbet told me. Now let’s go, we’re going to King’s Landing where my sister is.”

She didn’t sound surprised, only determined. And yet again today, Dake just felt confused. A confusion that only deepened when he heard steps on the stairs, and saw a figure darken the doorway.

It was a girl, barely taller than he was, clean, except for sweat, and…the blade. The reddened blade.

Mina stood there in the doorway, panting slightly after the chaos and tumult of running full tilt after Dake. She reasoned he knew these streets and how to run and hide in them a lot better than her, so she’d followed him as he fled. Now she found herself awkwardly looming with a bloodstained blade in his doorway. She held up her free hand, trying to show she meant no harm.

“Sorry, I’m here from Lady Vittoria. Wanted to make sure you were safe. She’ll want to help, I think.” Mina made a half-awkward bow-curtsey. Then she remembered she was still holding the bloody blade and flicked it clean before wiping it down against the sheath and stowing it, Braavosi fashion. She didn’t think about how that just spattered more blood across the floor, couldn’t focus on the blood at all. Nor how the blood had gotten there, the man she’d killed, how she could feel the jerk and gasp from him as he’d died on her blade. But now that the running was done it was getting harder to ignore. No, best to focus on helping Dake and his mother.

“Lady…VITTORIA? TYRELL?!”

Dake’s mother exasperated a loud whisper, and she did it quickly, turning to stare at her child. “Why would she want to help? Dake of Blackcrown…why would…what did I tell you about the nobility? Do you not remember…”

Her voice trailed as her son’s eyes welled. The woman looked breathless in a terror of shock as she looked back to the girl in the door, “…and you? Do I even want to know what you are? Do either of you know the danger we are in? The Faith and the Watch have eyes everywhere. There is nowhere safe in this city.”

“They’re gonna kill her, mum.”

His mother's face twisted in confusion, but for a moment, until realization dawned further fear, “Kill her?” The words the woman wanted to say didn’t come, instead, her features seemed to soften as she looked at the hurt, scared, boy of hers, “Dake, I’m not even sure the dragons could kill that girl. She’s surrounded by an army. And what of us? What do we have to protect us but this girl assassin sent by this noble lady?......how did you come to find service with the Septry, Dake?”

The boy frowned, and his mother sighed. “Gods. And you never told me.”

“Wanda, I’m starting to hear…” The man who appeared walking up the backstairs was tall, but too simply dressed and he smelled of a tannery, short blonde hair and small blue eyes regarding the scene he stepped into carefully, “The wagon is loaded, everything is covered in hay.”

“This chest,” Dake’s mother said, shutting it, moving aside so the man could take it and load it. As he lifted it, the boy’s mother stepped forward and placed her hand on the man’s arm, “I’m truly sorry.”

Sadly, the man smiled, “I’ll be in King’s Landing as soon as I can get there. You two go…or three,” he said, awkwardly, before carefully moving himself, and the chest, out of the door and to the wagon.

Dake’s mother just stared at the assassin, “You can hide in the wagon with us. The man watching the gate we’re going out of is a friend. We’ll make it out, but we must hurry.”

Mina nodded, face twisted into a grimace as she put together just what her sister’s charity had wrought for these folk. “My thanks. I’m sorry.” It was all she could think to say. She didn’t bother correcting the woman’s assumption that she was an assassin, nor try to explain herself. It would take time they didn’t have and it could wait til they were safely away.

“Let’s go. Now,” the boy’s mother said, with the kind of courage and determination only a mother with a child in danger could provide.

“Lead the way.” Mina agreed, inwardly resolving to herself that she would do whatever it took to protect these two and fix her sister’s mistake.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Hello :)

It's been a VERY long time since I've posted here but was wondering if there's still room/time for an ASOIAF fan who misses being creative to join?

@Winston Smith

There's always room in these games. :)

Cyberpunk2077: 5th Corporate War

Whoops.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

_{Garin // @Arnorian}

He had bowed and left without another word. In truth, her commands rankled. But then what he could do? Take his men and ride away, unpaid and not fully provisioned for the long and costly journey back home? Strange, he’d never realized he considered Essos home now. But apparently he did.

This land was the Lord Commander’s and it was one thing to defy a minor lord, another to spit in the face of a great house. So he had done as she ordered. Tarly had been obliging enough and the boy had been moved to the care of the maesters. But the tension between Garin and all the men of westeros was deadly. Besides which, mercenary companies that got a reputation for defying their employers tended not to last very long.

Martella hadn’t spoken to him and slept with her face turned towards the tent wall. She’d barely acknowledge his existence when he rose. Myrna, as young as she was, knew full well something was wrong and she had stayed next to her mother the whole time. Rylla was even worse, her face locked in a mask of shame and regret. And she’d avoided him, like she feared him.
Now morning rose, but with the vague trepidation that Garin still felt before any fight. Breakfast was served but Garin and his family sat around their small table in a deadly silence. Even little Myrna was quiet and sat in the crook of her mother’s arm.

He hadn’t done anything and yet, he felt guilty as all the hells for everything. He forced himself to eat, ignoring the churning in his stomach and silent cursed the whole day. His squire entered and bowed slightly. Garin rose as Lady Vittoria entered.

Vittoria Tyrell found herself back in familiar wear. The simpler, though finely made, cotton green dress with layers of mail and leather. Like the dress, it was the result of artisans, but it was otherwise unadorned. This was not the parade plate of their procession into Oldtown, this was the everyday uniform of the Ardent Maiden.

She had left Davos at the inn he had found room at to recover his traveling companions, to gather his things, and relocate to the inns at Port Market Street, where the majority of the Order of the Golden Rose inside the city were stationed. Upon her arrival she spoke to Dennet, and swept through the Lost Alehouse, speaking with Tytan, learning more about the man than she had anticipated.

Dennet woke up riders and sent them to the Citadel. There ravens would be sent from the Citadel to most the Lordly and Knightly Houses of the Reach; Highgarden was calling it’s banners. By the time she was changed and down on the first floor tavern of the inn, the Last Cobblestone, the room wasn’t as dark as it had been. Early risers were beginning to stir. Ser Ennis Inchfield was drinking water brought by the innkeepers when she came down, asking her if it was true.

“The Hightower glows blue in the breaking dawn,” he explained, his eyes still heavy at the point between truly awake and half asleep.

She nodded, “It is. Banners are being called.”

Dennet and Thaddeous Rowan were next in. The three of them hovered near the center of the first floor tavern as squires and knights began shuffling about around them, innkeepers moving in and out, bowls of fire plums here, apples there, the smell of sausages put to flame filling the early morning air. Vittoria smiled at Ser Ryam as he pulled himself down onto a bench and began pulling on his boots.

“I bet you slept not at all,” her younger cousin remarked, sarcastic and half-conscious.

She merely grinned. She told the other two men that Thad’s father and Oakheart weren’t their concern. The heir to the Iron Throne was dead.

“What?,” came from Ser Ryam, as simply thinking he overheard that was enough to widen his eyes another smidge of awakeness as his boots were pulled on a little faster now.

The Faith Militant would be on the move, they couldn’t stay in the Westerlands in great numbers now. Vittoria bet their path would be across the Reach. She would reach out to the Lord of Casterly Rock about that. In the meantime, her more talented whisperers in King’s Landing were claiming the appearance of new dragonriders and a visible increase in Faith Militant, as well as a ‘sense of dread’ in the city.

The capital would be important. Dennet floated the idea of an advanced party, just the Order, itself, but Vittoria shook her head, “No. Now we wait for banners. Talk to our Knights, get those who can to talk to their Houses.”

Thaddeous chuckled, “I’m afraid I don’t think my House will be as receptive…”

Dropping her voice, Vittoria recounted to the two what happened in Lord Manfred’s solar. Thaddeous looked as if he might spit. “What about the squire?”

“He will recover. The Knight isn’t one of ours, but a friend of one of ours. The duel is going to happen.”

Vittoria listened to the two men speak of Garin and this knight, and she looked off to Ryam, mouthing to him something about horses as her poor cousin tried to finish a sausage and a cider. She was jealous of both. She’d eat when she got to camp, she decided, turning her eyes back to Den and Thad. “Get our people ready to move. Send word to the Rose Garden to do the same. We need to be out of this city by nightfall. My father should be arriving sometime today. I’m going to go visit Garin now, then I have to take the Harroway we found on the road to the Citadel. Then I’ll be back.”

So focused upon his sausage was Ser Ryam that he almost missed the nonverbal message from Vittoria. He gave a nod, shoved the rest of the sausage into his mouth, washed it down and then walked out of the door to prepare his and the Lord Commander's mounts. He was just about out of the doorway when Davos's form came into view. Ryam gave a respectful nod and retreated to allow the Lord to enter first and wondered if he and his cousin would have a plus one on their ride.

Heads turned when Lord Davos Baratheon shouldered his way into the first floor of the Last Cobblestone. Den and Thad simply gave smirks.

“…I don’t want to hear it from either of you…”

All three laughed and broke their conference. Dennet Tarly off to the Chandler’s house to ready his family and her younger siblings. Thaddeous Rowan to the Lord Pennifer to get those there informed and moving, then to send men to the Rose Garden to get that inn doing the same.

“Hey,” Vittoria smiled at Davos as she walked towards him, towards the door he just came in, “I’m off to our camp. Come with me?”

He was understanding and kindness. Their horses were ready, and the three of them were trotting through the early morning fog of Oldtown relatively quickly. She noticed a larger number of Blue Cloaks, but she wasn’t sure that was such a bad thing, assuming their new Commander wasn’t as bad as Manfred had feared. She did most the talking, giving Davos an idea of what was about to happen, as well as the news about the dead Prince.

While Vittoria and Davos spoke, Ryam was scouring the surrounding area for threats. It wasn't probable that the Lord Commander would be assailed right outside of Oldtown, but Ryam would take no chances. He took his role seriously, even more so after certain events. His right hand was expertly placed on the left side of his saddle, appearing crisscrossed, it allowed the Knight a rapid sword draw while keeping perfect control of his mount. Luckily, nothing wishing ill will appeared to them on the streets of the city or in the area just outside the walls.
Exiting the city, the ride wasn’t long until they saw the beginnings of their camp, wooden spiked perimeter and sentries riding, scouts and hunters, those coming back from the city after their own long night, those going into the city. It didn’t take her long to realize something was different. Not only was the banner of the Order of the Golden Rose flying, the Tyrell Golden Rose on white field, but so was the actual House Tyrell banner.

And the camp looked…busy, swollen, very swollen. “My Father is early.”

When Davos asked her whether that was good or bad, she didn’t know what to tell him. It could be hard to tell with her father, Lord Theo, she explained. Her wits, her mind…much as she loved her mother, and no offense to House Redwyne, as surely Ser Ryam knew his aunt, these were not things Vittoria got from her mother.

She got them from Lord Theo. The only High Lord to refuse Aegon the Conqueror an army was no fool, and, looking back, had been wise to refuse Aegon the First. The Dornish Wars were folly, few knew that better than Vittoria Tyrell. She had literally written the book on the subject, though not in her own name, something she admitted, for the first time, to Davos and Ryam as they approached the camp, and made their way to the pavilion of Captain Garin. A nearby Knight of the Order took their horses for them as they dismounted, and Vittoria asked them to give her a moment. She was nearly at the entrance to Garin’s pavilion when he came around the corner, wearing black riding leathers, and a green cloak with a golden rose pin.

He smiled his customary half smile, and she threw her armored body into him, into a hug. Oof, he said, melodramatically, before hugging her back. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, father.”

The hug broke, but he kept a hand on the armored shoulder of her’s closest to him, “I was told you’d be here. You will have to catch me up on why camp is talking about a duel. Sounds like a minor madness. Your sister and brother?”

Lord Theo had never been much of a fighter, however able, it just never suited his style. How could she explain to him something she knew he would shake his head at? “With Lord Dennet and his wife in the city. Are you coming in with me?”

“…mm,” his darker brown eyes contemplated it, but, gently, his head shook, an undertone of humor to his voice, “Let us not scare the poor Captain and his family too much. They are worth their gold?”

“Very.”

His big hand clapped the armored shoulder he had held, “Good to hear, daughter. I have heard things about last night. We will talk soon?”

“As soon as I am done here.”

He kissed at her cheek, and took a moment to look past her, staring a moment longer than usual until he nodded to Ser Ryam from the distance of nearly twenty paces, and even to Lord Davos, that undertone of humor coming to his mouth, “I await you both. I have news for you as well.”

Both, he said, confirming he knew. She was, genuinely, relieved it wasn’t news she would break. Of course he knew. Vittoria had to work for informants and whispers, but being the Warden of the South and Lord of Highgarden meant people tripped over themselves to give him news. That was real power, he had taught her. Though news from him? Her father was many things, but a simple man wasn’t one of them. If he had news, on a day like today, it was meaningful. Later, though, she promised herself as she turned and asked one of Garin’s men keeping guard with one of her Knights to announce her, and see if she could enter.

Ryam had instantly taken to a knee as the Lord of the Reach and Warden of the South appeared. He remained in that kneeled position until Vittoria released her father from the embrace. The young Redwyne smiled softly as he watched and listened to the two and wished he had a similar relationship with his own father. There was a… Rocky relation, with Ryam wishing to simply be the best Knight he could and his father wishing to use him to further alliances or to even secure new ones.

Ryam had even been instructed to put himself forward as a potential offering to the Iron Maiden. An order that Ryam had promptly ignored, and as he glanced at Davos, Ryam felt he had many good reasons as to why he disobeyed. As the Lord Paramount addressed him and bid him forward, Ryam would do so with a slight bow of his head as a thanks for the honor that was being shown to him. He did however stop next to Vittoria, as her father may be the Lord Paramount, but it was his cousin to whom his fealty was currently pledged. He took up a position on her left as she waited to be announced.

“Lord Commander, to what do we owe this pleasure?” Garin said with an easy poise that belied the coiling tension he always felt before a fight.

Rylla and Martella both rose and bowed, Myrna for her part peeked around her mother’s skirt and waved shyly at the woman in green and leather.

The first set of eyes Vittoria Tyrell locked onto was Rylla. Vittoria’s face couldn’t hide the warmth in her expression, what with the big brown eyes, and the hint of smile on her pink lips, but there was the weight and tension of the moment that none could ignore. “Hello, I’m rather jealous of you for getting to beat a squire inside-out, but also…in my camp please don’t ever do anything like that again.”

It was gently said, but the Lord Commander’s tone was there, and there was undoubtedly the unspoken bit of if it did ever happen again, the conversation would be far less pleasant for all. But that was unspoken, hinted at only by the rigidity of her tone in the way she spoke the second half of her words, the first half nothing but one girl jealous of another getting to do something they wished they could do, too.

When she turned to Martella, there was no sign of the Lord Commander, just a radiant expression of excitement and happiness in getting to meet the woman. “Hi! I’ve heard very good things about you, I’m so glad you’re all here with Garin, Martella. I have SO many questions for you,” she admitted, laughing, “but just please, if you need for anything, have any questions about anything, I will always be here to help your family.”

If anything, it was like the Lady wife of the Lord Commander showed up to greet Garin’s family…except she was the Lord Commander, too. Vittora found herself transitioning between the facets of her own personality with ease, like a noble lady who had spent significant time in other courts, having to be charming, disarming, and approachable while still remaining genuine, and who she was, as a person.

Yet she felt no pretense. There was no act. She was genuinely excited to meet Martella, the woman was a genuine source of awe. Vittoria couldn’t imagine holding a family together with a husband busy doing things for some commander, staying back at camp. The difficulties. The frustrations.

Her biggest thrill came from the little one. Calm, but sweetly smiling, and honey toned, Vittoria lowered her body so she was as close to eye-level with Myrna as possible. Her fingertips wiggled in a child-like wave as she waved at the girl, “Hello, Myrna. I hope you don’t mind the camp too much?”

Martella smiled brilliantly and for a moment she looked radiant. It was easy to see why a man would have given up his whole life for her. She bowed with an easy grace that could have come years of practice and would have done any lady of the court proud.

“You have my thanks, Lord Commander, we are honored. I have bread and salt, if you wish. If not, something finer is easy enough to bring.”

Looking down at Myrna, she smiled again as her youngest ducked her head. “Can you say hello, my love?” Martella said.

Myrna raised her eyes to meet the Lord Commander and smiled shyly. “I’m four, father gave me a kitten, because I was very good. She’s black and white, her name is Moon.” She said, with a child’s casual disregard for anything resembling conversational flow.

For her part, Rylla nodded and kept her face as polite and friendly as she could. After everything, she felt it was best that she kept her mouth shut. Her mother had always been the more charming and well-spoken of the family. Still she felt her father’s eye on her and so she followed mother’s suit and bowed. Not nearly as gracefully as Martella, but a passable enough courtesy nonetheless.

“Moon? A fine name for a kitten, thank you for being so good, Myrna,” she said, still at the child’s eye level, still smiling until she stood—then the look that washed across her face was one of exhaustion. She was hungry, but there just wasn’t time in a day that had become far busier than she originally hoped it would be.

“I wish I could, thank you so very much, Martella. I came to offer your family a stay at Highgarden instead of our camp.” Her hands spoke with her, waving palm down as if to suppress worry and concern, as if to emphasize the innocence of the offer, “This would be as guests, it’s more than big enough to accommodate you, though if you’d prefer the Understeward has told me he could find work for you that would be fairly compensated.

“The Septas are always happy to have another face in their sessions, should you want Myrna to take part and do some learning. Think it over? Banners have been called, and we’ll be folding into the Army of the Reach, soon. That’s…probably around thirty thousand to start with.”

Vittoria roughly estimated, her brown eyes moving side to side as she did quick numbers in her mind even as she spoke, “Just very busy, and a very different kind of experience to the small, intimate camp we’ve had so far. So, talk it over, and let me know? First, though…” Vittoria turned sharply, to Garin, to Rylla, where they stayed, instead of Garin, “you two please give me a moment outside?”

It was on her way out that she turned to Martella once more, “Thank you again, Martella, and anything you need don’t hesitate to let me know. See you soon, Myrna,” Vittoria smiled brightly, waving at the young child as she stepped out, and waited for the other two.

Martella curtsied as the Lord Commander left and favored her husband with a significant look. The kind that people who’ve been married for a very long time can use to say a great deal without saying anything.

Her quick scan of the area revealed Davos talking to Ryam, and Tytan haunting the peripheral, as if he wanted to talk and was waiting for a moment. She turned her attention back to Garin and Rylla when they walked out.

Again, her attention was on Rylla first, “talked it over with some people, and we’d also like you, Rylla, to enter our household as a Lady in Waiting for my little sister.”
When she saw the confusion on the young woman’s face, she waved a hand dismissively in the air, “Not to worry, my sister Mina likes all the things you do—and that’s the thing. Put up the pretense of a Lady, like she has to, but in truth you’ll be tasked with training her, and protecting her. Gold can be exchanged for this service, just speak to the Steward or Understeward to get further information on that.”

Then, finally, she moved her eyes to Garin…and lowered her voice. “Beat this challenger. Do it convincingly. My father will be presiding over it. The Knight is the challenger, so you’ll pick the weapons used. It starts on horseback. Noon. Get Martella and Myrna to Highgarden, you’d be an idiot to pass up the opportunity. Don’t,” she gave a light push on his breastplate for emphasis with the word, and each that followed, “disappoint. me. Deal? Deal…and, Rylla, no more of this. None.”

Then Vittoria Tyrell smiled as big and bright as she had all day, “Everyone happy?”

Rylla bowed and before she could give herself a chance to hesitate, she spoke. Doing her best to emulate her father’s manners before an employer, she smiled politely but not insincerely.
“You have done my family many honors this morning, Lord Commander. I would be delighted to serve you in any way I may.”

From the corner of her eye she saw her father nodded approvingly and for the first time in what seemed an eternity, it felt like light had pierced the dark and she could breathe again. In truth, she was excited, a bodyguard to the scion of a great house? Her journey to knighthood could hardly have started with a better opportunity.

“I am of course, your humble servant, Lord Commander.” Garin had said before Lady Vittoria departed.

Like Rylla, he was relieved. Somehow he had fallen down a flea bottom jakes and come back up smelling like a rose. Martella was of course delighted and smiled at him for the first time since the whole disaster with the unfortunate squire. And Garin was happy enough to have his family behind the walls of Highgarden, surrounded by loyal soldiers and bodyguards. Who knew? Perhaps some of the Lord Commander’s kindness and patience would rub off on his eldest.
Stranger things had happened.

Silence fell once the Lord Commander had left. His squire kept his mouth closed, but by then, Garin was happy for the quiet. He donned his armor, his mind no longer churning, but now filled with a dread silence that was somehow even worse. Martella favored with a hug and quick kiss before she set to the myriad tasks that came with moving a household. Rylla grudgingly aided her mother and Myrna helped where she could, though Garin’s youngest seemed more occupied with throwing a ball of yarn for her cat.

He paused for a moment at the opening the pavilion and took the in the scene with a small, slow smile that vanished almost as quickly as it had come. One day, Martella would have others to do this sort of work. One day, she could have a real roof over her head and the days of the field and the camp would be nothing but old memories.

. . . And his children, no matter what path they chose, would have a place to call home, something he could leave behind for them. Honor demanded nothing less.

Garin stepped out in the brilliant sunlight and vaulted into the saddle of his waiting warhorse with practiced ease. He wasn’t the tallest man in westeros, but neither was he small by any means.

Clad in black plate, he looked the very image of knightly prowess. He lifted his great helm over his mailed head and took up his shield. The thick oak was black like his armor, save for the image of an uprooted tree in white. Under which was the word “disinherited” in Rhoynish. He rode to the field, reins held loosely in his gauntlet, visor down the whole way.

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

_{Prince Maegor Targaryen // @Ezekiel}

Pale burning light had begun to creep over the horizon as Maegor rode out from the city. He did so, not upon the vast back of Balerion, but upon one of the steeds of his household, pacing out from Pentosh at great haste. The climate of Pentosh was hotter than Westeros, but still temperate, and the night beat at him with cold chill, steam rising from the heaving flanks of the horse beneath him.

It was a well trained beast, of Valyrian stock, or at least bread close enough to it, but even still, it whinied fitfully at the sudden stench of dragon as they crested the hill. It was not a foul smell, but it was pervasive with creatures as vast as they were, and it almost panicked even the well trained steed.

“Onward.” Maegor commanded, without doubt or pause, striking his stirrups into the horse’s flanks to spur it on. With only another moment’s doubt, it followed through, trotting down the hill towards the form of Terrax. From distance, the dragon’s rider wasn’t visible, but soon, even in the low light, Maegor had clear view of Vhandyr.

“Hail,” Maegor called out as he drew nearer, pulling the horse to a stop before swinging down from the saddle to approach him, giving a respectful nod to the towering dragon in greeting. “I have cleared you entry to the city, but we shall not be lingering long.” There was a pause as he stopped to draw the other Valyrian man into a brace of arms. “My brother and nephew have passed beyond, I will return to Westeros to ensure all my father has built does not crumble.”

Vhandyr Balaerys slid off the scaled hide of Terrax with the casual ease of a master horsemen dropping from the saddle, the sound of chain and leather boots hitting grass and dirt, his silvered long hair flipped behind him after the landing. The look of irritation only came when the large beast he slid off of ‘nudged’ him, nearly toppling the large, muscled, Valyrian man. Vhandyr found himself peering back, confusion and hurt on his face.
“I won’t make you go.”

The dragon snorted, and turned his head the opposite direction, away from Pentos.

Vhandyr’s eyes widened, a momentary disbelief, “Don’t give me that atti—” The side of the best again nudged his direction, though Vhandyr was quick enough to step away, this time, and shake his head as Maegor approached. “He’s mad he can’t fly to Westeros now.”

The man sighed, and shook his head, taking the skin of wine from his belt and pausing to brace Maegor’s arm. His lips looked as if they might frown, but instead, he just sighed again, lower this time, and handed the wine skin to Maegor. “I am sorry for your loss. Losing kin is hard, no matter the politics at play. Were you close to either of them?”

Maegor's eyes followed the dragon's, nodding in slight affirmation. Their motivation may have been different, but the drive was there. Onwards to the West. Terrax and Balerion were very different creatures, but the bond between dragons of such scale and rider were alike. No one could truly master beasts such as they, it was always a negotiation, a bond.

"My nephew I barely knew, my brother…Maybe there were times we cared for each other. He tried to be kind to me, as if that would change they never raised us to be brothers." There was an ache to those words, as if perhaps the man wished he felt more, but then he shook it away. "For all the warmth I did not have for him, I shall have plenty and more in store for his murderers." There was no growl to his words, just a steely promise of what was to come. "It is a time of great providence, that you will witness, should you still fly with us."

Vhandyr nodded, silently, as he watched the wine go ignored, only for him to take a long drink of it himself as he moved around the man near his size and come to a lazy flop onto the grassy hill overlooking the costal plain that led to Pentos, a haze of wall and city off into the distance, under the veil of rapidly approaching twilight.

“If someone killed Vaera…if someone COULD kill Vaera…aye,” he trailed off, nodding as he took another thirsty drink, “Immolation if I had to, though, I think I’d prefer just…pushing my hand through the flesh and bone of their chest, to rip the heart out directly.” He said it as his free hand curled into a claw and ‘jabbed’ forward, a dramatic example of such a thing to the air in place of an imagined murderer.

Then, his hand relaxed, and he took another drink, his deep purple eyes on the horizon where sunlight met starlight. “If they were to murder the younger ones, the children?...there would be no running. No hiding. No mercy. I would be the manifestation of the ancient Valyrian gods of destruction, and death would follow behind me.”

He shrugged. “If I didn’t go, Terrax would never forgive me.” He turned back, smiling back over his shoulder to the Targaryen, “and if I didn’t go, who would be there to force you to stop and have a drink?” He said, holding out the skin of wine to the man, again.

The man's words brought something close to a true laugh from the exiled Prince, an amused murmur of sorts and the ghost of a smile glinting in the low light. It was a surprisingly handsome expression, as rare as it was, etching, as if out of stone, some warmth that was not rage and ambition. "I have drank and feasted plenty in my time, even before I knew you." This time he accepted the wine skin, taking a few long, thirsty gulps, then offering it back and sitting down beside the other Valyrian.

"Perhaps if there had been more of us." Maegor mused, some of the gravel in his voice had eased, little shreds of the tension leeching away. Whether it was the company or the drink, or both, it was perhaps unclear. "I think only our father managed to approve of us both, everyone else has ever been for one of us or the other. It is his memory that calls me to act." There was another low rumble of a near laugh, before Maegor added, "There will no doubt be death and destruction to share in the future, but I will understand if you and Terrax are jumping off mountains and the like. Have a care though, the traitors who wish harm to my family will see you no different from us."

Vhandyr took the wine back with an absence in his eyes, listening, still, but his mind set on another truth. “We Valyrians…the Freehold…it shouldn’t have existed. Our destruction was always imminent. We became nature apart from nature, a violation of natural order. The Doom didn’t happen because of magic gone awry, or conspiracies of Faceless Men…it happened the moment we put ourselves above creation. The tragedy was made by the fathers of our fathers fathers fathers father’s…the parents of our parents were just the ones dancing on the strings when the fire finally ignited. We try to grasp onto what tatters remain. The others will always hate us for trying not to fall off, cheering the fires on and on until us, them…we’re all consumed in it.”

Without looking, Vhandyr reached into the small pouch upon his belt and retrieved it, the message that had come to him just earlier in the day, handing it over to the other man. “My sister, Vaera, warns me of dagger looks from holy men in your King’s Landing. Says the city is full of them. Says she believes they all have murder on their minds. Tells me to be careful in King’s Landing. In Westeros. What you say…yes, I should have care.”
Now he looked over, to the side, to Maegor’s face. All humor gone from his dark purple eyes. “We are no different than you. We are both just the descendants of fools, trying to hold on…I will be there to ensure you do not fall.” Then, a chuckle caught him unawares. “If I wasn’t, Terrax would never forgive me. And he deserves some joy, after all the loss and pain he has seen.”

Maegor's enjoyment of their time together wavered for a moment. He was unused to a peer close to him in ability and the scope of what they could do, and the man insisting on providing aid was something of a threat to his own position. It took a few moments of quiet reflection to ease that concern. For all they might be peers, Vhandyr was not him, and the same in reverse. Their callings were elsewhere.

"I don't much care for the histories, if what you say is true, then so be it, Valyria is lost to us, but it's fires did not claim us. There is freedom in that, this world is ours to claim." Maegor's eyes settled again on Terrax, studying the vast creature as its master spoke, "It is a rare Dragon that thinks much of pain and loss, but should the fates be kind there will not be need of more." With another grim near laugh, Maegor continued, "We should not linger long, there is room enough for Terrax at the Manse before we leave from there, and you may want the chance to rest before we fly on." He did not add that there would be no rest for him this evening, with the weight of what was to come pressing on him, but that need not inflict the other.

Vhandyr squeezed at the a large drink from the skin of wine, and set it down on his lap, “Terrax is no fan of the cheese mongers, and I think I would prefer the open sky tonight. I will follow behind after you depart for your home.” Vhandyr settled his upper half onto the grass behind him, his head warmer than it was before the last squeeze of the strong wine, “Thoughts for the victories to come, Maegor Targaryen. They will be upon you soon.”

Even laying flat, Vhandyr rose the wine skin high in the air, a toast to the man, to his future. It wasn’t until Maegor was well enough away that the endless sweep of starlight above obscured with the massive head. To Terrax, Vhandyr felt himself smile after a last drink for the evening, “I told you I wouldn’t make you go into the city. You’re welcome. Goodnight, Terrax. We will fly soon, old friend.”