Eyes, familiar and new, turned to Valerica as she shadowed Shireen into the council chamber. While Melisandre got her fair share of looks, it was clear that she was a long-standing fixture on Dragonstone, and her association with the Baratheons was common enough knowledge. She might not have been liked, but she was known.
Valerica was neither of these things.
'That just makes the game more interesting.'
The sound of her boots was audible against the stone floors, creating a soft echo that filled the room as the gathered group of men watched on from where they were huddled. When they first walked in, the group spoke quietly among themselves. The talking, however, ceased immediately upon their entry. Cressen, at least, gave her a small smile once he got over his surprise at her presence. The others just looked at her with the blank stares of dead fish.
Eventually, one of them, a comely man with silver hair, a pointed beard, and a slashed velvet doublet, stood up. "My lady, this gathering is for—"
"My council," Shireen piped up. "Everyone is here to advise me on the best course of action, and Lady Volkihar's advice is something I value."
'How sweet.' Valerica peered at the man over Shireen's shoulder. Meeting his eye, she cocked an eyebrow. "I trust that is a significant explanation for my presence. Unless you mean to suggest Lady Baratheon was mistaken in her actions?"
The very suggestion had everyone mumbling apologies and excuses for anything that could be seen as dissension.
Clearing his throat, the silver-haired man spoke again. "Of course not. I will always support my grand niece. I apologize for any perceived rudeness, Lady Volkihar. I know you and your family were instrumental in getting her to safety, I just didn't have a face to put to your name until now. I will personally see to it that a chair is brought for you."
"Oh, that is quite alright," Valerica said. Walking past Shireen and the man, she pulled out the empty chair to the left of the head of the table and took a seat. "This one will do quite nicely."
The men watched on incredulously. The room once again lapsed into a tense silence, broken by small, nervous giggles that escaped Shireen's lips. It only came to a true end when the door opened again, the wood creaking noisily to reveal the form of Ser Davos Seaworth.
"Ah, excellent. Everyone is here. We can begin," the man said, hanging up his rain-slicked cloak on a nearby hook. "Shall we all take our seats."
After another choir of mumbles and streaks of chairs being pulled out, everyone was seated: Shireen at the head of the table, Davos to her right, Valerica to her left, Melisandre straight across from her, and the various men filling the empty seats. While the council was not as impressive as it had been when the rest of the King's Landing escapes had filled the chamber, it was what they had to work with.
"Lady Valerica, I would like to introduce you to the rest of the men who will serve her as my Council for now," Shireen said. First, she nodded at the silver-haired man and said, "You've already become… acquainted with my great-uncle, Alester Florent. He is the Lord of Brightwater Keep and the head of House Florent."
"And though my house is technically sworn to the Tyrells, the late Lady Baratheon was my beloved niece, and I intend to stand with my family above all else," Florent said with a grandiose nod.
Something about the man reminded Valerica of a poorly made sweet roll. Overly sugary and syrupy enough that it made her teeth stick together.
She was then introduced to a stout, sturdy man who was that common mixture of fat belly and strong limbs that Valerica recognized from older men who had spent their entire lives working or fighting. And though she vaguely recognized the man's face, there was nothing remarkable about his features, except there was something she found appealing about that plainness, too. This was a common man who cared a little about the great questions of the world, or the mysteries of life, or even what much went on beyond his household and duty. Certainly useful to have around.
"Lady Valerica, this is Jate Blackberry, our gate captain here at Dragonstone." Shireen smiled at the man. "He has served my family since well before I was born."
"And I have every intention of continuing to do so," Blackberry said with a proud nod. "Dragonstone is my home, and serving the Baratheons has been my sworn duty since I was but a boy. So long as I live and am captain, no trouble will be getting through our gates."
It wasn't bragging, Valerica realized. Blackberry truly believed in his ability to do the duty that had been assigned to him. The man had a job, one he was proud of doing. And when he looked at Shireen, there was a nearly fatherly pride and protectiveness in his eyes.
'Yes,' Valerica thought. 'He will do well.'
Shireen then gestured to an older, portly man with a ruddy face and more hair in his eyebrows and ears than was growing on his head. "And this is Septon Barre, the keeper of the sept here at Dragonstone."
Barre stood, revealing a set of clean, white robes and a woven seven-color belt, both of which, while showing signs of age, remained extremely well cared for and of fine quality. Finishing it was a —b tear-shaped blue crystal hanging from a leather thong around his thick neck.
"How nice it is to be invited to council with the leaders of Dragonstone once more, Lady Baratheon," the man said. There wasn't much pleasantness in his voice. Politeness, sure, but Valerica sensed a deep-held resentment, if not outright grudge, barely hiding behind the man's words—if not for Shireen directly, then for her family.
The tightness in Shireen's mouth suggested that this distaste was not entirely one-sided. "I'm sure your words of wisdom will be well chosen, Septon."
Davos and the other men made noises of agreement, yet when Barre turned to Valerica, looking expectantly at her, she merely nodded and gave a cool, "Charmed."
Septon... Sept... Didn't that have something to do with the religion of this world? Yes, that old Maester had mentioned them as being involved with healing.
'White robes never go along well with healing,' she thought idly, glancing over the man's clothing again. 'Wait, was he expecting me to say something to recognize his position?'
If that were the case, then the man would be waiting for the rest of his natural life. Valerica cared little for religion, especially a foreign religion of a foreign people that was likely created long after she herself had been born.
The next man to be addressed was a tall, well-built fellow with well-groomed salt and pepper hair and goatee that paired well with his hazel blue eyes. His features were strong, yet not harsh, giving the man an aura of composure and sternness while still appearing to be fair and approachable.
"Lord Lytus Chyttering, of House Chyttering," Shireen said. "A man my father always spoke highly of, and one I am pleased to have at my table today."
"And the late Lord Baratheon was not one to speak highly of many," Chyttering said, a small yet genuine smile on his face. "And the feeling was mutual. While Stannis Baratheon was a hard man to get along with, I can admit that he always did well by me and my kin. Now that he is gone, I feel it is only appropriate to do the same for his daughter. Even if the circumstances are what Westeros would consider unusual, it is what your father wished for, and I rarely found his judgment to be lacking."
Unlike Lord Florent, Chyttering spoke with little added sweetness or flattery. His words were blunt, almost bordering on cold. Nonetheless, their honesty was plain to see. The man had nothing to hide, nor did he seem to be trying to get into Shireen's good graces. For that alone, Valerica found she liked him.
Next up was introduced as Lester Morrigen, Lord of Crow's Nest. He was a comely young man with pale green eyes and sleek black hair that hung longer than seemed to be the normal fashion of men in this country. He gave off an aura of vanity and self-assuredness, though there was nothing truly benevolent Valerica could detect within him.
"Morrigen? Of Crow's Nest?" she asked. "That tickles something amusing in my memory."
The man grinned back, looking like a cat with a particularly delicious bowl of cream. "Perhaps you'll elaborate that further at another point, my lady. I am… quite fascinated about your land."
It took a not-insignificant amount of willpower to keep Valerica from laughing out loud. Young men amused her, always so cocksure and assertive of their own charm and good looks. It reminded her of roosters, strutting about the yard and showing off for the hens. On the rare occasion she indulged, they left her bed chamber far wiser than they had been and limping for several days afterward.
Still, it would serve her well to actually learn more about the lands and territories these people were naming. How strong they were, and their geographical locations in this war, and other little details. If only to know how likely they were to betray Shireen.
Then there was the last man, and he was the one Valerica had been the most curious about ever since she stepped foot in the room.
"And I am very pleased to introduce Monford Valeryon, the Lord of the Tides, and Master of Driftmark," Shireen said, rising to her feet to reach out and grasp a man's hand in hers once more. Giving it a tight squeeze before reclaiming her seat.
Monford is an almost startlingly handsome man with long, fair hair that was pulled back from his face with a leather tie. He was wearing a luxurious-looking sea-green silk tunic, fit to his lean yet muscular frame spectacularly, something Valerica felt no shame in noticing, with a white gold seahorse brooch pin to the front of it, its ruby eyes glistening in the light. However, the thing that had drawn her attention the most was the man's skin. It was noticeably darker than just about any power she had seen since arriving in this land. While he didn't look like a redguard, not completely, there were certainly some shared features. Even his lovely mane of hair took on a slightly different texture than that of his comrades.
"Pleasure to meet you," she said with a nod that the man returned.
"Though not pleased by the circumstances, I'm sure," he replied before turning to Shireen. "Lady Baratheon, at risk of sounding too forward, we have gone on with pleasantries long enough. I'm sure that we can all agree time is of the essence, and we have much to discuss."
Shireen bit her lip but nodded slowly. "Indeed, everyone take a seat. I'll have refreshments brought out shortly, but does anyone want to open the discussion in the meantime?"
At times like this, the girl's youth and inexperience showed the clearest. For all she was putting on a brave face and confident front, Shireen had little idea what she was doing. Valerica hoped she and Davos could cover for her.
Once more, Monford spoke up, his voice deep and commanding. "As soon as news of conflict broke out in King's Landing, I started the process of ensuring my fleet was in good order. House Velaryon has always taken pride in our naval might and now is no different. As soon as the word is given, we'll have ships ready to sail into combat, as well as to deliver necessary supplies anywhere needed. Currently, we have four warships in working order and six smaller, quicker shipping vessels. With my departure to Dragonstone, I have left my brother, Aurane, in charge of working on the rest of our fleet, in addition to aiding my son in all other matters of maintaining order in my absence."
Florent let out a fake cough. "Ah yes, I'm sure the Bastard of Driftmark will do a fine job overseeing that project."
Monford shot the man a sharp glare. "I trust my brother more than anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. And don't you forget, illegitimate he may be, my mother cuddled Aurane at her own breast when he was a babe. More than that, there are a few finer ship captains to be found in any port."
"That is true," Davos said evenly. "I've seen the man sailing myself; he can work the tides better than I can."
With Florent significantly silenced for the moment, it was Chyttering's turn to speak up.
"Much like Lord Velaryon here, as soon as I got word of the horridness that occurred in King's Landing, I started getting my affairs in order, knowing that I would be called for soon. Either by you or…" His voice trailed off as hazel blue eyes flickered southeast towards King's Landing, where Cersei Lannister waited and plotted all of their deaths—at least in the man's mind.
Chyttering cleared his throat and continued on. "If I may, given what I've since learned, I will say I'm grateful you called for me first, Lady Baratheon. While my family does not have any ships to contribute, I thought I could contribute by contacting some of the other local lords in hopes of gaining more vocalized support for you and our allies."
"And who did that go?" Lester Morrigen asked, resting his chin on his hand.
"Not well, sadly," Chyttering sighed. "The few replies I got were… not encouraging. While she has not made any announcements since her letter a few days ago, there are enough whispers spreading to paint a grim picture. Even if other Lords of the Crownlands might want to stand with us, I fear they will side with Cersei Lannister and her family out of fear for the reprisal that could fall upon their families. We have reason to believe she's already begun putting knives at the throats of those who would oppose her or will shortly, my ladies. Then there is outright greed. Lannister gold is always attractive, and much is to be gained for siding with the victors of a war. Even with Tywin dead, his army's reputation continues, and they assume the Westerlands will side with her.
"Regardless, I'm sure she'll issue further proclamations to the realm in addition to her initial claims about what happened within the capital. As much as she may wish to wait for the various reactions, she won't, cannot, remain passive for much longer."
"While I certainly appreciate the gravity of the situation, Lord Chyttering, let us not get ahead of ourselves," Florent interrupted. "As it stands now, Cersei Lannister and her family have the high ground in some regards, I won't deny that. But we should not pretend that her hold on things is as tight as her father's would have been. Even if I don't care to speak ill of the dead, we should all be thankful Tywin Lannister is now in his grave."
'Yes, supposedly killed by his own son with help from my daughter's beloved. Or something like that. This might not be the best time to bring that little lie up.'
"True enough. Still, Cersei will be in a position not dissimilar to our own. Right now, everything is still in chaos. People will be gathering what allies and assets they have, preparing for the worst. And we need to take this time to press the advantage we do have over Cersei and the crown," Davos said.
"Which is?" Valerica asked.
"Ships," the man replied. "During my time serving the late Lord Stannis, one of the things he would complain about most often was his brother's lack of urgency in building up the royal fleet. If we were to combine the ships we have here on Dragonstone, Lord Velaryon's forces, and everything our other allies can muster, I suspect we will have more than the Crown in terms of a navy. Yet, despite that assertion, I am not a betting man. We must take advantage and turn it into even more of a boon."
"We also need to learn what we can about the goings-on of King's Landing," Shireen added. "As we all know, the city is closed off for now. Certain merchants can go into the city, along with food deliveries and other goods, but no one's allowed to leave. I can't imagine things will stay peaceful there for long under those conditions. The city does rely on food deliveries to sustain itself, after all."
'The little lady wants a spy. That sounds like a job for Jon's large friend. I wonder if my daughter and her monthly crew have informed others of Enzo's love of learning other people's secrets?'
Cressen squinted at Davos with old eyes. "Old as I may be, I am not incapable of discerning half-hidden meanings behind words, Ser Davos. You want to buy more ships for Dragonstone. While I see the logic in such an action, I must remind you that all finances are stretched thin. Lord Stannis was saving up for winter funds, as well as…"
He glanced at Shireen, who turned her face, hiding the stoney scar with the palm of her hand.
'He was still paying for treatments, wasn't he?' Valerica asked herself, even though she already knew the answer. 'Even after all this time and many failures, he loved you enough to keep trying to help you.'
Though she didn't say it —the idea of magic was still new to this world, and there was no need to overwhelm these men's simple minds— Valerica had ways of making gold should it be needed. The transume spell was a useful bit of magic, though there was a good reason its use was considered taboo in some areas, if not outright illegal, for reasons other than academic study in many others. Still, that was back home, not in some foreign land.
"I have some old pieces of wedding jewelry in my possession. They are quite exquisite and, of course, exotic in origin. I'm sure they'd sell for a high price," Valerica said flatly. "Feel free to do so, and then put that money towards ships."
Shireen looked at her with surprised eyes. "Lady Valerica, I cannot possibly ask you to sell something so personal as wedding jewelry!"
Valerica shook her head. "I travel with them for this very situation, more or less. It's always good to have something tangible you can sell if need be, especially as a woman. Rest assured, those pieces mean as little to me as my marriage did in the end."
The silence that fell over the room was thick with palpable discomfort, complete with shifting in seats and fake coughs to clear the throat. Valerica assumed that it wasn't common for women to speak openly of unhappy marriages in this land. And how unfair that was; not only could you not be free of your husband —not unless you killed him, which was always an option— but you also couldn't complain about it.
"That offer is… Extremely generous, Lady Volkihar. and I'm sure Lady Baratheon and the rest of us will keep it in mind. Hopefully, things will not come to that, though," Davos said slowly. Then, even more cautiously, he spoke up again. "I have another idea of how we can acquire the usage of more ships. However, I am an honest enough man to admit up front that the idea will be strange and unpleasant to some of you."
.
.
.
"Well, get on with it, my good man," Morrigen snapped, waving his hand.
Davos sighed, smiling only when Shireen gave him an encouraging smile. "I would like to contact an old… business associate of mine. A man named Salladhor Saan, in hopes that we can use ships and connections for the foreseeable future."
Monford cocked an eyebrow at the older man. "And by business, I assume you mean…"
"Aye, I knew him from my time as a smuggler," Davos said flatly.
"And you two were friends?"
Davos shrugged. " As much of a friend as a smuggler and pirate can be."
"What exactly is the difference between the two?" Morrigen asked.
"Pomp," Valerica said. At the same time that Davos said, "Volume."
The two glanced at each other before Davos cleared his throat and tried again. "Smugglers are silent and are most comfortable in the shadows, while pirates are loud and flashy. If you're a famous smuggler, you're doing it wrong. Being good at it means the only people who know your name are those who know not to speak it. But if you're a famous pirate, people will sing songs about you in every port there is. And Salladhor Saan is a very famous pirate indeed. One in command of a fleet of two dozen striped galleys last I heard."
Florent sputtered, his words having several false starts before finally finding purchase. "Lady Baratheon, you cannot seriously entertain the idea of working with such a— a— disgraceful criminal? Why, it would tarnish your reputation! Your mother and father would never hear of it!"
"My mother and father cannot hear of anything, Lord Florent, as they are dead," Shireen said, voice terse. "And while my mother may have agreed with you, my father was an intensely practical man."
Morrigen shifted in his seat. "I have to agree with Florent on this one, my lady. While we may need ships, associating with someone like Ser Davos is describing would make it easier for Cersei to slander us to the general masses. More specifically, to slander you ."
"People have spoken ill of me my entire life. What are a few more words?"
Barre, Cressen, and Blackberry added their disapproval and uncertainties. Barre spoke of the man potentially staining all their souls with his actions. Blackberry thought that the man could betray them after getting into Dragonstone. Cressen merely mentioned the history of pirates being untrustworthy.
Yet even with all those voices, there was one notable exception—well, two—but only one Valerica was genuinely interested in.
"What are your thoughts on the matter, Lord Velaryon?" she asked the pale-haired man.
Monford took a moment to answer. "...When you've sailed as long as I have, my lady, you learned that men of the seas rarely fall into simple categories of good or evil. You can't even accurately quantify them as trustworthy or untrustworthy. Our temperaments change as quickly and harshly as weather on the open ocean. For now, I am content to hear more about how Davos describes Saan. I've heard of him myself, and the stories are quite fascinating."
He turned to Davos. "I've heard rumors of him being in the area recently. I assume those are true if you're bringing him up."
Davos nodded. "On a small island off the coast of Pentos. A common enough haunt for him. The trip could be done in under a month with the right ship and crew."
"And you think a famous pirate will let you sail up to him for tea and a chat?" Florent asked, voice obviously mocking.
The old smuggler took the sneering tone in stride. "He will if he knows I'm coming. As I've said, we've had a positive enough relationship for decades. For all he mocks me for settling into a comfortable position, I do believe Saan will agree to meet. Out of curiosity, if nothing else."
Chyttering spoke up again. "I can't help but notice that the smuggler recommends we work with another criminal."
Valerica's lips pursed on their own accord. She couldn't claim to know Davos very well as an individual, but she approved of what she did know. And everyone had a past. If that past didn't affect the present or even aided in present endeavors, what was the point of judging them for it?
Judging by how stiff she went, it seems little Shireen shared Valerica's irritation.
"Ser Davos' past dealings allowed him to save the lives of hundreds during Robert Rebellion when he smuggled food to those trapped in Storm's End, including the life of my father. For that alone, not only do I think his past shouldn't be judged in this context, but I think we should consider his expertise a boon to us. Especially considering we could very well be looking towards sieges in the future." Shireen said sharply, voice verging on a hiss.
Chyttering shifted in his seat. "Of course, my lady. Everyone here remembers Ser Davos' actions during the Rebellion. Brave and valiant actions they were, for which many owe him their lives… Yet, I do feel the need to bring up that that was quite a long time ago, and—"
Shireen cut the man off, a pink blush of frustration staining her unscared cheek. "And Ser Davos has faithfully served my father and House Baratheon of Dragonstone ever since. Not only was he my father's most trusted advisor and right-hand man, but the late Lord Stannis trusted him enough to leave my guardianship in his hands. He was also by my side as we escaped King's Landing, which I cannot say for you, Lord Chyttering."
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All the men in the room stayed silent. it seems they could not even argue this point without potentially insulting the late Lord Stannis and, therefore, Shireen.
Though Davos did not seem interested in defending himself against any slights, the warm look he gave Shereen spoke volumes. Valerica had no doubt that if the room was empty aside from the two, he would have embraced her and kissed the top of her head, much like Valerica had done for Serana when she was small.
"With Salladhor on our side, we'll have both men and ships. And even if he doesn't want to be involved in direct conflict, he can help get supplies around or act as a raider against King's Landing's shipping. Traditionally, it has been Dragonstone which has prevented that from occurring. If I know the man, he'd even be amused by that. And, if need be, Saan could help us find a way to sneak men into or even out of King's Landing," Davos continued.
"So, how exactly do you plan on convincing him to aid us?" Valerica asked. She didn't need convincing that this was a good idea; Davos presented a solid argument, yet having him vocalize his plan would strengthen his support and standing amongst the others at this table.
"Saan is a simple man… No, that's not right. He's a simple pirate. He seeks glory, coin, and amusement. If there is war, the songs that would be sung about him helping us overthrow the Lannisters would be wonderful, I'm sure. And he'd want to be a part of them."
"I'm sure he'd want gold, too," Morrigen added cheekily.
"And the Lannisters have plenty of gold, so what of it?" Shireen pointed out.
"Just so long as he doesn't want any of our gold or valuables," Blackberry grumbled, more to himself than anyone at the table.
Barre cleared his throat. "But still seems like a man of low moral character. Lady Baratheon, I cannot advise bringing him into your circle of confidence."
"Men of high moral character rarely win wars," Valerica snorted. She bypassed the tea to grab the discreet bottle of something much stronger that Morrigen had brought to the table. Upon seeing the uncomfortable looks on the men's faces, she left. "Do not attempt to soften things just because I am a woman. Women and children always see the worst that war offers, after all. And I'm no fool; we all know that when war comes, we all look for loopholes in the rules of engagement and ways to get leverage on our enemies. This man, Saan, we would pay him for his services. How is that any different from a mercenary company? Or you call them sellswords here, is that right?"
Monford raised his eyebrow. "Sellsword companies enter contracts. The most famous love to talk about their honor and loyalty to their patrons."
Another snort. "They kill people for money. No matter how you dress it up, gold for blood and blood for gold are the same thing. No matter who makes the exchange, it all comes down to those two things."
"I must say, my lady, having you here has made this entire experience more joyful. I can only imagine your homeland is filled with rainbows and honey for you to have such an outlook," Morrigen said cheekily.
Valerica gave the man a sharp look. In a different place, when she was a different her, she might have had him switched for such a comment. He may have even enjoyed it, too. Yet this was neither the time nor the place for any of that. "Playing by 'the rules' will only lead to death when war comes. Especially when your enemy has already demonstrated a willingness to violate something you apparently consider as sacred as Guest Right." The men before her sobered at that reminder. A tradition surprisingly shared with her own land. "Planning loopholes ahead of time and having as many resources as possible will give us the advantages we need. Especially since we cannot say for sure what force we'll be standing against. More than even that, we do not know who the Lannisters will be hiring."
She turned to Davos directly, "I'll give you some of my jewelry as a downpayment to the man. Give him an incentive."
"I like a woman who can appreciate taking the initiative," Monford said, thumping his fist against the table for emphasis. "We cannot be seen as passive, not to the Lannister sitting on the iron throne, nor to any potential allies. We all know Cersei is not sitting around working on needlework. She's already making moves to secure her future in this situation."
No… Everyone would be far less tense if the woman had been doing that.
"As do I, Lord Velaryon," Shireen said. The fact is, there are only so many plays we can make at the moment. There's still so much we don't know, both with our allies and with our enemies. The allies we do currently have set sail three days ago, and it will be a while before we hear anything concrete from them. Yet, we can focus on gathering ships and supplies. So, I will allow Ser Davos to start making plans and to meet with Salladhor Saan. And I hope you will all cooperate with him to the best of your abilities."
'Hope, not expect. Even now, she knows their loyalty is tentative at best,' Valerica thought. Looking around at the group of men who gave quiet words of agreement and small, jerking nods. 'And she's right. I would not be surprised if they all bid their time against Shireen. The only ones I would consider remotely trustworthy are Davos, Cressen, Blackberry, and maybe the Septon. However, he seems to have little love for the girl or her family. I will keep an eye on him.'
After all, Shireen also had Valerica on her side.
The conversations lulled into other topics, plenty of which Valerica didn't understand. She tried to make note of as many places and people mentioned as possible, but this was not her land, and there was only so much she cared to remember about it. So, for now, she let the words flow over her as she faded back from the conversation.
It was only when Shireen closed the meeting, and everyone rose to their feet that Valeria remembered the other presents in the room.
'By the gods, I completely forgot she was there,' Valerica thought, fear and aggravation tickling the back of her mind as she studied Melisandre. The silk-clad woman was still by the fireplace, bathed in the flames' brightness.
She hadn't done anything the entire meeting, not even contributing a single thought or opinion, let alone a suggestion. Shireen hadn't introduced her, and none of the men had addressed her. That last bit was the most worrying. Men never failed to notice a beautiful woman, nor did they waste the opportunity to get a woman's attention.
When Valerica saw Davos eyeing Melisandre as she slid out of the room with distaste, she knew he was her ally.
"Ser Davos," she said, cutting through the low drone of conversation. "Would you mind escorting me to my chambers? I still find myself getting confused navigating this castle."
The man shifted, looking around the room uncomfortably. "I… Would be honored, my lady. But I was going to speak with Lady Baratheon about—"
"It's alright, Ser Davos," Shireen said. "I need to discuss something with Lord Velayron privately, so please feel free to assist Lady Volkihar."
Eyebrows shot up around the room. Monford definitely didn't seem to know anything about this beforehand, yet Valerica was certain there would be talk about this meeting later. For now, though, everyone stayed silent.
"...As you will," the man said with a nod. After a final round of goodbyes and related pleasantries, Davos led Valerica out of the chamber and through the maze of corridors that made up the castle of Dragonstone, ensuring a healthy space between the two.
Valerica allowed the uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sounds of their boots on the floor on the distant yet steady sound of wind and waves, to go on for far longer than she wanted. Eventually, though, she finally cleared her throat and decided to get down to business.
"Are you scared of me, Ser Davos?"
The former smuggler hesitated in his step, though only briefly. "Quite frankly, my lady, yes. I don't know what you are or why you can do the extraordinary things you do, but I've heard plenty of stories of strange, pale women, and they all leave me terrified."
The ancient vampiress grinned. "I admire you for that. You're smarter than most. Smart enough, I suspect, to know that I am on your and Shireen's side."
"...Aye."
"And I assume you know the greatest threat scuttling about is Melisandre."
Another hesitation, longer this time. "...I've never liked her. I've never trusted her either, it's one of the few things Cressen and I agree on. Anyone who believes in something that deeply… She can never be loyal to any one person because everything she does is in service to her god or what she believes her god wants. No matter what I said about the matter, I was never listened to. It was the one matter that Stannis didn't care to hear my thoughts. After a while, I decided to stop talking and just keep watching. Now that he's gone, I watch to keep Shireen safe even harder."
"You care for her."
Davos raised an eyebrow. "I would think that is obvious. I love her as if she was one of my own. There's little I wouldn't do for her."
"As someone with a daughter of my own, I can appreciate that, And it has earned you my respect," Valerica said. "Ser Davos, however you may feel about me on a personal level, do you believe I am your ally?"
"Aye, I do."
'No hesitation this time.' Valerica was pleased. "Why?"
"Because you saved us. Because you gave Lady Selyse a respectable death. And because, despite also being terrified of you, Shireen has come to speak of you well," Davos said. " I can't say that I trust you blindly, as I wouldn't trust anyone with Shireen's safety blindly, but I trust that you do want to aid and protect her."
When they reached the door to Valerica's chamber, she turned, holding out her hand to Davos. "As of now, remember that you have another set of eyes on Shireen and those who may harm her."
The hand that took and shook hers was rough and callous, a typical sailor's hand. A good hand.
"It's a pleasure to be working with you then, my lady," Davos said, smiling pleasantly. Though an older man, even with a mutilated hand, he wasn't bad-looking.
"Do you have a woman, Ser Davos?" Valerica asked, her voice even yet blunt.
A red flush filled the man's cheeks, and he stepped back immediately. "Y—yes, my lady. I have a wife. We've been wed happily for many years. We have many children together. She is the only woman I've ever been with since the day we made our vows."
"Oh? I hope to meet her one day then," Valerica replied. 'Oh dear, I scared him.'
As he bid a hasty goodbyes, Valerica returned to her chambers. It was time to get the real dirty work started. When war came, she would ensure Shireen and the rest of her side was ready.
It was only when she was midway through drafting plans for some new constructions that Valerica realized she didn't know where Melisandre had attempted to take Shireen earlier in the day.
----
Tyrion V
Tyrion was fairly certain that the gods hated him.
He reached this conclusion several times over his lifetime, yet something would reiterate the point every so often.
Today, that came in the form of a storm he, the Tyrells, and the crew of the Maidens' Helm had run into only a few short days after departing Dragonstone. It hit them hard and fast, pelting them with sheets of rain and knocking them about with a vicious wind that seemed to delight in toying with them. The ship's captain —the weathered old man whose most prominent feature was his long, bushy eyebrows— had assured them that the waves weren't high enough to risk capsizing the ship and that he'd sailed through plenty more dangerous storms. Tyrion would believe that when he saw it.
And by 'saw it,' he meant when they were safely docked somewhere warm, dry, and no longer covered in bumps and bruises from being knocked about. Nor did Tyrion have to focus with every fiber of his being on not vomiting up everything he had eaten in the past two years.
"I won't judge you if you puke up your guts," Bronn said cheerfully, as if they weren't below the deck of a ship rocking from side to side with such vigor that any objects remaining on the galley tables sliding back and forth as if moved by an invisible hand. "You know what they say: better out than in."
"People say many things. Few are worth hearing," Tyrion replied, gripping the bucket between his knees tighter when the ship rocked again. "As soon as we reach Stonehelm, I will take a vow never to set foot on a ship again. If dwarves were meant to travel over water, we would have been given gills and a tail."
"You'd make an ugly as sin mermaid."
Tyrion closed his eyes and tried to focus. When he used his mind, it let him feel strong and secure in a way he never could while using his body.
The plan was simple, in theory, anyway. The Tyrells, their men, and Tyrion (and Bronn) would take a ship to Stonehelm and then travel by land to avoid traveling through the potentially enemy-controlled Crownsland. There would still be danger on the path —those roads weren't particularly well-traveled— yet the Storm lands would likely be infinitely safer than risking main roads too close to King's Landing. For a while, it was thought that they should sail the entire way, yet no one wanted that. It was easier to hide on land, and being at the mercy of a strange crew, even one provided by Dragonstone, sat ill with both Tyrion and his fellow nobles. When they got to High Garden, Tyrion and Bronn would break off and head to Casterly Rock to hopefully convince his uncle to stop siding with Cersei.
Of course, Tyrion also had his side objectives to work on. He was never one to make things easy for himself. First and foremost, he wanted to work on the different members of the Tyrell family. He wasn't liked by any of them, never had been, and it was a sentiment mutually shared. And, admittedly, Tyrion couldn't blame them. He wasn't particularly fond of certain members of his own family at the moment either. However, they each had things they wanted, and Tyrion was certain that if he figured out which strings to pull, he could ensure a more solid alliance. One which the rest of his family would survive.
'I must focus most of my energy on Olenna Tyrell and her granddaughter. The rest will listen to the two of them if they are convinced. Still, sweetening the other three to me could only be beneficial.'
There was also the matter of Stonehelm, specifically House Swann of Stonehelm. House Swann was one of the primary noble houses of the Stormlands, and its current lord, Gulian Swann, would need to be handled carefully. On the one hand, he was getting old and battling long-term illness; on the other, he remained a powerful man whose support could be vital to tipping other, more Minor Lords away from Cersei.
'If this damn storm doesn't wipe us all out first!'
Any further internal musings were cut off by the Bang! of a hatch door being thrown open, swiftly followed by the banging of footsteps. Tyrion's eyes widened as two of the sailors all but dragged a pained Lores Tyrell over to a bench.
"What's wrong with him?" Bronn asked, only half looking away from the bottle of Ale he was attempting to retrieve.
"Slipped 'n' busted his arm up good on the taffrail," one of the sailors—a tall, tattooed fellow—said. He would 'ave gone over the side if Tino here—" he nodded the other sailer, a dark-skin lad with gold earrings—hadn't grabbed 'im."
Tino looked down at the injured young man, shaking his head in amusement. " 'Dis is why 'da captain insisted all of you stay below deck. I get it; he was restless, but 'da deck during 'da storm is a sailor's place."
Loras let out a sound that could be a groan of pain, a hum of agreement, or an offended grunt. Seeing an opportunity, Tyrion turned to grab a soft bundle off the table before forcing himself off his to stumble over to the trio. All three were soaked to the bone, and water was dripping all over the floor and bench. It was a pitiful sight. Perhaps the sailors were used to such a thing, but Tyrion was certain that, soon enough, Loras would start shivering.
"Here," he said, offering the young knight his woolen blanket. "You'll need this more than I would."
Loras blinked at him, his eyes clouded with pain and confusion. The first sailor took the liberty of wrapping the blanket tightly around his self-chosen charge's shoulders, even using the edge to rub some of the water out of Loras' hair.
"Is his arm broken?" Tyrion asked, eyeing the limb that Loras clutched to his chest.
Tattoos shook his head, reaching down to gently squeeze Loras' hand. When Loras instinctively tightened his grip, letting out a loud hiss, Tyrion understood.
"Bone bruise. You see 'im all the 'ime on ships, usually with 'da rookies. It'll heal up quickly 'nough, no 'ore than a week with 'is arm in a sling. Then it'll be right as rain."
Internally, Tyrion let out a relief sigh. Part of his relief is selfish. Loras was well-known as a skilled warrior. Tyrion wanted him to be in fighting shape if they ran into trouble on the road. The softer part of him was happy that Loras' days with a blade weren't over. Jamie had once confessed to him that his greatest fear was to lose his sword hand. It was understandable; his skill with the blade had defined Jamie's entire life. If he lost that, what would he be to anyone?
'My brother. I told him that he would still be my brother.'
"'ealer 'ill is on deck too, but when he's done, we'll send 'im down 'ere to help the lad," Tattooed continued. "It shouldn't take long; we're nearly at the coast."
Fear and alarm shot up Tyrion's spine. "Coast? We're nowhere near our destination. Why are we heading towards the coast?"
Tino looked at him like he thought Tyrion was a dimwit. "'Da storm. 'Da captain is worried 'bout how it looks, doesn't 'ink it'll end anytime soon. He wants to take us closer to 'da coast 'n' lay anchor so we can wait 'til morning. To 'im it's better to find the coast now than to find it by accident later when 'da storm gets worse."
Tyrion bit the inside of his cheek. This wasn't good, and it wasn't part of the plan. Still, he could work with it. It all depended on where they were going. "Where are we? I mean, do you know where we'll be lay anchor?"
"Off 'da west coast of Tarth. Don't worry, 'da ruler of 'dis island 'has always been friendly to storm-stranded sailors. With any luck, we'll be sailin' again by dawn."
Tyrion had heard that. The seas around the Sapphire Isle were known for their storms and commonly saw shipwrecks and ships run aground. Consequently, Lord Tharth was known to give aid and shelter to those sailors.
'All right, this could be worse.'
"I can't say I'm happy about it, yet I will bow to the experience of the ship's captain. My only request is that you—we raise either the white flag or any sort of distress flag you may have," Tyrion said.
Tino's brow scrunched up, but Tyrion continued before he could protest or question. "As you said, Lord Tarth is known for offering shelter and hospitality to sailors besieged by storms. Making it clear that we are among those unlucky numbers will hopefully eliminate any suspicion or questioning will encounter if discovered during the night. More than that… I'm sure you gentlemen have been made vaguely aware of the circumstances under which we sail, correct?"
"Aye," Tattooed nodded. "Crazy mess, glad I wasn't there."
"Unfortunately, we do not know how far Cersei Lannister's influence has spread. The longer we can avoid being identified, the better."
Tattooed let out a low hum of consideration, his face still scrunched up and thought, before slowly giving another nod. "'Ere is sense to 'dat. I'll pass on your suggestion to 'da 'aptain. I can't promise what he'll do, though. 'Dis is his ship."
"Of course."
After a few heavily accented pleasantries, the sailors departed, and Tyrion returned to his bench with Bronn. When the ship lurched in the waves again, he grabbed a hold of the table's edge and hissed a combination of prayers and curses that he was sure would make a septa slap him.
Bronn laughed at his misery before resting his chin in his palm, expression growing thoughtful. "You really think your rabid pussycat of a sister has already gotten her claws into nobles this far out?"
Tyrion sighed. "There's no way of knowing. We don't know how long she's been planning this, nor have received word for days. Yet, as the saying goes, it is better to be safe than sorry."
Speaking of that… Tyrion glanced at Loras, who was still half curled into himself, before leaning closer to Bronn so they wouldn't be overheard. "When you get a chance, go pack a bag for the both of us—the essentials only. I want to have it ready in case we need to abandon our company immediately."
It was something he had been planning to do later, closer to their intended destination with less chance of discovery.
"And why would we need to do that?"
"If Tarth decides to be less than university hospitable, we need to be prepared for the possibility that the Tyrells will throw us to the wolves to save themselves."
"Aren't the wolves our allies in this scenario?"
Under different circumstances, Tyrion would appreciate a bit of wordplay. Instead, he glared. "Now is not the time for that. And besides, the Starks' house symbol is direwolves. I doubt they'd appreciate the comparison to a lesser breed."
Bronn gave a wicked grin, one completely devoid of remorse. "You know I am also completely willing to throw you to the wolves to save my skin, right?"
Tyrion shrugged. " I know that, and the fact that you're upfront about it is why I like you."
"Strange little man," Braun mumbled. He grabbed one of the rolling bottles of ale, downed its contents in one long swallow, and slammed it back down on the table with an audible thunk! Standing up, he winked at Tyrion, and announced louder than strictly necessary. "Pardon me, milord, time for me to do some dirty business."
'I suppose that's one way of deflecting attention,' Tyrion thought, wrinkling his nose.
With no one left to distract him from the storm or the thoughts of his siblings, Tyrion forced his mind to focus on the spontaneous destination. He'd never been to Sapphire Isle, yet he'd heard of its stunning landscapes and surrounding blue waters; unfortunately, its coffers did not match the land's splendor. Nor did the vigor of its current lord.
From what Tyrion remembered of the man, Selwyn Tarth had never remarried after the death of his wife nearly two decades ago, leaving him with no living sons. And while he was known to keep a string of paramours openly, no known bastards —male or female— had come from those women either. Other than that, there wasn't much to know; even before his declining health, Tarth was a man who preferred to keep to himself.
'Possibly the wisest thing he could do. Father always said Tarth was good-natured, but foolishly so,' he thought, rubbing a hand down his face. ' I wonder if I can use that to my advantage? While Tarth isn't a particularly rich House, its geographical position could make it useful as a launch point for allied ships, especially to get around to the Westerlands. They would do good business selling supplies that way.'
A wave of tiredness swept over Tyrion as he thought of his dead father. Was it possible to miss a man you had little love for? He still didn't know. It was as if his mind and heart had been at war since he'd seen Tywin Lannister's corpse on his sister's floor, looking small, old, and frail in a way that Tyrion had never thought possible for the great Lion of Casterly Rock.
'Oh Jamie, I hope you realize how foolish you are by staying at Cersei's side. She killed our father, and she'll kill you too, if you stop pleasing her. Seven hells, she may kill you as soon as you stop looking like her. That's all she wanted you for, you know? The only one Cersei could ever love was herself. I often wondered if she would have eventually replaced you with J—' Tyrion shoved that thought away as a new wave of nausea not caused by the vicious waves hit his stomach. That was too awful, even for him.
'If you were with me, we could have kept Myrcella safe. Now she's out in the world, somewhere I can't be, and I have to trust a young man I hardly know to protect her. The world has never been fair, but knowing that is a new brand of cruelty.'
Dwarves were not made to sleep in hammocks. Tyrion quickly realized that in his adventures with sea travel.
While it was true that they took up less space and, therefore, would theoretically be less cramped, the process of getting into and out of a hammock was significantly more difficult with short, stumpy legs. After the second time, Tyrion had fallen flat on his face trying to get out of his claimed hammock, Bronn and several of the sailors had —after they stopped laughing— banded together to make Tyrion a bed of some spare blankets and an emptied-out truck. While the entire thing felt vaguely like a coffin, the dwarf could not deny that it was decently comfortable.
That still didn't mean he could sleep through the banging of doors, thudding of rushed footsteps, and frightened, sharp whispers.
"Get up!" Bronn grunted, yanking Tyrion to his feet by his shirt.
"Waz goin' on?" Tyrion replied, blinking sleep from his eyes as he tried to regain his balance. Looking around one of the two small cabins that all the guest passengers had been sequestered in—Tyrion suspected they were put here to keep them out of the way of the actual crew—he was shocked to see that all the female Tyrells were also present. Then he noticed that, aside from himself, everyone was looking toward the first mate of the ship.
"We were found during the night by Tarth's men," Olenna Tyrell, who was… quite the sight in a simple sleeping shift and dressing gown, said, wrinkled face twisted into a scowl.
"Fuck!" Tyrion hissed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bronn inching towards the stuffed knapsack that he'd been using as a pillow.
"Calm down, all of you," the first mate said, with a curtness that any noble would be startled by. He was a tall, wiry man with deep olive skin and glossy black hair that pulled into a near waist-length braid. "Panic is not yet necessary. The men have not asked for any of you specifically. They have simply noticed a strange ship docked on their coast and are investigating. They asked all aboard to either come out or for some soldiers to be allowed on the ship for a basic inspection. It is not uncommon."
"Have there been any signs of aggression?" Margaery Tyrell asked. Tyrion noticed that despite clearly being woken suddenly and not having time to dress properly, she still took the time to put on her rose-themed eye patch.
The first mate —Tyrion vaguely recalled his name being Ravi— shook his head. "No. Some of the men have bows and arrows, as well as a small flame at the ready. They could burn the ship if they wanted, yet that does not seem to be their intention."
"What should we do then?" The question came from Loras, who was already pacing back and forth. As the sailors from last night had promised, his arm had been splinted and fitted into a sling. Tyrion wondered if the ship's healer had offered up some milk of the poppy, or if the young man was forced to deal with the pain of his injury. If the latter were the case, it would certainly explain the aggression rolling off Loras in waves.
"We do as they ask," Tyrion said quickly. " Just very carefully."
All lights turn to him. Mace scowled. "What do you speak of, dwarf?"
"To refuse their orders would raise their suspicion. As the first mate here has said, they are not being aggressive. I, for one, would not like to see that change. If we do things correctly, not only will we avoid trouble, we might even find ourselves with more allies," Tyrion explained.
" Are you suggesting we tell the men who we are and why we're here?' Olenna asked.
Tyrion shook his head. "Not unless we absolutely have to. I'm not saying we lie, as being caught doing that could be disastrous, just that we don't offer any unnecessary information."
"That's going to be harder for some of us than others," Bronn said, only half under his breath.
Tyrion felt an entire room full of eyes slide to him. He scowled. "You do realize I am not the only dwarf in the world?"
Bronn shrugged. "I know that, but do our new friends outside?"
"Should I hide in a crate then? Or do we have any small balls lying around? I can juggle, and you all can call me a jester!" Tyrion snapped back, frustration rising.
"Quiet!" Olenna snapped. She rubbed her chin, and her eyes narrowed at her granddaughter. "Margaery, I want you front and center when we go up. Don't wear your eye patch."
The young woman went pale, hand coming up to her face. " Grandmother, I—"
"No, that makes sense," Tyrion interjected. "Few things garner sympathy quite like an injured, beautiful young woman."
Margaery's look of shock slid off her face, and she nodded slowly. "Yes… I understand."
Olenna grabbed her hand comfortingly. "I'll be right beside you, my girl. I'm not quite as lovely to look at, but the feeble elderly can still tug at a few heartstrings."
"Pretty boy here is also beat up," Bronn said, jerking his head at Loras. "Should we put him on display too?"
The young man flushed with anger and opened his mouth to say something, only to be cut off by his grandmother.
"No, we shouldn't push things too much. We can't make our play too obvious," the old woman said, dismissively waving her hand.
"So we're playing up for sympathy then," Lady Alerie asked softly.
"Of course. It's one of the oldest forms of manipulation there is," Olenna replied. "Everyone, quickly! Prepare yourself to greet these guards. Dress down. Stick to plain clothes, little jewelry, and simple hair."
Tyrion silently nodded in agreement. There was sense enough to that, and they'd already been doing a less extreme version of it. The few fine clothes and valuables that the Tyrells had with them, or they had all borrowed from Dragonstone, had been packed away below deck. This was common practice for traveling nobles, as pirates and raiders were known to look for ships that had well-dressed ladies aboard. And if it was known who they were, or if it was found out later, they could claim that was the reason for the plain dress.
Mace Tyrell sounded like an unhappy hog. "This seems like a lot of unnecessary nonsense. I'm sure if we simply explain the situation to these men, they will see that it is in their best interest to let us go on our way. If not out of the good of their hearts or their sense of honor, then a bit of gold in the palm will surely change their minds."
Olenna looked like she was ready to send her middle-aged son to the corner for punishment, and even Tyrion had to resist the urge to snort.
"Believe me, Lord Tyrell. Few appreciate the power of a bit of well-applied gold more than I do. Yet I also know that attempting to press it into the wrong palm can be seen as an insult. And I'd rather not insult the men who are pointing a flaming arrow at the wooden ship I'm standing on."
Also, none of them had much gold on them anyway, so it would be more of a promise of gold to offer.
Before the Fat Flower could respond, he was once more quieted by the Queen of Thorns.
"Lord Tyrion is right," Olenna said, making a face like she had just tasted something foul. "Bribery can be a valuable tool, yet it isn't always the right one. But… the offer of a reward for aid may not be amiss, especially if worded correctly."
'By the gods, I think I'm finally winning her over,' Tyrion thought wryly.
Captain Eyebrows was mostly correct in his prediction that the storm would resolve itself overnight. However, the pale pearl gray of the early dawn light and the vicious wind that remained kept Tyrion from being too eager to sing his praise, especially since the waves it created still tossed the anchored ship to and fro. Both of which meant the crew's entire focus was on safely lowering the gangplank. The first mate was right when he said that Tarth's guardsmen appeared relaxed and calm; even the ones with the notched bow had them lowered and pointed at the ground. It only occurred to Tyrion now, as he tried to stay upright in the force of the wind blowing against his back, that the threat of the flaming arrows was likely a bluff. One fired in this weather would almost certainly go astray.
It was too late to mention that now, however.
On the bright side, it meant there was no rush for them to make their way down the gangplank, which was good because the plain piece of wood felt dreadfully uneven and unstable. First, the crew went, Captain Eyebrows and Ravi going up to converse with the figure who seemed to be the head of the Guards. Then were the Tyrells, with the few women on board huddled in the center with their age and injuries on full display, first surrounded by the men of the family and then by their guards. Tyrion hung near the back, hoping not to be noticed, with Bronn at his side.
"If it would make you feel better, I could stuff you in a sack and carry you around," the sellsword offered. Tyrion could barely hear him over the wind, the wood wobbling beneath his feet. "You'd have to stay still, though."
"I appreciate the offer, but it's a tad too late for that now," Tyrion replied, eyeing the group ahead of him. He winced when Loras Tyrell pushed himself forward, nearly elbowing several of their men into the water.
' The uncomfortably deep water at that ,' he thought, eying it with some concern.
"Will this take long?" he asked loudly. "Unnecessary things usually do."
Olenna let out a decidedly unfeeble-sounding hiss, demanding he comes back immediately. Yet the Captain of the Guard only looked up, completely unimpressed by the young man.
"I don't see protecting my land from potential raiders or pirates to be unnecessary, lad. As much as I'd like to believe you folks were truly just some sailors in need of a safe cove for the night, faking distress is a common tactic among the more unsavory lot. Far as we are from the Iron Islands, we can't be taken any chance, especially these days."
Loras did not respond to this, yet though he quieted, he did not return to his space next to his sister, and the tension between the two groups remained elevated.
The head guardsman finished his hushed conversation with the captain and first mate, then turned to the rest of them and cleared his throat. "All right, the name is Morris, and, as you may have guessed, I'm in charge of the guardsmen here. I'm sure you'll all want to be on your way as soon as possible, and while everything Captain Harrigan here says checks out, we're going to need to give the ship a quick search before we can let you set sail. So long as everyone cooperates, this won't take any time at all. First, though, I will ask you to turn over all your weapons; you'll get them back as soon as the search is done."
If Loras' actions activated the nerves between the two groups, then Morris' orders only escalated it. All the Tyrell men who were carrying weapons gripped them tightly, pulling closer to their lord and his family, still standing upon the gangplank. Even Bronn, who often preferred to look unarmed, twitched a hand towards the dagger he kept hidden away at the small of his back. The only people who complied immediately, Tyrion noticed, were the sailors.
'Ah, I see how it will be. We are not two groups, but three.'
Mace Tyrell wanted to protect his family, and Bronn wanted to protect himself, whether that meant protecting Tyrion or abandoning him to his fate was to be seen. Captain Harrigan —so that was his name!— wanted to protect his crew and ship, even if he was getting paid to shuttle Tyrion and the Tyrells. And Morris had both his duty and the safety of his men to consider.
And it was getting very clear that Morris was swiftly losing patience with them.
"Come now, I don't think you all arrived at the shores looking for trouble. Yet I have no reason to trust any of you yet. So please, do not prove me wrong," he said sternly. Behind him, his men adjusted their grips on their weapons, and notched arrows started to rise upward.
At that moment, the tension between all of them seemed to exist as a physical, palpable thing. It was as real and as loud as the howl of the wind and the waves crashing against the rocky coastline where water met land. None of the Tyrell men drew weapons, yet none of them took their hands away either. Eventually, something seemed to snap.
"Alright, that's how it's going to be then," Morris sighed.
Tyrion pushed himself forward, waving his arms. "No! No, that isn't—"
At the same time, Olenna Tyrell let out a shrill, hysterical shriek of terror. It was fake. Anyone who knew the woman could tell that, but Tyrion would not blame her for an attempt to diffuse the situation the only way she could.
And yet, that wasn't what drew everyone's attention.
No, that honor went to the sudden swaying of Alerie Tyrell.
The woman swayed right, left, and right again—this time more dramatically. As if in slow motion, Alerie stumbled away from her daughter and towards the edge of the plank. And perhaps that would have been all that happened if not for the violent wind catching in her hair, loose sleeves, and dress skirts. It blew the fabric around her feet until the hem of her dress caught under the sole of her boot. That was the final nudge needed, and before anyone could react, Alerie toppled off the gangplank, hitting the water right below with an audible splash!
.
.
.
"Oh fucking gods!" Bronn swore, his rough voice returning sense to everyone's mind and air to their lungs.
There were more shouts, more swearing, and more exclamations of horror. Several rushed forward towards the edge of the plank, trying to see the woman, only for it to tilt dangerously. A few of Morris' men and the sailors rushed forward, each grabbing someone and pulling them onto solid ground. Tyrion needed no such aid and was down the plank as fast as his short little legs could carry him. In Tyrion's defense, he still kept an eye on the water all the while.
It did not appear to be very deep, yet the waves were rough and the current strong, even against the darkness of the water, the pale light meant Tyrion could barely see the deep green of Alerie's gown and her long silver hair as she got yanked about by the waves.
"Mother!" Loras yelled, lunging forward in an attempt to jump in the water himself.
Morris grabbed him and hauled him backward. "The water will get you too, boy, with an arm like that!"
Through the cluster of the three different groups, one figure broke through the chaos and threw himself into the water. It was one of the guardsmen, the tallest and the broadest of the lot, and one of the few wearing a full-face helmet. With long, steady strides, the guardsman's powerful body forced its way through the waves —the water coming up over his waist— until he was finally able to grab the skirt of Alerie's dress and haul her into his arms before turning and fighting his way back onto dry land.
There was a palpable feeling of relief once both of them were out of the surf; all animosity between the three factions was seemingly forgotten in the wake of a potential disaster being averted. Tyrion couldn't help but hope that this meant the morning might be able to be saved if they could build off this goodwill.
"Mother!" Loras and Margaery both cried, rushing forward to fuss over the woman, their father close behind.
Alerie didn't seem to quite be able to hear their words nor see their faces. Instead, she looked around at the group with wide, frightened eyes. It was as if she didn't understand who any of them were or why she was in the situation—cold and dripping wet in the arms of a stranger.
" I fainted," she mumbled. "I fainted and fell into the water. It was so cold. I fainted. I fainted and—"
"It's probably the stress," Morris said, stepping forward. "Stress and sailing can go hand in hand, in my experience, especially with the fairer sex. Still, after all this, I suggest you all follow me and my men back to Evenfall Hall for food, washing, and to be looked over by a healer. It… looks like a few of you have had a hard go of it lately. Lord Tarth is a good man; he'll be happy to host you."
Tyrion let out a sigh of relief. Yes, after everything, this was about as good of an outcome as they could hope for. It also meant that he might not have the sale in this terrible weather again.
"That is a wonderful idea. I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say—"
"Stop with the threats!" Loras snapped, glaring at Morris before whirling to face the large guardsman again. Give me my mother! I won't let a stranger handle her! She should be helped by someone she trusts."
"Lo—Calm yourself, brother," Margaery pleaded, putting a hand on her brother's good arm. Loras immediately shook it off.
The guard stepped back, head tilted down as he looked at the shorter Loras. "Your arm is injured. I don't think you'd be able to support her weight."
His voice was odd. It was higher pitched than you would expect from a man that size, and there was an echo from inside the helmet.
"He's right," Margaery said, grabbing for her brother again. "Leave it. We have no reason to think Mother is in danger. This man saved her, after all!"
But words fell on deaf ears, and Loras' long-simmering aggression boiled over as he lunged at the guard.
'Nonononono!' Tyrion's mind chanted, various worst-case scenarios flashing through his mind.
Oddly, though, it didn't go as badly as he thought it would.
So swift that Tyrion could barely see it, the guard kicked one armored boot into the charging Loras' stomach, effectively knocking the wind out of him and sending the young man sprawling onto his arse. All while still maintaining a gentle hold on Lady Alerie. When Loras hit the ground, a choir of chuckles escaped all the guardsmen.
"Loras!" Margaery screamed, falling to her knees by her brother and checking him over. Mace Tyrell nearly fell over attempting to do the same.
"...Loras?" Morris asked, eyes narrowing at the young man on the ground before scanning the other individuals who were clearly not sailors.
'Oh no,' Tyrion thought, stomach sinking. 'I don't like that look in his eyes.'
Morris pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing once more. "I take it I'm looking at Lord Tyrell and his family?"
There was a hiss of inhaled breath from the Tyrell men, and Olenna Tyrell's eyes —unnervingly sharp in her wrinkled old face— darted from one face to another before eventually setting her jaw and giving a sharp nod.
"Yes, there's no use denying it," she said before pointing a gnarled hand at Tyrion. "And Tyrion Lannister, the current Lord of Casterly Rock, travels with us."
"Sly old bitch," Bronn chuckled under his breath.
Mentally, Tyrion agreed. Though he didn't find it quite as amusing as his bodyguard. 'She's not interested in letting me escape from this situation if her family cannot.'
Morris sucked in his cheek, scanning all of them. His eyes lingered on Margaery's exposed, damaged face long enough that the young lady turned away. She put on a strong front, yet for all her sharpness, the maiming Margaery had endured had clearly affected her deeply. Behind Morris, his men exchanged hushed words between themselves. On their side, Tyrion watched on, hoping that none of the Tyrell guardsmen would draw their blades. There had already been one clash of violence, but that didn't mean it had to go further.
"Well," Morris said slowly, "Now that I know who you are, I think I will have to insist that you all return to Evenfall Hall. Lord Tarth will certainly have words about what is happening here."
A dozen mouths exploded with different words, excuses, and rebuttals. Before anyone in particular could stand out, Tyrion raised his voice as loud as he could. "My companions and I would be delighted to make the acquaintance of a man so famously even-tempered, kind-hearted, and good-natured as Lord Tarth! Please, good Ser, lead the way! But first, is there anything we should retrieve from our ship?"
Once more, displeased eyes turn to Tyrion. Some show annoyance, others outright animosity. When he meets Olenna's eyes, her lips pressed together so tightly they seem to disappear into her face. Despite this, Tyrion knows she will not go against his words. Open dissension amongst their little group would raise eyebrows. And if they were to win the allies here, the appearance of unification—even if it was merely an illusion—would be vital.
As if on cue, when Mace opened his fat mouth, Olenna silenced her son with a hand on his arm. "...Yes," she said slowly. "As our… companion says, we'd be honored to meet with Lord Tarth."
Tyrion grinned brightly in the face of the infamous Queen of Thorn's glare. 'Just because we're on the same side, don't think I won't be making my own bids and plays. I have plans in all this, too.'
"Alright, then, allow my men and I a moment to discuss things, and we'll be on our way," Morris said. Then he turned to the tall guard, who was in the process of passing off Alerie to Olenna's strange, silent twin bodyguards. Lady Brienne, would you care to ride ahead and warn your father of what has happened?"
His tone was light, teasing. It reminded Tyrion of when his uncles would jap with him when he was a boy. It was such a shift from his stern if affable demeanor that the name he spoke took a moment to register in Tyrion's mind.
'Wait… Brienne? That's a w—'
Before the thought could even conclude, the tall guard pulled off his helmet to reveal a damp, flushed face that was undeniably female, if only technically so.
'...Well, fuck. I was not expecting that!'