The screams of Mance Rayder echo about the courtyard like a sick chorus of angels praising the god of chaos and death, the fire clinging to the fur of his legs and then scorching into his skin like a brand on cattle. And despite his every intention to stay strong--to keep quiet--death by fire is of the most potent of pains, and even the gods may scream out with the inferno about their waist. His mouth pressed open wide, the man screams and pleads for it to stop, though without the intention to ever bend the knee, and it is the dilemma of the century before Jon makes his choice as the good-man's protector.
An arrow pierces the man's heart, and the wood does not burst into flames as the brown eyes of Mance Rayder recognize the piercing pain from that of scorching heat, eyes not searching for the perpetrator, but for the man he knows to be Jon. And just as that heart heaves and seeps one last time, his eyes lock on Jon's--as do the eyes of a king and a witch--as the man stands firm with Valyrion on his shoulder and a charge to fulfill.
The man's light extinguishes before their eyes as Jon then leaves the scene, palming the letter in his left hand as the other drops the mantle of good-works, a bow without an arrow clanging to the floor.
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J—
You are a noble man, and I've never admired someone to the same extent that I do you: a kind and gentle soul with only the will to do good, not tainted by the poisons of treachery and truly dutiful in your every step. I wish to be like you, but my morality is far diluted by my past—all I wish, then, is to spend time with people of better sense than myself. I miss you with my whole being.
I have arrived in Pentos and now await my journey to Meereen with Varys and Tyrion. I do not know what will happen along the way, and it is not of my greatest focus, as Tyrion is the one who must make it to Meereen, not myself. And I feel as if I will not be the one to make it, that I will have to flee to Westeros before I arrive anywhere close. It might just be paranoia chanting at me, but my instincts never seem to be wrong.
I hope your meeting with Mance went well—and that you're not dead. I can only imagine the struggles you face while addressing kings and varying sides of warfare—as close as I've been to the royalty, they've never been much for war. Just poison.
I will pray that you soon learn how to tame your beast of a direwolf, as it is not comely for a man like yourself to let a dog run rampant. I am so ashamed of this fault in your perfection, and I will be sure to remark on it whenever the need arises.
Your words, like mine to you, hold a special chamber in my heart. I shall see you soon. Until then, pray that the sun will open up before your eyes, and let you know how adored you are.
G
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Doran's peace seems to be an expensive commodity now that the entourage of Dornishmen have returned to the capital, bringing Ellaria with them and a multiplicity of ideas as to what happened to Oberyn. Honestly, the uncertainty is beginning to press sharply into his side as more days pass, and no more words are heard from the other prince. And indeed, with each passing day, Doran's more tempted to believe Ellaria's ideas, though that would prove dangerous with her intentions to do no good and only provoke war.
"Elia was raped and murdered, and we are oppressed. Oberyn was taken by the Lannisters in the night and butchered by the mad man. And this Lannister girl skips about the Water Gardens eating our food, breathing our air," his brother's paramour whispers venomously into his old ear. "How many of your family do they have to kill? Let me have her. Let me send her to Cersei one finger at a time."
"We do not know that he's dead," Doran invokes the truth again, although it sounds weak even in his ears. But those strangely hazel eyes reach out for hers, away from the whimsical couple in the garden, as he reminds her. "I love my brother. And you make him very happy. For that you will always have a place in my heart. But we do not mutilate little girls for vengeance. Oberyn would voice the same if he were here."
As usual, Ellaria refuses to hear his sense or his command, turning on her heel as her skirts part in her wake and she leaves the balcony altogether. Doran heaves a sigh of relief and frustration with the shake of his head, misunderstanding the woman's penchant for revenge, even now and after all these years.
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With the swaying and minute light pressing through the foggy window and dusty curtains, there reveals a rather potent air of dandruff and dust, before meeting and setting alight the hair of the lone female in the carriage. Although rather subtle in its shifting, Gabrielle's hair has taken on a depth of new color with her entrance to Essos, shifting from light blonde to a near golden color, reflecting the Lannisters especially as her eyes shine an emerald green that now cannot be mistaken for grey or blue. Indeed, she deeply resembles the queen she is made to 'mock,' and the heir of Tywin Lannister as she sits beside the dwarf in the carriage, their eyes sharp and intelligent and nearly identical in their dark presence within the roadhouse.
And though there is only a slight change in her coloring, she is like a different entity to create a wake in the world, a shifting in her character that even Gabrielle's come to notice as she acted on her old instinct.
Something's changed, and it's not the noticeable shift in her coloring that they consider, nor the rather lasting injuries the box imposed upon her--joints that will likely never bend correctly again and persistent splinters that may never escape the prison of her thighs. But all the same, it is the box that's changed her for better or for worse, providing the medium through which much thought was cast as time spanned endlessly like the sea. Indeed, between her rather strange conversations with Tyrion, business meetings with Varys, and flirting with Oberyn, she'd been left with plenty of time to wonder what she needed and wanted, and how that's changed in the past year.
Five years prior--such a long time, she thought--what she needed was her father's approval, which then shifted to a need to do good by Varys's command, as if he was an all-knowing god of fate and the future. And for the past three years, that duty had been split with a need for personal connection to another female--Sansa, the companion she missed most dearly. And as for what she wanted, Gabrielle finds herself no longer wishing for the comfort and protection men always provided her--first Sandor and then Oberyn. She had lied to Sansa about why she kept the former around; of course, she had loved the Hound, but their relationship was focused solely on his protection of her and her comforting of him. Now, she had become a woman with a great force in her bones and muscle--not a metaphor for indeed she'd grown very strong in the previous years. This was another lie she'd told the girl: that her strength derived from years of pushing men away. But of course, there was a truth in that sentiment--that did happen--but she was never capable of keeping them at bay until five years prior as a strength settled in her that made her capable of many things, including saving Ned Stark from the Lannister lance and Sansa from the group of rapists. She'd tried to ignore this new found ability for some time, but it now pressed firmly onto her mind with many questions.
So, she no longer looks for the comfort and protection of men, and Gabrielle finds herself wishing for something deeper in feeling for such a partner--something she can only assume to be true love, as silly as any idea. And she wants commitment, an idea that points to a wish to marry--something not unexpected given her age at twenty years old. Indeed, she's a bit surprised that her father did not try to ship her off with some man twice her age. But all the same, Gabrielle knows that Petyr understands her better than most, and that she'd likely murder him and the man before being shipped off to be wed.
And yet, she wonders if it would be so bad...to be married. That same instinct to settle down holds a deep position somewhere in her heart, and Gabrielle can easily relate that to her need to protect those younger than her--Sansa--like a mother protects her child. For now, the ideas are easy to ignore as she presses onward in her duty, but that want for a family seems to burn deep in her core--entirely inopportune for the moment, she amusedly thinks as her life's in danger and she's fleeing between kingdoms.
Shoving that thought away, and like ever, her mind turns back to Sansa and the guilt that seems to follow her like a shadow. She should have never sent the Stark with Littlefinger; she had a choice. In the end, Gabrielle realizes that her decision was entirely selfish--that she could have forgone everything if only to protect Sansa with her own strength. But, as ever, duty supersedes love--and Gabrielle almost chuckles as she realizes she's become much more like Jon in their time apart. At least she can write him.
Tyrion watches her steadfast eyes and twitching hand as she plays with a bug she picked off the window behind her, obviously lost in thought and reminiscent of the changes he sees. His hand raises without qualm as he takes another long drink of wine in the blasted summer heat, not aided by the warming feeling of the alcohol in his veins, and he at once wishes that winter was here if only to stay cool with this consumption of alcohol.
"There's a bug," Tyrion responds without thought, and breaking the others from their trances as Gabrielle's mind turns to the present, Oberyn stops the sharpening of his spear, and Varys turns away from looking out the window.
The Spider's eyes narrow with the contempt he seems characterized by, as he rebukes, "Yes, best be careful. You might accidentally consume some solid food."
"I found some people in the Rhoynian Veld who believed that solid food was of the gods, and that mortals could only eat liquids in respect of them," Oberyn relates one of his strange tales that truly baffles them all, even Varys as he comes from Essos.
Gabrielle's eyebrows quiver at the story, but more at the grammar as she asks, "Can one truly 'eat' liquids?"
"How'd they survive? Surely you cannot just have water and survive," Tyrion rebukes, most hypocritically as he seems to live off of wine in these travels. But seeming to realize this himself, Tyrion's eyes shine with promise as he questions, "Has anyone ever tried?"
"They drank the blood of cattle and mushed grain into liquids," Oberyn relates as he sits forward and leans his elbows on his knees, watching amused as Gabrielle's nose scrunches in distaste. "Cannot say it was particularly appetizing, but they were a godly people. Most of them are eccentric."
"Did they have many types of alcohol?" Tyrion asks. "Blood alcohol and goats--?"
"They also thought wine the drink of the gods."
Tyrion scoffs at the mere mention of the peoples' practices, sitting back with a sharp eye to the spymaster, "No alcohol? Varys, I found your people."
"Just because I disagree with your startling lack of food does not mean--"
"When I agreed to come with you, did I misrepresent my intentions?" Tyrion interrupts, taking the final swig of his wine that he'd perfectly timed with years of practice. Setting his cup to the side, he asks irritatedly, "Besides, what is there for me to do inside this fucking box?"
"At least this fucking box as windows," Gabrielle reminds him of their trip across the Narrow Sea, and he sees her point.
But Varys is in one of his taunting moods, lazing in his seat as he asks, "You don't like it?"
"I want to take a walk."
"You can't. Cersei has offered a lordship to the man who brings her your head," Varys rebukes this intent, though they are all forced to wonder when not if Tyrion will escape these confines. "And 500,000 silver dragons for Gabrielle's."
"Cersei ought to offer her cunt. Best part of her for the best part of me." Gabrielle laughs loudly as she does at any mocking of the Queen Regent, and Tyrion allows himself a grin. "Well, I suppose a box is as good a place for me as anywhere, although I am highly offended that I'm worth a simple lordship while Gabrielle's worth a lord's wealth."
"Are we really going to spend the entire road to Volantis talking about the futility of everything?" Oberyn asks with that daunting tone of the Dornish.
And Gabrielle grins like the companion of the Dornish Prince's danger, rebuking lightly, "You've always been a man of greater optimism than that."
"You're right. No point," Tyrion shrugs, but his eyes suddenly reflect a realization detained by alcohol as his eyebrows furrow and irises spark upon Gabrielle's, "The road to Volantis? You said we were going to Meereen. What's in Volantis?"
Gabrielle grins, "The road to Meereen."
"And what do you hope to find at the end of the road to Meereen?"
"I told you," Varys huffs, irritated at the sharp mind made mushy by alcohol, "A ruler."
But Tyrion's not as wasted as Varys supposes, instead questioning the integrity of their wish as he remarks, "We've already got a ruler. Everywhere has already got a ruler. Every pile of shit on the side of every road has someone's banner hanging from it."
"You were quite good, you know, at ruling," Varys refuses to acknowledge the crudeness of Tyrion's words. "During your brief tenure as Hand."
"I didn't rule. I was a servant," Tyrion denies.
But Gabrielle scoffs all the same, rightly remarking, "You were less of a servant than the king."
"And still, a man of talent," Varys adds.
Tyrion's green eyes gaze between the two secretive and intelligent figures of woman and man, unsteady at their praise as he again has to wonder his worth in this realm of politics. Seeing that look in his eye, Oberyn feels the need to remind Tyrion, "It's true. I heard of your victory at the Blackwater."
"Managed to kill a lot of people," Tyrion scoffs.
"And yet, you managed to save far more," Gabrielle reminds him.
Tyrion's eyes seem to sway with the reminder of all those lost in his battle: no one of great worth to him but resulting in the loss of the power he so loved. His mind revolves back to Shae--the beacon calling him to his own past, something he was unable to withhold in his wish to grow into the future. He reflects, "She wanted me to leave King's Landing. She begged me. I wouldn't go."
"Why?" Varys asks for the rest, not needing to hear her name to know it is Shae that he regards.
"Because I liked it. Power. Even as a servant." Tyrion pours himself another cup and takes a lengthy drink.
"People follow leaders. And they will never follow us," Varys returns to his form of rather great cynicism that Tyrion so admires. "They find us repulsive."
"I find us repulsive."
"And we find them repulsive, which is why we surround ourselves with large, comfortable boxes to keep them away. And yet, no matter what we do, people like you and me are never really satisfied inside the box," Varys remarks, his eyes shining on Tyrion's with the premise of great power in the years to come. "Not for long."
"Maybe then, we are just commoners with more material in our pockets. Varys, you claim us incapable of holding power—of leading—but have we not done just that?" Gabrielle chimes after a moment of silence, not tempting the cynicism but hoping to light the fire beneath Tyrion's arse--to make him passionate towards their endeavor. "We are leaders of our respective fields—Master of Spies, a Hand of the King, a Prince, and the most practiced potioneer—I just think our audience is more silent than those of Flea Bottom."
Tyrion gazes at the woman whose wisdom holds no bounds, but seems to bloom with each year she gains apart from her father. And though he's watched her since her young age of five and seen the woman grow from the frocks of childhood, her angelic appearance will always be a shock to him, especially as they trailblaze and make a future for Westeros. In that moment, he sees the salvation of their future.
Tyrion sighs as his eyes dart from her, fearing the great duty he's placed upon her figure, as he offers to Varys, "Let's go for a walk."
"No," Varys denies.
And Tyrion's breath grows frustrated as his lungs constrict in irritation from the dust and dandruff of their roadhouse, barking, "How many dwarves are there in the world?"
"Not nearly enough to keep you safe," Gabrielle responds as she finally opens the window to let the beadle escape her grasp, turning to Tyrion with humoured eyes, "And I'm not risking it by standing at your side."