"My thoughts on the matter align with your own. The High Septon's behaviour was corrosive, as was his attitude. Having a man like that reside in the Sept eats away the Faith from the inside. So now he resides in the Red Keep's dungeons instead," Cersei relates to the sordid man called the High Sparrow in the depths of the King's Landing squalor. "The Faith and the Crown are the two pillars that hold up this world. If one collapses, so does the other. We must do everything necessary to protect one another."
///////////////////////////////////////////////
Gabrielle's about to throw herself from the insipid carriage by the eighth day of the trek to Volantis, much like Tyrion himself but entirely due to Tyrion himself. Her hands ghost softly and quickly through the lengths of Trident's fur, weaving together a long braid that goes from his head to his tail as she tries to keep the wolf cool in the heat of Essos. And beside her, like a gnat in her ear, the sound of Tyrion opening and closing the window buzzes fiercely, and she has to choke down her irritation at the company as she hisses, "You'll break it if you keep doing that."
"I'll break your hand if you keeping doing that," Oberyn threatens the dwarf, revealing that even this lax character seems certain to throttle Tyrion is only to silence the sound of glass against wood.
But the imp does not seem to understand the danger of his position as he huffs incessantly, "I have to get out of this wheelhouse."
"Volantis is a large city," Varys reminds him.
But Tyrion does not seem to understand as he again proclaims, "I have to get out of this wheelhouse."
"The likelihood of you being spotted here increases a hundredfold," Gabrielle explains to him, her patience dwindling quickly at the ignorance of the dwarf, "especially if I were to run after you with Trident."
"Then don't run after me. I have to get out of this wheelhouse."
"I'm not sure how many new ways we can find of saying this," Oberyn actually hisses like the viper he is, although Tyrion pays him no mind as he walks over to Varys who looks the least irritated out of the bunch.
"I will not be of any use to Daenerys Targaryen if I lose my mind," Tyrion tries to reason with the eunuch who cannot help thinking that this is the worst time for Tyrion to escape. "I can't remember the last face I saw that wasn't yours, Oberyn's, or Gabrielle's."
"She has a very nice face," Oberyn has the gall to flirt with her, but she's past the point of caring as she glares at him with the air of irritation pressing into their hot skin
"I'm losing my mind, and that dog's whining," Tyrion almost shouts, turning and pointing to the shuffling wolf at Gabrielle's feet, "is not helping."
"If anyone recognizes you, you'll lose more than that," Varys responds.
"Look, we are thousands of miles from Westeros," Tyrion tries again, seemingly more sober than anytime in the past months as he pulls his hood over his head and asks, "What am I? One more drunk dwarf."
Gabrielle's eyes narrow in the statement of fact that does not seem to stick in Tyrion's head, "In a population of not many dwarves."
As ever, Tyrion just ignores the woman as he passes around Trident and knocks on the front of the carriage, halting its path with the call of a voice and cessation of rocking beneath their feet. Trailblazing, Tyrion agiley unlocks the door and hops out the back of the carriage into the crowded market of Volantis, Varys and Oberyn hustling after him as Gabrielle puts on her own hooded cloak and throws another over Trident.
Shoving the worries away, she's grateful to be outside and out of the dust as she presses between shoppers and merchants and slaves and children, careful to keep Trident hidden from lingering eyes as she catches up with the other three. Oberyn stands to her other side, trying to hide the wolf between them, as she nods and roughly shoves a man away who appears more drunk than any man prior.
"Slaves," Tyrion resounds from nearby, drawing Gabrielle's eye to the focus of Tyrion's attention in a nearby stall, a strange thing for the Lannister and her, even in her previous line of management.
"Yes," Varys relates with a contemptuous hate. "The Volantene masters are very organized. Flies for dung shovelers. Hammers for builders. Tears for whores."
Gabrielle scoffs at the business, "As if they'd forget."
Few people mind their procession and none notice the wolf--a true miracle--as they continue on in the market and find themselves under the voice of a true Red Priestess and a crowd of patrons in the brothel nearby, passing into the establishment without any form of scrutiny at just a flash of Gabrielle's entrancing face and a place of her hand on the guard's arm.
Tyrion sighs happily as they take a seat in any place other than the wheelhouse--a brothel that's not nearly as attractive as Baelish's or any in Westeros. Gabrielle gestures Trident under the table as she keeps herself hooded from lingering eyes--unlike Tyrion who's wishing for death--as Oberyn sits nearby and eyes a couple of woman in the opposite room.
"See? We blend right in. Just four more travellers, mad with lust," Tyrion snidely remarks, tempting Gabrielle to laugh. Indeed, she'd hardly label a dwarf, a eunuch, and a woman as 'mad with lust,' although Oberyn certainly fits that role as he eyes the women nearby. She lets herself smirk and happily takes the wine from a servant as Varys thanks her and she relaxes into her seat.
Gabrielle grimaces as she eyes all the prostitutes about the room, clinking her glass against the others as she accepts her father's business as a beautiful endeavor in comparison. And her nose quivers and scrunches in distaste as a prostitute struts by in nothing less than Targaryen hair and wardrobe, as well as a rather bare backside--truly disturbing.
"Curious... hair," Tyrion remarks, not looking particularly inclined to be attracted to such a figure, although Gabrielle knows from rumors that the Dragon Queen is far more beautiful than this prostitute.
She takes another sip of wine at the call of the men for the Targaryen whore, relating to Tyrion, "She's meant to look like Queen Daenerys."
"It appears we're not the only Targaryen supporters," Oberyn remarks with a broad grin as the prostitute limply sits on a man's lap across the room, and Gabrielle's past career tempts her to hit the girl for her rather blatant seduction. It's all about subtlety.
"Someone who inspires priests and whores is worth taking seriously," Varys wisely remarks.
And Gabrielle echoes it with a pretense to her own power in Westeros, "People are power."
"Well," Tyrion and Gabrielle grimace as the woman sloppily kisses the sailor, "she's taken."
Gabrielle confines herself to her seat at the horrid business being run and again wishes to be anywhere but in such a familiar institution, even on the other side of the room. Oberyn stands from his seat and pats her shoulder before following after a blonde into a separate chamber, his intentions very obvious to all of them. She grimaces at the sight, but is drawn back to reality as Tyrion stands to his feet, eyes focused on a prostitute nearby--alone.
"Where're you going?" Varys asks suddenly, not wishing to lose the dwarf for a third time this day.
Offhandedly and without thought, Tyrion responds, "I need to speak to someone with hair."
Gabrielle sighs heavily and pulls her hood further over her head before finishing up her drink. Varys eyes her with that silent command, and she nods, tucking Trident back underneath the cloak as she stands tall in the form of a woman. She grants him what he wants, "I'll watch him."
Hiding deep in the shadows of the room, helped by her deep red cloak, the Baelish watches Tyrion solemnly as he speaks to the prostitute that reminds her of Shae, and likely does the same for Tyrion. And though it's only slightly shocking, Gabrielle's mind twists before realization hits her as she sees Tyrion refuse the prostitute's intentions and walk away. Love's changed him...just as it changed her.
She tries to keep to the shadows, but for such a small man, Tyrion moves quickly, forcing her into the dimmed lighting and through turns that keep her lost and Tyrion hiding, a short panic overcoming her heart. And she curses the rather insipid maze of this brothel, turning her about and into the company of many bedwarmers as she still tries to hide the wolf and avoid the scene of Oberyn's ventures. Minutes pass and her panic grows more resolute, feeling certain Tyrion's gone for good...
And then she sees an unlikely foe carrying off a hunk of dwarf, her eyes widening and then narrowing as she bolts out the door in pursuit of Jorah Mormont and Tyrion Lannister.
///////////////////////////////////////////////
Jorah grunts as he picks up the knife Tyrion's rapidly using to cut his binds and lifts the dwarf over his shoulder, once again, before tossing him onto the boat he just barely paid for. Then, from beside the man he 'bought' the boat from, he grabs at the supplies he's carried with him for some time, tossing them as well into the boat as he prepares to launch into the Narrow Sea. Gabrielle grins from her position at the top of the beach, tugging down her hood and throwing the cloak off Trident as she calls loud and amusedly, "Jorah Mormont! What do you think you're doing?"
The man halts in his actions as his eyes cast upward on the approaching figure, a woman of remarkable beauty with a cat-like grin of mischief and playful intention. His blue eyes widen as he straightens up, wondering for a moment if the gods are playing tricks on him or if he's accidentally consumed some of the Volantene hallucinogens. Softly, he shakes his head to rid himself of psychotic thoughts, only to notice the continuous presence of the mischievous woman, and then noticing the direwolf at her side. From behind the Mormont, Tyrion looks gratefully at the very protective female, although even he can see the irritation in her stance behind that mask of slyness.
"Do I know you?" Jorah's deep and rough voice asks, eyes narrowing with that innate suspicion of Mormonts, as typical as Stark strength.
"No, but you really should," the girl responds with a whimsical and strong tone that reminds Jorah of the North all at once. She continues her approach and he slightly steps back as she stops before him, some feet away with that troubling expression. "My name is Gabrielle Baelish, and you've stolen a friend of mine."
Jorah's eyebrows furrow in consternation at this woman's identity, wondering all at once why the very powerful woman has fled Westeros, "The Mock Queen—"
"Yes, that's me. Now, either you keep Tyrion tied up and gagged, and Trident here," Gabrielle offers with a serious threat as she pets the growling direwolf that stands waist-high, "kills you. Or you release him of his confines and take us both to the Dragon Queen."
Gabrielle has to hide her smirk of victory at the rather gaping expression of Jorah Mormont, letting a moment of silence pass between them before accepting the latter as his choice. She hurdles herself over the edge of the boat with the billowing of her skirts, Trident leaping in behind her with a mighty and strong bound. She throws another pouch of money at the man Jorah stole the boat from, before turning to Tyrion who's continued fiddling with his confines. Taking her dragonglass dagger from it's hidden spot along her waist, she slits the ropes around his mouth and wrists, the dwarf muttering a baffled, "What--?"
"Onward then, Ser Jorah," Gabrielle interrupts the dwarf with her eyes towards the Northern man, sharp and green as she almost foretells their trials. "Daenerys Targaryen has no time to wait."
And though there are so many questions to be asked by Tyrion and Jorah, there will be much time to ask as much, prompting the previous slaver to shove the boat into the sea before jumping in himself. Gabrielle takes a seat at the other end of the skipper, ignoring Tyrion's broad eyes and she at once thanks her father for teaching her to swim--even if that wasn't his intent.
///////////////////////////////////////////////
Jon Snow soon finds himself understanding why politics is such a decisive study and why so few truly enjoy the game they are thrown into. Roughly signing the letter to Roose Bolton that pleads for more men to be sent to the Night's Watch, Jon shoves himself away from the parchment and leans deeper into his chair as Sam grabs the paper and bundles the remainder. The other brother walks away silently, across the room and passing through the doorway only to scuttle back at the entrance of Melisandre from the depths of the hallway shadows. Sam bows his head, "Apologies, my Lady."
She pays the brother no mind as both Sam and the Red Priestess direct their eyes upon Jon Snow who looks uncertain, yet curious. At the silent question--should he leave?--Jon nods his head at Sam and watches without evident fear as the other man vacates the room. Softly closing the door behind the brother, Melisandre turns back to Jon to see him straightening in his chair, eyes storming with questions about her cause.
"Lord Commander," she greets in the melodious, foreshadowing voice that houses much knowledge.
Jon coughs uncomfortably, "How can I help you?"
"Come with us when we ride south," the woman commands of Jon, walking forward without fear of repercussions and with a confidence matched only by true kings. "None of us know the Castle as well as you do. Its hidden tunnels, its weaknesses, its people. Winterfell was your home once. Don't you want to chase the rats out of it?"
"Castle Black is my home now. The Night's Watch takes no part in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms," Jon relates to her what he related to both Davos and Stannis--but they all seem disinclined to listen to him.
"There's only one war. Life against death," Melisandre relates what Jon knows. "Come. Let me show what you're fighting for."
The woman's lean body comes to stand in front of Jon, not behind the desk but practically touching his legs directly in front of him. And though he's entirely nervous of her intentions, Jon shoves the feeling away as he reminds her, "You're gonna show me some vision in the fire. Forgive me, my Lady. But I don't trust in visions."
Not true...he does not trust the visions of strangers.
"No visions. No magic. Just life," the woman's voice is a soft caress in his ear as she opens her robes and reveals the naked body of a beautiful woman, revealing to Jon what her true intentions are. She grabs his hand and leads it upward to hold her breast, asking him and goading him, "Do you feel my heart beating? This power in you, you resist it, and that's your mistake. Embrace it."
The woman's red lips part into a smile as they both look down and notice Jon's hand is acting on its own accord as it presses into soft flesh. Like he's been branded, Jon pulls it away with the sudden plight of escape, Melisandre reaching out to caress his face as she attempts to sit upon his lap, only for the man to leap away and put the desk between them--a safe distance.
"The Lord of Light made us male and female. Two parts of a greater whole. We are joining this power. Power to make life, power to make light, and power to cast shadows," the woman continues her stunt as she tries to approach him again, only for Jon to keep the desk between them, adamant on keeping her seductions at bay.
"I don't think Stannis would like that very much," he reminds her.
"Then we shouldn't tell him," the woman's voice is a hoarse whisper as she reaches out to unbutton his shirt across the desk, only for him to jump away again, this time with an adamant need to stay away from her.
"I can't."
Her eyebrows quiver at the first instance of a man's denial, "Why?"
"I swore a vow," Jon attempts, although they both know that does not keep him from loving women. Her red eyebrows look at him with questioning, so he tries again, "I loved another."
"The dead don't need lovers. Only the living." Jon heaves a breath as he inches around the desk and away from her lingering hands and touch.
"I know. But I still love her."
Her approach stops, and it is only then that the Red Priestess sees him and reads him, like an open portal to the world and past he's lived. She smiles softly with a sudden understanding, "No, you loved her once, but not anymore. Your heart belongs to another, a woman more powerful, a leader."
Melisandre's hands twist as they tie her robe back together, although Jon hardly notices at the rather insurmountable revelation of this Red Priestess. His mind makes little sense of his thoughts in that moment--so boggled, are they--but his head snaps up at the sound of the door, seeing her blue eyes boring into his own with knowledge unfit for the public.
"Keep Lyanna safe, Jon Snow." As the door swings behind her and leaves behind a shocked Jon, Valyrion soaring through the narrowing crack and promising something more than just adoration.