#rev.start

He stuck to the back of the march, avoiding the northern sigils and keeping closer to those of Essos who seemingly had no opinion of him. The echoing screech of a dragon’s roar momentarily stole his attention as he raised his steel blue eyes to the skies, glimpsing the dark silhouette of one of the beasts as it drifted through the clouds. Theon was vaguely aware someone had trotted up next to him, their horse at pace with his own.

“Perhaps with three dragons we’ll stand a chance.” He muttered aloud thoughtfully. “Or...they’ll be the only ones to survive this.”

She’d reached Riverrun before them and the sight of her homeland brought tears to her eyes she refused to let fall. She’d cried enough, too much. And after being told the army was days away continued to meet them. Her small party saw enough men and woman to blot out the road itself and her heart beast more swiftly in her chest at the sight so many, of all houses, all lands and kingdoms. In this... perhaps she could find some peace.

She dismounted her horse and walked the rest of the way, her men behind her as they moved into the marching horde. Her shrewd eyes sought out the nearest Northern banner, best to reunite with Robb first, she longed to embrace her child... He might have heard news of her others.

when: mid-morning, nearly midday

whom: anyone with a reason to be near a wild,mouthy, and rebellious green-haired lady of the north, or anyone without a reason

A soft, cool wind blew from the north, and Wylla leaned into it with a gentle smile on her lips.  She was not a gentle woman, and the image of a pretty-enough woman waxing poetic about a bit of breeze was likely a bit ridiculous.  This did not deter her from savouring this moment of home, nor did it make her suddenly into the soft, biddable thing her mother might have longed for in a daughter.  Wylla sat, eyes shut and expression peaceful as she let the wind comb through her garish green hair, freeing it from the haphazard Northern braid she’d attempted to tangle it into that morning.  This was likely the only moment of true peace she’d be afforded this day, and she reveled in it.

Mayhaps she had made a mistake in accompanying her uncle south.  Yes, there had been the chance to see familiar faces, and speak with new ones.  There had been the undeniable curiosity to seek new places and learn new secrets, but the newness had worn off as things became more dire.  The death of Ser Harland was proof enough that she could not be her normal mischievous, even frivolous self...and now her heart was torn in too many directions as she faced the choice ahead of her, as to who she must be to these bloody-minded people who would decide the fate of the world.

There had been good, simple comforts at home; the voice of her sister, her grandfather’s laughter, the new ships that might show themselves on the horizon, the honour of being amongst Northerners with utmost loyalty to their king, Robb Stark.  Here, though, she had been thrust into far more intrigue than her temperament had tolerance for, and Wylla had no skill in subtlety or court intrigue, and certainly less in lying.  She was, in all ways, herself; nothing had yet to change her from that course, and very little could ever hope to do so.  In what way then, could she possibly hope to serve King Robb, in this delicate, courtly world at Dragonstone?

The moment was broken by the sound of someone’s approach.  Her eyes snapped open, their fine colour interrupted by the black of a darkening and wary gaze.  “Yes, yes, what do you want?”  She bit out, turning to raise a pale brow in question to the one who approached.

The crashing of blades and hollering of the small gathered crowd was like music to Jaeyi’s ears, and she danced expertly to it against a man twice her size. Bets had been placed on their little brawl, most not in favour of her as usual, and as she pushed him to the floor with the tip of her curved blade, the cries of regret from those who had lost their coin were added to the orchestra. Her opponent grunted unhappily, and picked himself up out of the dusk as she smiled at him, barely batting an eyelid at how unimpressed he was to have been bested by her. She wiped the sweat from her brow, and pushed her sword into her scabbard, high on victory and attention.

The happenings in Westeros meant little to her; kings and queens, white walkers, warlocks - as long as they left her be, and Margaery was safe, she had no stakes in their trouble. As long as ale, fights, and beautiful women were constants, Redscale was content. “Good show?” She asked when she felt nearby eyes on her, lips pursed smugly. There was nothing people loved more than an underdog’s victory, and nothing she loved more than ruining people’s expectations. “I hope you were not one of the predictable fools who now finds themselves penniless. Westerosi are all the same thinking big men in big armour are always sure victors.”

Dragonstone, in Rosamund’s opinion, was dreary. The cliffs dropped down to the sea with frightening sharp angles and the wind whipped with a ferocity that chilled her skin. She wondered, quite often if she was being honest, how anyone would have wanted to live here. And now it was inhabited by a Targaryen again, the so-called Queen of Dragonstone.

She stood on the ramparts of the castle, her eyes fixed on the vast sea before flicking to the crowds of people that had gathered. When she heard footsteps, Rosamund’s spine straightened.

Her lips lifted at the corners and the expression on Rosamund’s face - curious, unassuming, innocent - was one that she had practiced for years. While many of those gathered here were traitors, or worse - Northern barbarians - that did not mean they were useless. Any information gathered would be valuable to the Queen regent and to the King.

“How far do you imagine that drop is?” she inquired as she turned.

But remaining there could be the case no longer. No instead she’d heard the three most powerful people in Westeros, when faced with a threat that could destroy them all, had come to conclusions and begun to scatter. So it appeared it was left to those precious few with sense to sort the issue out and bash them all together before they were all corpses decorating the countryside. 

Her goblet was filled and handed over just as a visitor began to be announced and she waved a hand to silence the announcer, “Do shut up. What a feckless job; if they’re worth knowing then I shall know them by sight and conversation. As though any within these walls require further inflation to their egos.” she finished dryly turning to her latest visitor.

Except the dead were no longer still. They were violent and chaotic. They knew no difference between woman, man or child. They killed without bias or prejudice. That made them all the more terrifying in her mind. Cruel men killed for some reason or another. They had intentions, some selfish and some righteous. The dead just killed. They shoved their blades through them as if they were no more than parchment. 

Her father’s master of horses had been among those killed. He had been kind to her when she was a girl, letting her hide in the stables when she didn’t want to attend her lessons. Her father had respected him, spoke well of him. The fact that she could not open her mouth to offer the old gods a prayer for him horrified her. Her limbs would not move, her lips would not curve to form words. She simply stared, letting the weight of her emotions wash over her.

She jumped when she heard the footsteps around her, jarring her out of her own head. She didn’t turn to greet them, however. Such pleasantries didn’t seem particularly necessary in the godswood. “I’m praying.” Clara said, wringing her fingers in her hands, her voice small. “Offering words to our dead. Or at least trying to... Do you think the Gods care to hear them?”