Hearing this, the men cheered loud, their hearts filled with pride. Many jeered the stones flung by the “Chambermaid”.
To them, Michael answered, “Ha’HAH!”
Somewhere out there in the night, two sand steed mares are hobbled, waiting for their owners to return. The knights who have brought them here are upon a mission of blood vengeance: the death of Ser Yonel Storm has left his father, the Bastard of Mistwoods, an angry man wanting to avenge the blood spilled by the blade of Lord Davit Gargalen. And with him, his nephew, Ser Ethos Mertyns, the royal huntsmen…
The mood of the camp is palpable, among those still awake: an army forlorn and lost, with no victory every in sight. Men mutter about the fires, of defeat, of home, of a dying prince gnashing his teeth and snarling curses even as his life runs out of him bit by bit.
“... -ince Marence will have to surrender.”
“.... dead brother would come out of the grave to ...”
“... and Gargalen’s man said they’ll try to break for the foothills when Ser Mavros surrenders. It’s why he insisted on the eastern end of the camp ...”
“...uck Daeron, and all of his knights.”
Anger, shame, fear—it’s all there. Ser Jarmyn takes it in, and gives his nephew a glance, and tilts his head eastward silently.
Ethos creeps along with his uncle, a sneer on his face behind the veil as he looks at the enemy all around them, Dornish blood that needs to be spilled. He keeps his mind focused on staying his hand away from his blade. Edgy as he is, though, he does not shy from this mission of insanity. He catches Jarmyn’s signal, his own attention having latched onto that overheard comment. “Almost time for rest.” He says softly, determination in his voice as he follows the man without hesitation.
Through the rows of tents and pavilions, the two knights walk, attempting to blend in with the surroundings—just men returning from a watch, or off to answer some sleepless lord’s summons. There’s hardly anyone casting more than a glance, and in the dark they look no different than any other Dornishman.
“When we find his tent,” Ser Jarmyn whispers as they walk, “we must circle around it—make sure there are nu guards we can’t see—before we decide our approach.” He sounds ruthlessly calm, rage turned to ice in his heart.
Ethos nods sharply, then blinks rapidly for a moment, one hand straying up to rub his eyes. He responds softly, “Yes. Perhaps if things are this quiet at his tent, we can slip beneath the canvas at the back and avoid the guards entirely. We should have brought more, we could have sought out so many more.” There’s regret in his tone as he gazes at more than one notable banner that they pass in the darkness.
A group of men pass in the dark, grunting a passing greeting, but not stopping to talk. Jarmyn keeps close, but his hand doesn’t hover near his sword, too dangerous an act in such circumstances, too likely to draw attention. And then ... it’s there, after a turn, a pavilion died a golden sort of yellow, and trimmed in red. The pennon at top can hardly be seen, but for a moment, it shows gold and red, with a black curving line—the cockatrice and serpent.
“There,” Ser Jarmyn says, with barely a glance at the entrance, where a pair of men seem to stand tired guard. “Keep walking by,” he mutters.
Ethos tenses as that other pair pass them, but he holds his temper in check. When they reach the pavilion they seek he looks up, following Jarmyn’s gaze, and might have stopped to glare if the man did not urge him to keep moving. He shifts his eyes away again and continues on his way, now taking careful stock of everything around them. Or, at least, trying to. “Two… half-asleep. We slip in through the back, fools’ll never know.” Eagerness leaks into his whisper.
Ser Jarmyn glances occasionally at the tent, as he leads his nephew around to the back, and sees there are no other guards. He pauses then, and turns casually to look as if they’re just two tired soldiers, up too late, discussing some matter or other.
“If he’s awake in there…” His eyes are hard, and it seems he may be frowning beneath the veil that hides his features. The wind whispers through the tents. “Slipping in through the back if he’s awake will see us dead before we can strike,” he warns. “I say, get close, see if you can hear anything. I’ll stay here and keep watch. I’ll cough, if anyone’s coming. And if not ... come back, and fetch me. We’ll do this together.”
“Why would he be awake?” Ethos questions, shaking his head. But it seems it was a rhetorical question because the knight inclines his chin in agreement. He leans over for a moment, sliding a thin dirk from his boot that he slips into his sleeve, then casually begins walking towards the tent.
When he eases near enough Ethos postures himself as if taking a piss, sidling up near to the dyed fabric, eyes narrowing as he searches for a slit or hole that he might get a peek through while ears strain to listen.
There’s a faint sound, showing the tent’s occupied: snoring. And outside the tent? Nothing. No one comes by. Jarmyn waits casually where Ethos left him, sometimes turning this way or that, but no one comes by in the night.
The Mistwood knight smiles behind the veil as he hears the sound of snoring. A wicked gleam takes his eyes as he slowly moves along, foot lightly tracing at the tent with the toe of his boot, searching for a loose bit of fabric where they could slip beneath without disrupting anything. Or, alternatively, a tear that might be easily exploited.
A seam has certainly loosened in the tent’s side, a place where the point might be worked in, and the stitching carefully torn until there’s an opening suitable for ... well, for an assassin.
Ser Jarmyn stands at the ready where he is, and at one point he tenses at the glimpse of men—but they pass on down the lane of tents, rather than turning in the direction of Davit Gargalen’s tent.
Mertyns glances back towards his bastard uncle, considering, but decides it better to secure a means of entry before returning to fetch him. Better to have a lookout.
Ethos picks at the strands with his knife in timing with the snores, trying to loosen them enough to get a peek inside, and if there’s no immediate cause for alarm will methodically cut through the stitched seam, leaving every fourth or fifth intact so that the whole thing does not simply fly open with a gust of wind. He’ll cut the last few after he collects Jarmyn.
A faint light inside, but nothing more—a tallow candle, the faint scent of it pungent in the nose, burns low by a table. And on a plain pallet, a soldier’s bed with no ostentation, a figure covered by a blanket. A man, by his clearer snores, and ... perhaps it’s Lord Davit; neither man has had a clear look at the man before. But this is his tent, surely, and those men outside would not be there if he were someone else, surely..
Ethos finishes his task, then slips back to Jarmyn’s side. He speaks in a light whisper, “It’s clear. I worked a seam loose that we can get in through. He’s snoring louder than a bear. Seems to be alone, save for the guards outside. Now is the moment for our vengence for Yonel.” That wicked smile touches the edge of his pale eyes, far too light of hue to be a Dornishman behind that veil.
The Bastard of Mistwood nods once, and no more. The old knight quietly draws a dagger from the Dornish sash that wraps his waist, and carefully obscures it by turning it in towards his forearm, so no glint of moonlight comes off the blade. “For Yonel,” Ser Jarmyn says, a thread of emotion in his voice. “And Patrik, too.” And then the two go forward to the tent, after a last look to see if anyone approaches.
The royal huntsman guides his uncle back to the place where he loosened the seam. There’s one more cursory glance inside before he reaches to hold the two edges of fabric together while he severs the last labored stitches. When it’s done he gently pulls at the opening when there’s a loud snore, trying to sneak in quickly, gaze flicking around rapidly before locking on the candle. He reaches to snuff it out, but catches himself.
Instead he takes a good long look at the sleeping man, trying to conjure a positive identification on any resemblance that Joleta might share with her father. Somewhere in the back of his mind he ignores a small voice that’s asking a lot of rational, logical questions.
It is always been said that Joleta was never given to patience, even in the beginning. She came into the world weeks early, though the premature arrival nearly killed both mother and child. For several days, Salt Shore was spent in prayer while the infant heiress struggled to survive. And survive she did, eventually thriving, thanks to the Mothers mercy and the skill of the maester of the House. Due to her harrowing birth, the girl was pampered and petted by her mother. However, Lord Davit, being disappointed that a son would not follow him and convinced that his daughter would die from the birthing complications, never quite connected to Joleta. He was an absent father, often disapproving the few times he deigned to acknowledge her. For her first two years, Joleta’s hold on life was never quite secure. Still, she clung to life fiercely, growing and thriving despite the odds.
Joleta was a dutiful student of the ladys arts, seeking to win her fathers love with her polished courtesies, her music, and her ability to rule. However, her early love and aptitudes surprisingly led her to the kennels. Though Joleta had affection and affinity for all animals, it was the Salt Shore hounds that won her heart. Dogs were organized in a structure, with leaders and subordinates. They interacted with affection, while maintaining the order. But perhaps most importantly, they offered the young noblewoman the unconditional love she felt was lacking in her life. She demonstrated a natural way with dogs, both in earning their trust as well as training. She oversaw much of the kennels in Salt Shore, breeding both sleek and swift sight-hounds, as well as powerful and heavy dogs of war. Even the mongrels that wandered the grounds always had food and water.
Despite her early weakness, Joleta grew tall and strong. She maintains that activities out of doors maintain health and thus spends much time riding, or hunting with her hounds. However, her preterm birth left her vunerable to sickness, particularly any disease that affects the lungs. It is not debilitating to her, but she does take care to avoid being near ill people.
Surprisingly, Joleta welcomed the birth of her younger brother, for all assumed that Lady Gargalen would not bear another child. Though it seemed to Joleta that Lord Davit was much more pleased with a son, she did not hold this against her younger brother. In fact, he seemed to be the only one spared from her demanding standards and manipulative games. Though Corrent is a man grown, Joleta has difficulty seeing him as anything different than the amusing and rambunctious boy that he was. She is aware of his conquests among the fairer sex, but does not place too much importance on it, considering it to be youthful exuberance and experimentation. Should Corrent father a bastard, she expects him to see that the child has the means to some kind of future, but its doubtful she would consider a bastard niece or nephew to be close family. Upon arriving in King’s Landing, she is grateful for her brother’s support but fears that his impulsiveness may land the both of them into trouble.
Joletas perfectionism is easily responsible for why the heiress was unwed. Lord Davit attempted several matches, including an ill-fated meeting with the son of Lady Marcia Fowler. Joleta had no intention of sharing her rule with any man. Her ideal consort, aside from being handsome, gallant, brave and possessing unrivaled military skills, would be content to focus on the forces of Salt Shore, while leaving the rule to her. With the possibility of a forced marriage to a Westerosi knight, Joleta regrets spurning her earlier suitors and may treat with Darion Fowler, should he recover from his wounds. Better to share the rule with a Dornish knight than to be forced by a Westerosi.Ironically, it was the invasion of Dorne that prompted Joleta to succeed as the future Lady of Salt Shore and finally gain some favorable attention from her father. As heir, Joleta was made part of Lord Davits counsels, though she was told to listen and learn. When her father, uncles and brother left for the battlefield, Joleta remained in Salt Shore, functioning as regent. Proving that she had indeed learned the lessons needed to lead, Joleta effectively rationed supplies in case of a shortage, organized the smallfolk in the fortificaiton of their home, kept lines of communications open with neighbors and resolved disputes between commons and lesser nobles alike in a fair and wise manner. Her own people rallied to her, giving her their support and their love. It was not long before word of her competence and stability in the face of adversity spread to neighboring Houses, which was something of a surprise that the often overlooked Joleta Gargalen had steel in her spine after all.
When the time came, Lady Joleta was fully prepared to withstand a siege, however Lord Davit was among the lords who bent the knee at Sunspear and the fortifications were never tested. When word arrived that Joleta would be leaving for King’s Landing as a hostage, there was outrage among the smallfolk. Loud protests arose in every corner of Salt Shore and more than a few hedge knights and commoners offered to smuggle her away to safety. Still, Joleta was obedient to her father, though resentment simmered beneath her exterior. She was certain that despite proving herself in difficult times, Joleta was being sent away in order for her father’s favorite to inherit his lands and title. She bid farewell to her people who supported her, common, knight and noble alike, making for Sunspear. She brought her favorite hounds, a matched pair of sleek and swift sighthounds, but declined her favored attendants from accompanying her, fearing for their safety in the barbaric land.
In Sunspear, Joleta was somewhat mollified to find that Corrent would be accompanying her to King’s Landing. She felt that it was due to her brother’s loyalty rather than her father’s decision. En route to King’s Landing, Joleta fell ill with fever and a flux of the lungs. Her condition worsened to the point where the maester on the vessel feared for her life. Her beautiful black hair was shaved, to treat the fever. She was bled by leeches while tonics and potions were poured down her throat. Immediately upon arrival, Joleta was spirited away and seen by the Archmaesters. Once again clinging to life against all odds, Joleta slowly recovered. Her need for pefection insisted that she remain isolated from court life until she felt she was fit to be seen. No Westeros lady or knight would see her in such a dreadful state! Likewise, it galled her that she owed her life to the care and expertise of the Westeros maesters, under direction of the King, who saw that the greatest healers in the land attended her. A constant and lingering fear that she must someday repay this kindness by surrending her maidenhead to a Westeros knight of the King’s choosing is never far from her mind.
Now that Joleta felt strong enough to begin court life in the Red Keep, she was distressed to hear that Corrent’s temper has indeed, landed him in danger. It is the need to come to the aid of her brother that has pushed her out of the sickbed a bit sooner than the maesters would have liked. Regardless, tis time that Salt Shore’s presence was felt.
The man’s in the winter of his years, whitecaps at his temples, lines etched into a noble face. And he’s tall, and his skin has the Rhoynish coloring. He could be, in the dark, Joleta’s father, this snoring, sleeping man…
... whose eyes come open, blearily, a fist reaching to rub, and then there’s the presence that woke him, somehow, some looming shadow, . His mouth starts to open, his eyes grow wider—
Ethos approaches slowly, staring hard at the man, hatred burning in his gaze. So close is his grasp of Salt Shore, his free hand tightens into a fist as if clenching his lordship already. His other hand tightens around the knife.
When the man’s eyes suddenly snap open the Owl Knight reacts. Ethos lunges forward, bringing the blade down to try and bury into the man’s throat while his other fist aims to shove into that opening mouth and muffle any cry that might come.
A scintilla of time—by such things do lives hang upon. Lord Davit, or whoever this is—probably Lord Davit—sees his life pass before his eyes, and in desperation throws himself _at_ his attacker, trying to roll—
Too slow! The blade scrapes off the collarbone and finds flesh, burying itself deep through muscle and into the base of the neck. Blood stains his skin and his bed, and the blade comes out covered in it—
“MURDER!” the man cries, desperate, and then he howls in pain as he tries to grapple, tries to push his attacker away, tries to slap the hand with the knife away before there’s a second plunge. He manages to grab hold of a pillow, and he throws it at the knight.
And from the camp: the beginnings of alarm. The guards at the door rush in, spears ready, shouting, “My lor—”
One falls, Ser Jarmyn pouncing from beside the entrance, dirk jabbing through the roof of the man’s mouth. Nigh on sixty years old, and still, the Bastard of the Mistwood is swift, swift as the owl as it strikes. The man falls, gurgling, and Jarmyn lets the dirk go—and with a smooth motion he unsheathes his sword, the steel blade flashing into a cut in the same motion—
—which is parried, by chance more than anything, as the guard screams in shock and rage, and leaps back to try and get room for his spear.
“RUN!” Ser Jarmyn shouts, “RUN!” He falls back before the jabs of the man’s spear, and there’s more shouting and alarms, as men are awoken, trying to make sense of what’s happening. Jarmyn turns a thrust and cuts, taking a bite at the man’s shin, and in his distraction he grabs at Ethos with his free arm, and tries to propel him to the cut in the back as the stabbed lord howls and struggles, now trying to stop the life’s blood from flowing from him.
In the span of a breath the quietness explodes into chaos, blasting into the troubled senses of Ethos. He struggles with the victim, still unconfirmed, blood pouring out over his hand, down his arm… born back by the weight is the Stormlord. He staggers, desperately stabbing as he shoves against the dying man.
Jarmyn is struggling and though the man is yelling for Ethos to flee, he’s torn. Not only is there a deeply-rooted sense of loyalty and solidarity for the Stormlands running through Mertyns, but there’s a matter of identification. Even as Jarmyn is pushing his to escape, Ethos resists. He aims a hearty kick at the fallen lord’s head to try and shut him up and advances on the guard that Jarmyn fights, going for the flank to attempt a stab at the soldier’s back, though his fingers are wet with hot blood and his grip slippery at best.
A screech of pain, and the man falters, shouting, “ASSASSINS! ASSAS—” when a two-handed blow from Jarmyn half-severs the man’s head from his body, which falls to the ground, blood gushing to wet the sands. “Damn your eyes! Run, you fool!” Ser Jarmyn yells, turning, giving Ethos a shake, trying to push him on
And then he grunts, and nearly falls to his knees, a Dornish throwing spear thrown almost blind through the entrance of the tent stabbing low into his side. He plucks at it, and with a grunt tears it out, knees almost buckling at the pain.
Then there’s more Dornishmen, and the alarm is going up through all the camp. Ser Jarmyn takes a breath and pushes back towards the back of the tent, and towards the cut in the tent.
And Gargalen, or whoever this man is? Writhing in agony, and the blood keeps pouring, and yet somehow he’s moved himself nearer the entrance, half-crawling, dragging blankets with him.
“Fuck! .. Fuuuuck.” Ethos swears, the sheer surge of activity around him rocking his grip on his surroundings as he tries to sluggishly sort out everything that’s happening. Logically, Davit, if that -is- Davit, couldn’t survive that kind of wound. There’s no way. -Logically-, they won’t have another attempt at anyone else at this point if it’s -not- Davit because the entire camp is exploding into motion at the cries of alarm.
Mertyns looks around wildly, then grabs for that that spear away from Jarmyn. He launches it back at their assailants and reaches for his uncle to try and drag him out. Whatever else he’s abandoning, he’s not going to abandon Jarmyn, it seems. “Go! Now!”
His nephew pulls at him, and Jarmyn—clutching at his side—gives a nod, gritted teeth showing he hasn’t the breath to spare to talk. Outside the tent, shouts of, “MURDER! ASSASSINS! UP THE SPEARS!”, and men can be heard running past that slit in the tent, not noticing it, going around towards the front…
And then, at the opening, Jarmyn motions for Ethos to start through. “Hold it. Open,” the old knight gasps, even as there’s cries. Gargalen’s stopped moving, at the other end of the tent.
Ethos pushes through, back outside, but doesn’t relinquish his grip on Jarmyn and will try to drag him along behind. “Suck it up. Come on!” He hisses harshly, looking around frantically for a path to take. Maybe there’s an empty tent to duck into or a shadowy.. some.. thing. If they can get away from the immediate area and move quickly.
Jarmyn steps half through—and then there’s a cry behind him, in the tent, men coming into it, seeing the bodies, seeing the man covered in blood prone on the floor, seeing .... someone coming out the tent. The Bastard of Mistwood turns his head, catches a quick glimpse, then looks back to his nephew with grey eyes. “Tell my wife,” he says. Nothing More.
Then with a wrench he tears away from his nephew, and pushes Ethos further out from the tent with a hard thrust of his arm, before he whips around and with a battle roar plunges into the tent. Steel rings on steel, and there’s cries of amazement and outrage, and a scream of pain.
“MISTWOOD!” Jarmyn screams, and now all the camp seems awake, and many men are running for the east end of the camp, with weapons to hand, and at the entrance more men jostle to come into the tent as the wild valor and deadly skill of the wounded Ser Jarmyn keeps them at bay ... and draws all their attention to him, and not to that cut in the tent’s wall.
Mertyns is reaching for his sword to draw as Jarmyn is pulling away, yanking the steel from it’s scabbard. His uncle shoves him and he staggers back out of the tent entirely, suddenly alone in the row of tents while his uncle suddenly lets loose the ferocity of a man committing suicide.
Ethos swears softly, sword still held at his side by blood covered arm. There’s a moment of indecision, then he swiftly bears north, trying to avoid the people converging on the loud cries and state of alarm. They surely have horses at the northern edge of camp.
A man looking as if he has some purpose, going the opposite way from everyone else ... ? He might excite notice, but too many men are hurrying. The sound of fighting receedes the further Ethos walks, and there’s calls and shouts, and someone yells, “Archers!”
“What the fuck’s going on?” a Dornishman calls, sticking his head out of his tent, looking here and there, and starting to crawl from his tent, naked but for a pair of dirty and patched shortclothes. As men run about, he fixes his sight on Ethos, and says, “Hey! Are those northern fucks attacking?”
Archers. That’s bad. Ethos looks around sharply, expecting arrows to suddenly fly at him from a dozen different directions. He keeps moving, his pace heightened a bit by his own nerves as a shred of self-preservation drives him.
Ethos stops dead when he’s suddenly put to the question, eyes looking around erratically for a moment before settling on the soldier waking up. Stormlord brows draw together, hatred burning through him as he sees such an obvious, unarmed, Dornishman before him. He approaches him, dropping his voice to a low tone, “They say there’s some madman, crazy as a fucked up whore, tried to assassinate a lord. I was sent to take word to the scouts.”
And hatred and irrational judgement are a difficult thing to surpass. Mertyns will heft his sword to try and drive it into the man’s belly. One less Dornishman… right?
“Shi—” the Dornishman starts, and then stops in shock, to look down at the sword in his belly. He reaches for the blade, hands trying to stop the blood starting to flow, and he starts to gasp and suck in breath for a scream.
Ethos gives the man a hard shove back at his tent he just crawled out of, tearing his blade free of the warrior’s gut, the steel dark and slick. He laughs darkly, then mutters, “Gotta get out of here…” and sheaths the sword as he starts moving again. He cuts west now, trying to stay among the rows of commoner’s tents.
Too far away to hear if there’s any fighting still—it’s hard to imagine Ser Jarmyn still lives, much less his being able to still swing a sword freely—but the camp’s now in an uproar. Cutting west works well enough, as any man who sees Ethos merely thinks he’s hurrying to raise the alarm through the camp.
And in a few minutes, the edge of the camp, and safety beyond. Even the sentries have been attracted by all the noise, and have abandoned their posts. Far in the distance, trumpets sound, once, twice, thrice, and fourth time—and in the distance, a man may notice a commotion in the center of the camp, and then men beginning to fan out in all directions, hunting.
Ethos makes his way through the darkness, sword sheathed again, the inside of the scabbard filthy with the blood of the soldier he cut down. He’ll grab the first unattended horse he sees and flee the camp at a moderate pace, having some shred of sense not to race out like a man hunted.
Now it’s time for the Mertyns knight to do some hunting of his own. He has to find the clothing and gear he and Jarmyn left behind and get back to his own camp. A simple enough task for the royal huntsman, surely.
A horse is easy enough to arrange, with the camp in an uproar… but in the darkness, and with the possibility of pursuit behind, there’s no chance to find the unattended sand steeds Ethos and Jarmyn left, nor their garments with it. Aware of the increasing chance of discovery if he keeps wandering in circles trying to tell one rock from another, Ser Ethos must press on to the rendevous with the Mertyns men…
... who draw weapons when they see what looks to be a robed Dornishman. “Halt!” one cries, and a pair of others ride to flank him, lances lowered.
Ethos reins in his horse sharply when the men suddenly draw swords on him, confusion in his eyes for a moment. Then he reaches up to tear away the veil. “Put down your weapons!” He snaps at them, then says with a cocky smile suddenly taking his features, “The lord of Salt Shore rides before you.”
“What?” one of the men asks, slow to understand. “Ser Ethos?” The other men frown, squint, and then ... well. Looks of confusion pass across their faces. “Where’s Ser Jarmyn?” one of the older men asks, a friend of the knight. And another, younger, says, “And what happened to your clothing, ser?”
“Jarmyn…” Ethos glances back in the direction of the Dornish camp, as if only just recalling he had an accomplice. “He fell with the greatest bravery. I tried to save him, but he would not allow it. He insisted I flee, to carry the tale of his noble stand back.” The young knight explains. He looks back at the men. “He was stricken with grief over the death of his son, would not be persueded from seeking his rightful vengence. I went with him. The Stormlands support each other, as you well know. Give me your cloak, I will not ride back into camp looking like a fucking dusky.” He trots the sandsteed forward, hand held out.
Looks are exchanged by the men, clearly unsatisfied and made uneasy by the answer. But the one gives his cloak, and they all turn home, keeping their thoughts to themselves. A grim mood befalls them.