munebox | The Valonqar

Ser Rock fixed her with an arrogant little smirk. Unlike Greech or the others from the tavern, it was clear he didn't fear her. "Your pardon, m'lady. If you'd like to do the leading from here out, by all means. Men take orders from little boys all the time."

Don't drive him away, Lady Buffy. We need him. Podrick dared not voice his thoughts, though. But he knew his lady was unwilling to kill. He'd observed that as much as Tyrion had. If that was the case, they needed Ser Rock to do the things she wouldn't do. Podrick could scarcely imagine how she would have threatened that man if she wasn't willing to loosen some blood to do it.

But he did voice one thing more important. "They loosed our horses."

The horses had been tied down. But they hadn't been stolen. The reins were cut clean through and left hanging. The horses, by now, were scattered to the wind.

Rock was a luddite. An asshole. A teutonic jerk. Such insults rotated 'round in her mind. She missed the days when her enemies quickly realized her worth -- her status -- and would fling insults only in a way that suggested they knew how truly formidable a Slayer could be.

"All the horses?" She asked with annoyance sourced more in the power-struggle than in the loss of a few beasts.

"Not the little lord's," Rock noted as he spotted Tyrion's familiar horse trotting not far away from the river. The other horses were obedient, but his horse had been trained with far more care than the others. So when it was sent running, it didn't go far.

"We can't all ride one horse," Podrick said. Already he was on the way to fetch it, approaching the beast carefully. Tyrion's horse knew Podrick well. He often slept beside the beast and though he never rode it, they had an understanding with one another. Once he had the horse's trust, he turned back to the others. "What do we do now?"

"The way I see it? We have two options."

Buffy reached out and touched the horse's neck. An idle piece of affection -- she was so adrift in a world where she owed it to no one, she found herself with an excess of the stuff. "One of us takes the horse and races ahead, frees Tyrion, and we meet back together somewhere that isn't exactly here but close to it.

Or we all go. Slowly. Most of us on foot."

There was something to be said for her dedication to her husband. She truly did not want to abandon him to his fate. "I'm leaning a little more towards the first."

Rock will volunteer first. For more glory and gold. But he might take the horse and we'll never see him again. If she goes...

"I'll do it," Podrick announced to his own surprise. "He's-- I'm his squire. I should be the one that does it. Please."

"...Podrick. You don't have to go. I can go. I'm okay with going. In fact, me going was kinda the point of the whole--"

She interrupted herself so she could squint at the boy. He really was rather brave, wasn't he?

"But you're his lady. I can't go back with both of you gone. I can't."

I've lost three Lords. I won't lose my Lady, too. You can't make me do that. He knew this might be the death of him. He didn't want to die. But even he, just a boy, had some ounce of honor to consider. And a squire who outlives three of his lords without being old enough to be a knight was little more than a craven.

"And I literally can't go home if anything happens to him," she confessed -- quietly, for Podrick's ears alone. The catch to her pretty little magical locket -- it had conditions.

He shuffled his feet and stared at the ground. "You'll come back, won't you?"

A part of him feared she wouldn't care for his loyalty to Tyrion. She'd rescue him, then take him to the Wall all on her own. Without Podrick or Ser Rock, she'd be able to do whatever she liked. Especially when they were in the North and there were no Lannister friends to be found.

Podrick lacked confidence -- in her, she supposed. And in himself. He needed something to hold onto. Some certainty. She could see that much. She was intuitive enough to note it. So -- trying not to look exasperated with the conclusion -- she dragged the locket off her neck and pressed it urgently into his palm.

He was there for the conversation; he understood what it meant to her.

"There. Now I have to come back."

Rock snorted and rolled his eyes. He did not care to wait, so he turned to go back into the inn and do so over a drink. Podrick, however, nodded solemnly. He wasn't sure he believed all this about her being from another world, or the bits about prophecies and destinies. But the locket, he knew, was valuable to her. That was enough.

"I'll keep it safe, my lady."

With Podrick put to ease, Buffy had to make one last decision with her brain before she let loose her instincts. Should she take the man with her -- the one who had promised to be a guide? She could share Tyrion's horse with him, however inconvenient that may be. The alternative was to leave him behind and hope his instructions were honest. But by now, the Slayer knew not to trust strangers in this strange land.

So he tied the would-be guide's hands together and, in turn, she fastened the rope to the reins. And she made the man -- blessedly slight as he seemed to be a scout of some sort instead of a warrior -- sit in front of her. It was only a matter of hours before he realized the young lad seated behind him in fact had a very modest bustline that had otherwise been hidden by a loose tunic. "Brave lass," he cackled. "Stupid, too. Risking your honour for the imp. Hope he pays more for your courage than he must have for your honour."

And Buffy, more than a little sick of being compared to prostitutes, tore the man's own sleeve to make a gag. "Can't have you yelling out and warning your brothers, right...?" She told him even as she somehow convinced the horse to slow down and take a roughly cut path through the woods.

For hours, Tyrion had been blindfolded. He'd bee harassed, scolded, taunted, and poked at with far more malice than he cared for. When his glib tongue would speak against them, fists from nowhere would humble him, until he learned it was better to not talk at all. It went on like this for some time, even as he listened in on the conversations.

But one voice stood out in particular. It did not become obvious who it was until Tyrion's blindfold was removed and he found himself looking eye to eye with Thoros of Myr, looking down sympathetically at Tyrion.

"It's been ages," he said. "That's a nasty scar you've got."

"It seems I shall have more to go with them," Tyrion said bitterly. "Am I to be taken to your Beric Dondarrion now? I do hope you can find a noose long enough to reach my neck."

"You won't hang," Thoros said. "The lady hangs nobles. But for you, you'll get the same treatment her lord husband did."

"The lady?"

Thoros said no more. He nodded to the men at either side of Tyrion and off they went, further through the forest, to a small clearing where a hooded woman waited to pass sentence on him. Tyrion thought it suddenly that much colder now.

...The brigand had fallen asleep. Unabashedly, he'd conked his head back against Buffy's shoulder and had started snoring. Unfortunately, neither tightening nor loosening the gag seemed to help in that regard. And by sundown, she too wanted to drift off into a nap. The narrow forest path brought only tree after tree; occasionally a squirrel jetted past. At least her side was as good as mended -- she could feel the stiff stretch of new skin. It was slightly dry and irritated, but it didn't hurt like it had before.

Tyrion's horse was urged to plod on until torchlight winked into existence along their flanks. "Someone's out there," she announced to the rustling branches. "It's cool. I get it. CCTV cameras are everywhere." She pulled on the reins and brought the plodding to a stop.

And then the Slayer did a stupid thing. But at least this time, the stupidity was purposeful. She hauled her hostage off the horse and released him to his compatriots -- she had no love for the prospect of holding him ransom for someone else. Likely, in a world like this, the Brotherhood wouldn't even care about this guy. Rather than try anything fancy or even attempt to negotiate, she allowed herself to be taken.

She allowed herself to be marched -- at arrow point -- into a quiet little camp. Tyrion was nowhere to be seen, but neither was there an identifiable leader. There was a man who called himself Lem, and Buffy was brought before him. Because -- according to the man himself -- our Mother Merciless is otherwise indisposed at this time.

Tyrion rubbed at his neck as he looked up at the corpse of a woman he'd once known and even somewhat respected. They called her Lady Stoneheart and he could easily see why. Buffy had talked of going over the wall to fight the living dead.

It turned out they hadn't needed to go far at all. It was all explained who he was, but the woman's eyes never left him. When she tried to speak, she had to cover her neck, otherwise there would be no words. It made Tyrion sick to look at her and he wondered how the others could stand it. He could see Thoros, the poor priest he was, with a bowed head and worried expression. It's out of control. Their brotherhood is a bloody cult.

"You are a false and vile man," a northman said, speaking on behalf of his whispering lady. "She traded your brother's life for her daughters, but was paid back in blood. Her son's blood and her own."

I've talked myself out of many things. But I've never talked myself away from her. "My father's doing," Tyrion answered. "Not mine. Your daughter- she is in good hands, the Tyrells-"

She whispered some more with hateful eyes. The northman spoke for her. "The Tyrells lie with lions and share their greed and filth. And you accused of trying to murder her own son."

"I did not do that. Accuse me of anything, but your lady knows I won my innocence through trial by combat. I demand it once more, I would name-"

She whispered. The Northman spoke. "There are no gods here. No divine protection for your innocence. But you will not hang. You'll receive the same justice her lord husband did."

A man emerged with a long sword, but it was not brilliant and sharp like Ned's Ice. This one was old, rusted, and a cruel ugly thing. It would not slice all in one go. It would be a horrific way to go. He wondered if his father would be happy when he found out.

"I've lost something. Someone actually. He isn't very big; kind of easy to lose, really. It's a problem."

Her leading statements and careful questions brought those gathered around her to a simple conclusion. The released hostage confirmed it: she was after the imp. Crude jokes were briefly made at her expense. One burly man even dared to ask if she was a whore come to collect on a Lannister's debts. Buffy sought out every last piece of patience she had, answering, "something like that."

"Let her stand judgement, as well. For lying with lions."

Roughly handled, she was delivered into Lady Stoneheart's clearing just as the sword was introduced upon the scene. Buffy said nothing -- she was too transfixed by the sight of the undead woman. Her face was lined and haggard, like that of a Vengeance Demon. Her throat was a trough of unhealed skin. Buffy knew death when she saw it, and part of her wanted to great it like an old friend.

The rest had to resist the urge to run.

Tyrion was forcefully pressed to the chopping block and he wondered how it all went so wrong. Way had been his mistake? How did he so thoroughly fail at the game of thrones?

This must have been what Ned was thinking when his own time came. The sword was nearly prepared to swing when a new prisoner arrived.

"Who's this boy?" The north man asked.

"That's no boy," Tyrion said with a new sense of hope. "That's a true lion."

"Alright, boys and girls. You really oughta can it with the storybook animal metaphors. It's getting tired. It's getting lame. It's beyond passée and I--"

And that was when the first fist was swung. Boy. Girl. Lion. Lamb. They did not care, for she was a disruption and would be met with violence. But Buffy was prepared for violence; she had been living violence since her early teens, and so she ducked. The act of ducking tore her arms free from her grabby guardsmen, and she drove her shoulder deep into one of their guts. Even through the boiled leather, it snapped the wind out of one.

There were still two men between her and the fatal sword -- plus that undead thing -- but she felt the odds were in her favour.

He watched as one fell to the strange blonde woman and he lamented how inconvenient mortals could be. But he was not called Jack-Be-Lucky without reason. And so both his eyes glistened, though one was hidden behind an eyepatch. The sword he carried was an old, notched thing. But he didn't need it to be sharp to kill.

"You know what I love about this place?" he said as he began to circle her. "Everyone is always fucking. Or they're fighting. It's a shame we're doing the latter, little lady."

He lunged at her to attack.

Alarm bells should have been ringing. Perhaps they already were -- deep in her perception -- but she was already too riled up to listen to them. There was something ever so slightly off about this one, but she chalked it up to yet another boorish brute. Her eyes rolled, but so did her body. Out of the way of the first attack. Slick, smooth, fast, capable.

And when she popped back up she threw a wicked left hook at the boor's face, informing him: "Bored now. Try something a little less sleazy, next time."

He'd seen her hit hard. But he was stunned when he actually felt it. He'd survived a slugging from the Mountain and came back feeling better than that. But even though she had sent him reeling to the ground, he stood back up again, his mouth bloody and his jaw dislocated. But he soon fixed that and smiled at her.

"Ow. You're not from around here, are you?" He casually twirled his sword around in his hand again. "Gods, I love foreign chicks." He was more careful now. She was no mook that could be easily cut down. Now he wasn't so sure he wanted to. So he waited for her to strike again.

The kangaroo court put itself on pause as the violence persisted. Buffy stepped back with the natural recoil one has when an enemy thought to be done pops back up again. She groaned and spared a glance at the rest of the assembled bodies. Tyrion's execution has been stayed, but only so long as the spectacle persisted. The Lady stood solemn and patient, as though she had eternity to mete out her punishments.

"Sounds like that makes two of us." Not from around here. She'd not yet met a jaw what could slot so perfectly back into place. Not here, at least. Not in this world. But she'd felt his skin when her fist connected, and she knew him to be warm. He wasn't a vampire.

Buffy didn't wait long before advancing once again, lifting her leg into a roundhouse kick with more power behind it than she'd initially planned to use. Not when she thought she was smacking 'round human types.

Jack caught her foot. It took both hands because she was stronger still than he expected and he had to drop his sword to manage it. But then he pushed her back and tutted at her.

"So what is that? SoCal? I didn't there was many of us in those parts. Of course, that begs the question why a pretty thing like you is bumming around in this world with Grumpy over there." He jerked a thumb over to Tyrion. And then he closed the thumb around a fist to swing it at her in the hope she would be distracted.

Edited 2014-01-13 14:54 (UTC)

She shouldn't be so delighted at the prospect of a fair fight but somewhere in her body, blood sang. "Scotland, actually," she sounded almost cheery as she informed him. "But...via Cali. So you get half-points."

And certainly she was distracted, but not by the pointing. Rather, it had been altogether too long since leaving home and she was half-charmed just to hear someone else make the obvious joke. She'd been about to tell him she thought of Tyrion more as Doc figure, herself, but the words were knocked loose from her mouth by the man's knuckles.

She stumbled. Oh, she certainly stumbled. But Buffy Summers didn't fall.

"My lady must pay attention. She won't look so pretty without her teeth."

Jack-Be-Lucky rather loved this world. He'd been to so many, but few were so unscrupulous as this one. And though he'd never fancied hitting women, there was a certain freedom in knowing that no matter how much of an asshole he could be, he was many shades a better man than ninety percent of the rest of the men in this world. He could be a septon for how pious he was compared to some of them.

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