Maron found himself peeling away from the column of travellers often, dismounting his horse and walking for a while to stretch his legs. The large, black Clydesdale he rode was patient with him, and in return he had been trying his best to kind to her despite his general lack of understanding of horses. Victarion had taught him to ride very young, but he had never learned to rely on a horse the way he had learned to rely on a ship. He had named the mare Kelpie, after the sea horses his mother had told him about in his childhood bedtime stories, and had found himself more inclined to keep her company than that of his newfound allies due to her lack of words. It was there he stood, just inside the line of trees that seperated the Kingsroad from the forest, in a moment of silent vulnerability as his ears strained for the sound of the ocean and he worried his thumb gently down the horse’s nose, when he felt someone bump straight into him. Reflex had his axe pulled from where it was slung by its leather strap across his back in seconds, and it was held between him and the disturbance - a young woman in northern dress with eyes wide.
“Watch yourself, girl. You might just start causing trouble for yourself, you never know who you’re going to bump into out here.” Maron gritted out the threat with his voice carrying the scowl his face wore. Being away from the sea was beginning to grate at the young kraken’s mind, and he found himself growing ever more irritated the longer he spent riding with the mainlanders to Winterfell. And besides, he hardly appreciated being caught off guard.
Of course, he could have sailed with the ships, but he did not trust anyone else to travel with the ironborn in the retinue who had had to abandon their ships to make way for the supplies of food and dragonglass bound for the North that weighed the vessels down low in the water. There were not many of them riding, but their banners, black and emblazoned with the golden kraken, flew alongside the green and gold roses, the blue and white falcons, even the red and gold lions that filled Maron with hatred. Despite his unease, he was determined that his men and women be seen amongst the army of the living. It was not out of some heroic desire to save Westeros, nor to prove their worth to the mainlanders they were so estranged from - no, Maron was more concerned with being seen here, being helpful, and being able to use that as a bargaining chip in the negotiations between these kings and queens if the war was won. He had no intention of imitating his father, who had overestimated the amount of leeway the mainland would give the Isles, and had eliminated himself from their radar with his fool’s rebellions. Thank the Drowned God he breathed no more, all thanks to his middle son’s hand.
Her eyes are wide as she stands before him, eyes locked on the axe that she had no doubt had cleaved a hundred heads from a hundred bodies. It remained locked there for a moment, eyes fixating on a dark spot that her mind whispered was blood. Couldn't be though, they were all sword to peace amongst each other, and she had heard the Ironborn were very particular about their weapons - he would have cleaned it to be sparkling if it had been anything. But her soul was drawn back into her body at the harsh words that escaped beautiful lips.
Her eyes lifted from the axe to the face, the man stood almost a foot taller than her, which that alone made her feel small and vulnerable. Lost in the wilderness with no friendly familiar faces around, she had no northern men by her side that would protect her, and the Lady Captain Shireen was nowhere near her. She had a feeling that the woman would be the only female she could've traveled with that would have had the nerve to spit at an Ironborn - especially the one that stood before her: Maron Greyjoy. She had heard the stories, listened to the hushed whispers from the Ladies that spoke of the handsome Kraken that was capable of slaughter full villages by himself, with no need for help or assistance.
Shaking fingers gripped tight to the soft skirts of her dress, unsure of how to react. That had been a threat: a liable threat that he was more than capable of following through with - and with her father dead... Would anyone genuinely notice her absence? She had a tendency to wander off from the group for her own solitude and alone time. People would likely just believe that she wandered off and got lost. No one was likely to question it any further than that...
But despite her fear, the tiny girl squared her shoulders and lifted her head, pointing her chin up at him. "I was not afraid of Theon when he took Winterfell, and I am not afraid of you, Lord Reaper." Her words waver, showing just how afraid she might indeed be. "I apologized for my mistake, and I was polite when doing so. I would continue being kind to you, too, had you not turned around and showed such a foul face." The words are more like a scolding, and she began to feel like her father as they left her lips. "You, sir, should do more to try to make good of such a terrible situation. We are doomed to die in the war to come, would it not be better suited to take the remaining time you have to do some good? Create some connections or have some fun? Instead, here you are moseying about the wilderness with an angry expression spitting insults at dainty little ladies who have done nothing in the wrong. Shame on you, Maron Greyjoy. Shame."
Trembling hands raise so she could cross her arms just beneath her bust, leveling him with a glare - or at least trying to. Admittedly, she probably looked like a child throwing a tantrum to the man that stood over her. But she tried to keep that look anyway: she had no one but herself to rely on for protection these days, and she did not know how to fight. She did not know. However, she did know how to speak, and her father had always been trying to get her to speak up more. If she were doomed to die anyway, now would be an excellent time to test the waters.
