The Wardens: The Far East
Rating: M + Mature content, language, and violence
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"We need to do something about your accent and name," Benjen remarked amidst the preparations. His comrade didn't say much as to where she was from and he hadn't pushed the envelope. They were anomalies, people who shouldn't exist, and whatever past life Tabitha had experienced, she was wary of sharing it. He wondered if she had been a mercenary or a thief, maybe a harlot? No, none of those quite fit. Her mannerisms, while gruff, bespoke the regiment of a soldier--more finely tuned than the majority of his own men and subordinates on the Wall. She had been a soldier, he did not doubt this, and she had the skill in hand to hand combat to prove it, utilizing a grappling technique he'd never seen before. Foreign was the only thing he thought when put the pieces of Flores together.
"What, there's no one in Essos who sounds like me?" Tabitha groused, rolling her attire in a compact and methodical manner--yet another militaristic trait. She placed the garments into her saddle bags and gave him a wry, but tempered look.
"Perhaps," Benjen relinquished, he was not exceptionally well traveled. The idea of going to Pentos made him nervous. A queer, brilliantly colored tropical paradise. The polar opposite of the home he'd grown up in. Tabitha's features would be much less noticeable than his own, but her accent and name would draw questions once they managed to gain an audience with the Targaryens. "But do you have any idea of where that would be?"
Tabitha sucked her teeth. "Fine. What do you think would fit? I don't look like a northerner," she pointed out.
"You could be Dornish or Rhoynish," Benjen proposed. "What languages do you speak?"
"Probably none that are useful. The True Tongue--what Fang speaks, a little High Valyrian, and un idioma que nunca has escuchado , " (a language you have never heard) she spoke in the last eloquently, the slipping of the language foreign and lofty, but he'd heard it from sailors.
"You speak Rhoynish," he realized.
Tabitha blinked. "Wha-Oh, well... I suppose then it's been decided for me. I could be a Dornish bastard, my mother is from Rhoynar. Which means I'll need a new name, Tabitha isn't exactly common," she paused her work to contemplate a name, but drew a blank. "Tabris? Taliya?"
"It's the name you're going to have to go by," Benjen chuckled.
"Oh, you're laughing now as if you're going to go by Benjen Stark," Tabitha snorted, reminding him that the Targaryens most definitely would not look favorably upon his name. "Fortunately for you, you've got fire eyes now, but you still look a bit too Stark."
Scowling, he inquired, "What do you mean?"
"Grow your beard out and cut your hair shorter. You can't go by Benjen Stark. Daenerys is young and impressionable, we can win her over. Viserys on the other hand is a malicious brat who will spew poison into her ears. We cannot reveal your true name until we're established and Viserys is gone."
"Hm, I was assuming we were going to ride in on our griffins and give the girl wedding presents. That isn't the plan?" Benjen quipped, eliciting a frown from the woman.
"Never reveal your full hand," Tabitha sniffed. "We are going to be stopping in Braavos first. Hopefully, I can pick up the language a bit more before we get to Pentos. It's a bastardized version of High Valyrian, but it'll be useful either way. Dothraki more so if I could..." Pausing she narrowed her eyes at him again. "Stop evading the subject, Stark. You need to pick a name too. How well do you know Jorah Mormont?"
Sucking in air between his teeth, he obliged. "I know him enough. Saw him in Winterfell a few times when I was young, but not much since I joined the Watch. I know he was exiled for slave trade. He probably will not recognize me-"
"Unless you make it obvious," Tabitha interjected, jerking a finger in his direction. "I know how you Starks are and you better not glare openly at this man. As much as you distrust him, you can't be obvious about it."
Benjen suppressed a sigh, but knew that she was right. Jorah Mormont could get them killed if he discovered who he was. The flaming irises--more gold than orange--would make him unlike a Stark, but all it took was some well placed knowledge and a snarky jab to begin unraveling the aliases they were building. Tact had never been necessary in his line of work. He dealt in truths, honor, and by the posting he had. Now, he had none of that and if Tabitha was going by a bastard name, it was wise that he did as well. He might've been the better warrior, but Tabitha knew more about politics-a cursed game he'd never wanted to play.
"I'll think of a name," he grimaced, continuing to store his supplies. "What is your plan for gaining an audience with Magister Illyrio?"
"I'll send ravens in Braavos," Tabitha told him. "We'll spend a fortnight there so I can establish my contact in King's Landing. There's a good friend of Magister Illyrio who'd like more eyes and I think I have the right information to convince him to place a bet on us. The relics we're taking with us will sell for a high amount of coin, we'll be able to afford the necessary supplies and a gift for Daenerys after we depart for Pentos."
Thank the Old Gods that she had a plan, because his only one really had been arriving on griffin back and Torrhen wasn't large enough yet. "Who is this contact?"
Tabitha paused, lips curling in that same, wicked manner that sent a chill down his spine. The female looked exceptionally roguish and dangerous, the fire in her eyes dancing brightly. "Varys."
The Spider: a name he'd wished had not fallen from her lips or that he'd not asked at all. He had to trust Tabitha to be clever enough to fool the eunuch, but the rumors surrounding the man were abysmal. He was the keeper of secrets for a reason and the fact that the Spider had interest in the Targaryens to begin with spelled ill for the Starks. He was walking into a dragon's den without as much of a piece or armor or weapon to defend himself. Everything in his body rejected this idea, wishing for nothing more but to return to the simplicity of being First Ranger. But he could not. This second life came with a price and he had to play the game of thrones in order to save his family.
"Don't look so pale," Tabitha scolded, diverting her attention to the bags she'd finished packing. "I'll do my best to find a way to save your family. We have to start by changing Daenerys' perception on them... but your brother is a kinder man than King Robert. He is the one who speaks against assassinating her."
Those words were meant to be comforting, but Benjen was still anxious.
"I wish the king never asked Ned to go south," he muttered.
"Me too, but what we can do is earn a friend. Petyr Baelish is behind the fall of House Stark and his most staunch enemy is Varys."
"Why is that?"
"Baelish wants power. Varys wants what is best for the kingdom, regardless of who rules, as long as the common folk are treated justly. Anything we can feed Varys will help make him more powerful before Baelish's plans come to fruition will help the Starks. Varys likes the Starks," Tabitha explained, but sighed deeply afterward. "Unfortunately, your elder brother is naive and surrounded by enemies. He's also distrustful of Varys and more inclined toward Baelish, which is his first mistake. I'll make certain that mistake isn't repeated."
"How? We can't speak or write about the future."
"No, but I can write cryptically enough that all Varys will have to do is unwravel the riddles. He's clever."
"If Robert sits the throne now, why would he be looking toward the next monarch?"
"Because Robert is fat and a drunk. His health is failing. Joffrey and the Lannisters will inherit, which will begin the demise of Westeros. Having other options available is precedent, especially given the Crown's surmounting debt, circling lions, and the thin line they're riding with the favor of the commonfolk. That can all turn on a dime and Joffrey does not make a good king," Tabitha explained.
"Given what I saw at Winterfell, I'm not surprised."
"You have no idea what a tyrant he'll become. He's sick in the head," she tapped her brow. "Hopefully, we can avoid some of his wrath, but I doubt we'll be able to stop King Robert from dying."
"If we can save Ned and the girls-"
"I'll try," Tabitha insisted firmly. "But this all starts in Braavos. We need to do our part beside Daenerys to gain her favor."
Trying was all he could ask, considering he knew the true fate that awaited them all. For all that they knew, their own fate was not written in any visions or words that they'd witnessed. He did not fear for his own life, but for those he knew were going to be cut short if he failed. But to save some, wouldn't that come at the cost of others?
*
Benjen had never been to Braavos, but he had heard of the legendary Free City. Balerion had coasted far above the famed Titan of Braavos, bringing them out to a rural location miles outside the city to land unnoticed. The pair of griffins would remain out in the countryside until summoned. The larger seemed thankful not to be saddled with two adults, allowing for their supplies to be retrieved before he huffed and took off into the sky with a much lighter burden. No where he'd been had ever been as sprawling as Braavos. So choked full of buildings that trees were nonexistent, unless purposely planted in the more prestigious areas of the grey city. A plethora of languages were spoken between the canals, many of which he could not identify. Tabitha, now Taliya Sand, a traveling sellsword and linguist, picked out between the Braavosi and found a Rhonyish sailor to garner directions from.
The weather was not too hot, which he savored now, fully aware in Pentos it'd grow warmer and the Dothraki Sea would be unbearable. Wary eyes traced the streets, noticing the flamboyant colors that many bravos wore, proclaiming their profession lest any other swordsman wish to challenge them. Otherwise, most other locals dressed in muted tones of grey, purple, and dark blues. Songs floated like gondolas through the canals. Art and courtesanship prized greatly within every part of the city that they roamed. To him, it was florid, but not unbearably so. He'd trust a Braavosi before any southerner.
Within the Purple Harbor, the stretching market boasted magnificent goods ranging from Lyseni lace, desert gemstones, to Arbor Wine. There were few foreigners selling goods in this area, as only Braavosi ships were able to dock in this part of the harbor. However, Taliya made due, haggling over the rare treasures that had been preserved in the Roost. Shadowskins, golden chalices encrusted with garnets, antique daggers, fine armor that hadn't suited either of them. It had all been dead weight, things they could not carry forever, and the armor seemed to garner the most attention aside from the shadowskins. Benjen had no idea what they were saying, but the merchant before them was raving, tracing the finely hewn details and glancing up, trying to contain his delight as not to overpay for the work of art.
No sooner were their pockets heavy with Braavosi coin, did Taliya insist that they turn in for the night before darkness fell and they became open invitations for duels as they had swords buckled to their belts. They had passed a few fine establishments, but she took him aback by leaving the Purple Harbor and approaching the religious sector of the city. A large bridge led to another island, a temple of red stone looming before them. Upon the great square tower was an iron brazier as wide as the roof, containing a great fire.
To him, it was still difficult to acknowledge that his 'gods' had not saved him and that he was now in the service of the Lord of Light. A god he was not very familiar with and probably would have never cared for if not for the new life breathed within him. Part of him wished he'd died, resigning the simplicity and lack of responsibility as peace, but knew he'd not be able to save his kin had he not been given this chance.
The temple was grand, embellished with scones, braziers, and fire to emphasize the importance within the religion. It was not as decadent as any of the Septs, but was purposeful in its design. Red was an overarching theme, the priests and priestesses milling around dressed in crimson robes. Burning hearts were depicted on banners hanging from the walls, the sigil of the red god. A female paused, drinking them in, before a crisp smile broke across the plane of her features.
"Greetings," she knew they were not local, as evident by their faces.
"We seek lodgings while we are staying within the city," Taliya started, reaching toward the gloves that obscured her hands.
Benjen expected that the priestess might chuckle and direct them toward an inn. What temple would host strangers? Yet, the priestess paused, glancing between them, before watching as Taliya removed her glove and turned her palm over to reveal the Mark of the Warden. A burn emblazoned upon her left hand, just as Benjen had on his.
The priestess did not falter, but her smile broadened. "Yes, there are quarters we can afford to spare for such esteemed guests. The Lord of Light shines upon both of your faces, Wardens."
He was shocked, but why? The Lord of Light had brought them back as champions for his cause, why wouldn't those who served him know of the secret order? Returning her glove, Taliya gave a stout nod and followed closely behind the priestess.
"I must admit, I am surprised to see holy warriors. My name is Oresha and I am in your service for as long as you intend on staying," the priestess introduced, folding her hands into her sleeves as she led them through the halls and deeper into the enormous building as more braziers were lit for the evening fires.
"Then you will know that we cannot speak of our holy mission," Taliya rebuffed, not unkindly.
"As is the way," Oresha acknowledged, unbothered by this proclamation. "We know our duty to the swords of the Lord."
The main chamber led deeper into a monastery where the priests and priestesses dwelled, including those that were still in training. Night was an active period of time for the Red Temple, as prayers would be said as the shadows snuck in, whispering of the terrors that hid within them. Oresha turned a hall and entered an area with many doors, a few crimson garbed figures going in and out of rooms as they passed by. At the end of the hallway, Oresha unlocked a door, revealing a simple room with a set of dual beds. There was nothing ornate or remarkable about it. A fireplace, a brazier, a chest at the foot of each bed, and desks. It appeared to be intended for those living in the monastery and a roommate, but sufficed perfectly for the pair.
"Is there anything I can have sent to you while you settle in?" Oresha inquired.
"Books on Dothraki and High Valyrian," Taliya asserted immediately, putting her things down on the desk. "Parchment, ink... Do you have a rookery here?"
"Yes, of course."
"Very well, I'll require any ravens that fly to King's Landing and trusted contacts in the city that can deliver the letters."
"I shall send the requested materials with a meal to this room," Oresha complied. "I shall always need to send word to Volantis and the High Priest."
Taliya pursed her lips, but gave a nod. "Very well, as long as we are not made outside the walls of the temple."
"We are aware that the Wardens must work under discreet circumstances. You are the secret flames that weave the Lord's will, not heralds," Oresha retorted.
"Thank you, that will be all," Taliya closed the conversation and Oresha took her dismissal.
"How did you know that they'd take us in?" Benjen inquired after the door had shut and a few moments had passed from Oresha's departure.
"Fang," Taliya informed him. "He hinted that the Red Temples would be our greatest resource. Seems he was right. We can trust them. They're fanatics, incredibly devoted to the prophecy of Azor Ahai. With the amount of coin we were carrying too, even the nicest establishment in Braavos would have posed risk. We already drew a few eyes today."
"We could utilize the Iron Bank," Benjen suggested.
"Trust me, considering how much things were in the market, it'll be easy to spend a good portion on a wedding gift," Taliya snorted.
"And you're going to learn Dothraki and High Valyrian in a fortnight?" Benjen inquired, finally setting his belongings down, mildly amused by the woman's ambition.
"I'm going to learn as much as I can, unless you'd like to take that burden, Ben," she emphasized his name, shaking her head at his choice. "How many languages do you know?"
He'd chosen Ben River. It was a common first name and with his shorter hair, beard growing in, and golden eyes--he doubted even Jorah Mormont would connect the dots given the years since either had seen one another. He'd been little more than a boy playing at being a man when he'd seen Mormont. "Hm, you're rather clever with languages. I wouldn't wish to encroach upon your expertise."
"Oh no, you're going to learn," Taliya insisted haughtily. "Maybe not Rhoynish, but you're a stick in the mud if you don't at least understand the dialect of Valyrian most of Essos uses and Dothraki."
He chuckled at her decisiveness, but knew she was right. He didn't understand anyone and that made him anxious. Relying only on common was a severe disability, especially if they had to be clever. Better that people thought him a stupid Westerosi bastard and it turned out he spoke enough of the other languages to follow along. "Enlighten me, wise maester."
Taliya rolled her eyes, jerked out the chair to the desk, and sat down. Just as he was her mentor in swordsplay, she had subjects to school him on. Despite her typical lack of decorum (with him, at least), she was rather perceptive and cunning. Perhaps her harsh, serpentine personality hinted at this, but he originally thought the woman lacked poise. Obviously, he'd been wrong. She only lacked it when there was no need for a facade and between him, a fellow warden, she did not guard herself. He was thankful for that, uncertain how he would have handled his Wardenship is not for a companion who was polar in nature to him. The Lord of Light had intentionally paired them, each stronger in different fields, and somehow aware that they wouldn't be at one another's throats. Perhaps the fact that Taliya was a woman had a hand in his relaxed nature around her or her courage when facing down the Other.
Despite how much the woman could bark, she was true, a trait rarely witnessed in this world. People were fickle, oathbreakers, and more willing to protect their own hide than to buckle down and remain steadfast to a cause.
While a learned man, languages were complex. Over the simple dinner they had been provided, his mind spun as she tried to impress Dothraki on him first as she learned herself. Her own ramblings, she seemed to make sense of it, but he was stuck on the harsh annunciations. Valyrian, he'd heard a few words of before, and found that it was a bit easier to follow. Still, it would be a long time before he was fluent in either. He turned in relatively early, aching from their journey, while Taliya bowed over the desk and began writing letters.
Come morning, he was astonished to find her asleep at the desk, face pressed to the parchment and candle nothing but a stump of wax with no light. Throwing his leg over his bed, he crept up to see that she'd written numerous drafts and that her handwriting was quite atrocious. However, as he pulled out a sheet, his eyes coasted over the content that flowed like rivers of prose. Ambiguous and had nothing at all to do with their plight. How would Varys be able to understand them?
"Not the hibiscus-" Taliya muttered, jolting up, a piece of parchment sticking to her face as she moved. "Oh. Is it morning already?"
"You spent all night writing this?" Ben waved the work, unimpressed.
"Takes a while to create a code and cipher," Taliya groaned, rubbing her neck, peeling off the parchment from her face to reveal a mess of equations and a more deliberately spaced version of the letter he now held. "Look, this is the key which will be sent a few days after the first letter-" she turned the page over and showed him an alphanumeric mess, launching into an explanation on how certain letters within different words corresponded to others and could be utilized to spell out entirely different sentences. The process by which she broke it down was complex, but without the cipher, the letter would just appear to be a gilded exchange about traveling through Essos from a friend.
"And you think he'll be able to crack this without a full explanation from you?" Ben inquired thoughtfully, enthralled with her diligence to get this done immediately. He hadn't considered the letter being intercepted or read by another, but perhaps that was his own naivity of King's Landing and the inner workings of politics. Until they secured a better mode of communication with Varys, it was best to adhere to a code to draw no attention from anyone who might spy the letter before the master of whispers.
"We'll find out. If not, we're going to have a fun time trying to get into the wedding," she chuckled, standing up from her seat. "Shit, I really need to lay down though. Go out into the city if you'd like, but I need a couple of hours."
He wasn't really keen on the idea of going out into Braavos without a translator, but also knew there were few moments where either of them really got to be alone. Securing a small portion of Braavosi coins, he departed from the dormitory. Where the temple had been aflame with activity overnight, it had simmered down to a quiet lull as he passed a few priests and priestesses who gave curt bows of their head, but spoke no greetings. Word had spread like wildfire and yet, as requested, they were discreet.
Sunrise on the city illuminated the grey stone with a warm, amber haze, refracting off the water in the canals and basking the people. There was still a lot to take in, bustle, and queerly speaking people, but Ben tried to relax. Courtesans milled around openly, smiling at passing men, including himself. Some rode on ornate pleasure barges and unlike those in Westeros, were treated like nobility and with care. His eyes did not linger long, but Ben puzzled about the fact that he was no longer bound to his oaths as a man of the Night's Watch.
He had warned Jon Snow of speaking away his freedoms, including enjoying a woman, at such a young age. Ben knew what he had missed, especially after he'd learned of men going down into the Gift to purchase time with harlots to sate their thirst. There had been a time, before the Night's Watch, where he had known women and what he was giving away. But as a Stark, he'd known his place in protecting the kingdom and supporting his brother from the Wall. It was easier for Ned if Ben had no claim, nor had he ever yearned for the title as Warden of the North.
Whatever oaths he had to uphold with the Lord of Light, he suspected given the fact he did not recall them meant that there were no such clauses as refraining from giving in to carnal desires. Yet, as he espied the comely faces of the women dressed in vibrant silks, he felt nothing. Perhaps because he did not know them, lacking rapport or trust, a rather bad taste situating in the back of his throat at the idea of paying for services. But this was Braavos and while he had a disliking for it, the city revelled in their differences from his home.
Ben followed his nose, finding himself breakfast amongst the stands, freshly baked sweet bread and a hot tea to enjoy by the canals. The city still sprawled before him, beckoning to be explored. Despite his wariness for the urban setting, he curiousity got the better of him. He was a ranger, an explorer in his own right. Be this a foreign city, his legs took him through the bridged paths, between the islands, and amongst the shifting colors and faces. Few paid him heed aside from a few smiling escorts, but he'd simply continued onwards, careful to evade shady alleys and remained on the main roads.
A couple of hours turned into the better part of the afternoon, as he'd managed to get himself turned around, searching for the path back to the Red Temple. After finding someone who was willing to give him directions in common, he returned to find that Taliya was awake, the desk was void of the scattered parchment, and she was pawing through the language books. Her dedication was admirable, but he wondered how she could remain holed up in the stuffy room when there was so much to explore.
"Think the priests will mind if we use their courtyard for sparring?" Ben proposed wolfishly.
"We're Wardens, they'll let us do anything short of murdering them all if it's the Lord of Light's will," Taliya smirked.
*
They kept to the strict schedule of a fortnight in Braavos. As Taliya had jested, there was substance to the claim that the Red Priests would do anything for them. Part of Taliya's plan for Daenerys' wedding went hand in hand with R'hllor and claiming to be religious ambassadors and warriors entering into servitude on the blessed wedding-as was the will of their God. The temple parted with crimson garments for them, burnishing their armor, making certain they had plenty of coin and food for the journey to Pentos. He had not thought that he would have missed the little griffin during their separation, but as they left behind the watery city and trekked back out into the countryside where they'd started in Essos, he found his heart brimming with joy as the griffins touched down and reunited with them.
While Torrhen had grown a bit over the weeks, it was still not enough to ride him. Balerion groused, but in good nature, butting playfully into Taliya as she tried to secure the saddle bags to him, tail swishing around like a cat ready to play. Each passing moment brought them closer to the beginning of their first mission and to say that Ben was anxious was an understatement. What if Jorah recognized him? What if their invitation to the wedding was not solidified and they failed? His doubts and worries did not seem to affect his partner in the same manner. She was difficult to read and aloof, her pensive expression the only inkling that she might be worried about what Pentos had in store for them.
He had to trust in their mission, but his Dothraki was poor and his Valyrian rough. For all he knew, he'd be the fool on the Pentoshi promenade. Even the skills of his companion would not save him from his own ignorance. Gods, the north was so much less complex, even with the Others lurking north of the Wall.
They arrived in the city with a few days to spare before the wedding, allotting them time to get gifts and top of their supplies. Where Braavos had been grey, mild, and riddled with more canals than streets, Pentos was warm, made of many bricked buildings and walled estates akin to miniature castles, and filled with brightly hued residents. Westeros seemed bleak by comparison and Ben was sweltering in his thin doublet, armor, and trousers. While a warm, salty breeze often blew up from the port, the high walls of the golden city often denied them of the luxury of feeling its reprieve.
While the colors of the Wardens had been dark blue and grey, they traded the typical hues of their regal to that of the Lord of Light. Before dawn on the day of the wedding, Ben had settled his wardrobe and his attire. He'd spent the better part of the night polishing his cuirass, emblazoned with the heraldry of the Warden griffin on silvered steel. He did not possess a full suit, only the breastplate, thankful that it was light. The doublet beneath was provided by the temple in Braavos, a deep, garnet red that looked almost black, threads glistening in the sunlight.
His trousers were of a loose fit, as not to make him sweat excessively on the desert plains, though he knew there would be no avoiding it. He had not been crafted to be in Essos. He was a Stark, ice and iron, not heat and fire. The shiny black boots were finer than he would have typically chosen, accustomed to the sublime and mundane as a man of the Watch. What he wore now was a little 'much' for him. Taliya assured him that it was simple, but it still felt rather decadent.
He need only remind himself of the gem hues across the city to feel less excessive. After all, there were men who dyed their beards strange colors and forked them with oils.
Taliya was much more at home in the city than he was. Over the weeks her complexion had warmed to a rich olive, which complimented the tones she wore. That morning, the woman wore a pair of slitted harem pants in a deep, vibrant crimson. An ensemble of gold and cred sashes by her waist secured Fate to her hip, before a thick leather cuirass was fitted carefully over her torso, wrapped beneath sashes that matched the trousers, encompassing her collar and neck and fluttering behind her in scarves. While he knew she had gloves to meet the tight sleeves at her elbows, she had foregone them for the wedding, revealing intricate scrawlings of black and colored ink on her left arm.
Ben had never seen tattoos so ornate or detailed, leaving yet another layer of curiosities surrounded the woman. But as he gazed at her, he had no doubt that she was Dornish, wearing the sunset as she sat astride the dappled gelding that she'd purchased for their journey. Until the dragons were born, they could not introduce the griffins and had to have their own horses to accompany the Dothraki with. Each shuffle of the horse revealed the warm skin of her smooth legs and Ben felt himself watching a little longer than was polite. It was the first time he'd really seen more of the discreet Warden since the beginning of their partnership.
Both of their horses wore blankets with the flaming hearts of R'hllor, pressed to the flanks so that people knew they were embassies of the red god. The wedding was to be held outside of the city, the khalasar so enormous that the city was wary of what the festivities might do inside the walls, given their lack of military protection. Thus, it was to be conducted outside the golden walls and within a field where the Dothraki had made a temporary camp. Running through the lines of Dothraki he did remember, he prayed to any god that would listen that he wouldn't make a fool of himself.
Their trip out of the city and toward the allotted field paused when they noticed an elaborate poliquin gilded with so much golden paint that Benjen was quite certain it could've fed the entire north for a year during winter. Taliya spared him a glance, giving him a quick nod, before nudging her gelding forward to approach the throng of plump Unsullied that were carrying it. With a click, the shutter slipped open and within they could see the greasy face of a very fat man. The man from the visions: Illyrio Mopatis.
"Ah, you must be the swords of R'hllor," he greeted in a honey sweet voice, stroking his yellowed beard that was greasy enough to paint pictures on canvas.
"May the Lord of Light smile on you, Magister," Taliya replied courteously, a staunch difference from the woman he was acquainted with. Still this was not groveling, she spoke as a soldier might to an officer, cordial and polite. "I believe a mutual friend of ours told of our coming from Braavos."
"Yes, yes he did. I am quite surprised that the R'hllor would be so interested in this union," Illyrio simpered.
"The Lord of Light works in mysterious ways. We do not question his will," Ben broke in, earning a careful, but impressed glance from Taliya.
"Hm, indeed. There are not many Westerosi who follow the Lord of Light. Given your accent, my lady, you must be from Dorne."
"I am," she conceded simply, but her voice fell flat as she did not smile or lean into the flattering tone which the man spoke with. "And there are not many Westerosi on this side of the Narrow Sea, yet here we are. The paths in which we led to get here were but the will of the Lord... It seems as if it'll be a fine morning for a wedding."
"Tell me, my lady, have you ever been to a Dothraki wedding?" Illyrio inquired lightly.
" Vo, vosma anha shillolat anha tikh allayafi me ," (No, but I believe I will enjoy it) Taliya retorted, the magister's brows shooting up. "Sorry, my Dothraki is still a bit rough, but I believe it'll get better."
"Our friend said you were clever, but I was not aware you were a linguist," Illyrio remarked.
"I'm a bit more gifted in scholarly pursuits than my companion, but he could best me with a sword any day. Perhaps the Lord of Light was aware of this when he made his partners," Taliya concluded before drawing her horse a few paces away. "We shall reconvene with you at the wedding. The night is dark and full of terrors."
"Farewell," Illyrio watched as they departed, skirting past his poliquin and down the beaten path that led to the sprawling plains where a city's worth of Dothraki were dwelling.
"Shit, I need something to sniff, that man smelled awful-" Taliya complained, rubbing her nose as they broke into a small pocket of solitude. "Could you smell it? Even the perfume didn't hide his reek-"
"No, I wasn't close enough," Ben admitted thankfully. "Who knew you could be so well-mannered."
Her infamous temper flared, eyes narrowing at him, as she opened her mouth to lash at him like a viper, "A side of me you'll never have the luxury of knowing."
He barked a laugh. "If you were being polite to me, I'd suspect death was near and the Lord of Light tasked you with killing me."
"Is it that uncharacteristic? I can be nice when I choose to," Taliya grumbled, drawing in a shimmering gold scarf.
"No one here knows you, so to them, they'd be none the wiser," he pointed out.
"But you know," she gave him a sideways glance, a devilish light playing in her fiery eyes.
"I know," he agreed, tucking away a smirk. Months of being beside her, with only her company aside from the griffins (not to include Fang's sporadic appearances), he thought he knew Taliya well enough. Still, despite all that he knew, he knew little of her history or who she was.
Abruptly, the woman reigned in her horse and dropped from the saddle in a puff of dust. Bending down, she retrieved a dagger and began hacking up a shrub of multicolored flowers, assembling a bouquet with a throng of tall grass to tie it together.
"For the princess?" he puzzled, aware that they'd already purchased excellent gifts for the girl. What good would flowers do?
"Mhm," she got back on the saddle. "Would you believe me if I told you I was a gardener in my past life?"
Benjen chuckled, but then realized she was utterly serious. A gardener?