Loras Tyrell shook with terror as he lay curled into the corner of his damp cell. He was ashamed and he was broken. His eyes were wet, his hair greasy and tangled as it lay against his skin. The hard floor bit into him, but relieving the pain by moving would be to risk the guard at the door knowing he was awake. But then they didn't just come when he was awake. He never knew when they were coming.
He just needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop….
A whimper escaped his lips as the door creaked open. He curled tighter, his fingers digging into his calves as he pulled his legs tighter to his chest. Words slipped past his lips. "Please, please, please, please."
Two rough sets of arms hauled him out of his corner. And then he was forced to face the man who'd come for him for whatever the Faith had planned now. His closed eyes tightened, his pleas remaining on his lips. He couldn't do this again. His pleas silenced into a whimper as he was slapped across the face.
"Shut your mouth." A man snarled, he sounded different than the cold detachment of the followers of the Faith. All their voices held such horrible coldness. "Ser Tyrell, your sister sent me. Ya went out of here ya follow me."
Loras's eyes snapped open at the word of his sister. He grabbed the man's arms. "Margaery?" Oh gods she'd listened when he'd begged her to save him.
"What other sister do you have? Yes, your sister, the bloody Queen. Now come on if ya want to get out." The man was someone of ill repute, he smelled of alcohol and unwashed skin. His boiled leather armor and undyed clothing marked him a common sellsword. But in his hand was a piece of paper, a drawing of the rose of Tyrell. But it was done wrong, done wrong in exactly the right way for him to know Margaery, sweet Margaery had sent this man.
Loras thought he may as well have been divine. His weakened and pained body from the care of the Faith uncurled, he wavered but made it to his feet. No words fell from his lips now, but he'd follow this man. He'd follow him through the seven hells if it meant he'd be free. His sister was saving him. Because she was the strong one, not him.
He stumbled, a hand grabbing his upper arm with unforgiving strength, half hauling him out of the cell. At the door was another man, dressed similarly to the first. The two of them shut the cell door behind him, and then they were hustling through the lower tunnels of the Great Sept of Balor. They went deeper, instead of upwards?
Loras bit his lip viciously at the body of one of the faithful laying in a pool of blood. They'd been dead long enough for the blood to begin to soak into their plain spun robes, face screwed up into masks of death. If they were caught with dead faithful in the halls it'd be worse somehow. It couldn't' be any worse, could it?
So he let himself be dragged further down the hall. Everything hurt, the bottoms of his feet from the punishment they'd suffered, his back where the fabric dragged over the strikes he'd been given, every muscle hurt from pain, from the cold, and from poor conditions.
It was a blur of pain and terror as he was led finally out into a tunnel of the miserable sewers beneath the city. Loras flinched at the stench, but terror overrode the disgust and he followed. They sludged for gods knows how long before coming to a ladder.
Loras's fingers barely had the strength to haul himself up the rusted metal rungs. The weeks of deprivation had weakened him. His lungs and muscles ached, a shaking, gelatinous feel warning they would only support him for so much longer. But he could smell fresh, free air. So he climbed.
His guide half hauled him up and out at the top. He then shoved Loras into the back of a cart before Loras could look long enough to learn where in the city he was. All he knew was it was one of the poorer districts, and it was the dead of night.
The back of the cart was rough hewn wood, the rattle of it moving made his teeth rattle in his skull with every cobblestone and pothole. A poorly spun cloth was thrown over him, hiding him from view. It was miserable, his sweat cooling against his filthy skin even as his heart beat like a rabbit in his chest.
Gods knew how long he was there, but he certainly didn't. It felt an age and a second both, till the cart finally jolted to a stop. Not long after and the cloth was ripped off of him. He blinked, eyes burning at the sudden light from several lanterns. They were outside a warehouse near the docks.
He whimpered, his entire body was bruised and battered, as he was grabbed by the shoulder and shoved in through the dark doors. His whole body was wracked with shivers from terror and cold. His sweat had long since cooled. It was of some comfort that should this be his end, at least it would not be at the High Sparrow's hand. That small kernel of spite had long since burned out, but its memory lingered.
His torture dulled senses took a long moment to recognize the people within. The guards in Tyrell colors were a relief but his sister? His beautiful sister brought a sob from his throat. "Margaery!" He didn't even care at the crack in his voice, the fact he surely stank, covered in filth as he was.
They both lunged for each other, clinging to one another as they so often had as the two closest of their siblings. The only difference in their holds was the panicked shaking as he sobbed wordless thanks into her and her unfaltering grip as she held him to her. He felt whole and safe for the first time since he'd realized he was too weak to survive his imprisonment.
He'd barely regained enough sense for his sobs to have eased when Margaery grabbed his face and forced him to look at her. He could see the anxiety and fear on her face. His voice was disused and weak. "What is it? You've saved me?"
"Loras, you can't be in the capitol at dawn." Her fingers were nearly painful as they dug into him. Her voice, even here, a low and cautious tone, meant not to carry lest they be overheard. "And you cannot return to the Reach, I can't protect you from the Faith."
His face crumpled, his chest constricting with panic. "I can't, I can't go back!"
"No." Her voice was vicious, eyes flashing. "I can't protect you but we have friends who can. Or one who might."
He shook his head. "Grandmother will help?" He knew his voice had a desperate edge to it, but he didn't care.
Margaery's hands fell to his shoulders, fingers no lighter there than they'd been before. A terrifying intensity and desperation to her. How far must she have been pushed to openly show her fear? "Not against the Faith. There is little time. You must go North. Sansa has reclaimed it for the Starks. The whispers are scarce, or perhaps too plentiful for much to be known. But what is certain is she's taken it, and her bastard brother is supporting her. With winter nearly here she'll hold it." She caught his chin with one hand before he could look away. "Listen to me. You must go to her, beg that she protects you."
"Sansa Stark? She's a silly girl." He weakly scoffed, that demuring fool of a girl he remembered his sister investing her time in, she meant nothing to him. She couldn't have protected a bird let alone a person.
Margaery's voice had that familiar whip to it that she held in common with their grandmother as she spoke quickly. "The fact you think that is proof she's smarter than you give her credit for. But she holds the North, the one kingdom that does not bow to the Faith. Do you understand? The Faith has no power there."
He cringed but nodded. "How long?"
"Loras….you can't come back." She held him, her desperation suddenly making sense. This was goodbye, permanently. "If she does not accept you into her household in memory of what friendship she and I held for one another you must go to the Wall. By leaving you'll be killed if you return."
And he shook then. Shaking, he hated himself because he knew he'd do as his sister bid. Because he couldn't go back. He couldn't let the Faith have him again. He wouldn't survive it. So he nodded. "Ok."
"There's letters in your chest, and I've arranged for a traveling companion. You will board the ship just down at the docks. It's all arranged." Margaery kissed the crown of his head. "We don't have long."
He half sobbed and pulled his sister into his arms. Because he would never see her again. Not for years and years if he ever did. The person in all the world he loved best, trusted most. His sister, his mirror in their family. He was a coward, if he was a braver man he'd stay. She needed him in King's Landing, needed the security of his presence, the support of a male of their house besides their idiot father. But he was not a braver man. He was so scared, could take no more, hold to his sanity by his fingertips no longer. So he'd leave. Like a coward.
Her tears were a condemnation as they fell because she knew him best. She'd saved him. All this would have meant nothing if he was a braver man. He sobbed and hugged her, it half felt like if he could just hold on tight enough and memorize the feel of her, he'd never lose her. She must have felt the same because she held him just as bruisingly tight.
Time had long since lost meaning to Loras. It was compressed and expanded, twisting and malleable after the cell with the Faith. He couldn't have guessed at how long they stayed there, clinging to each other. But finally, Margaery pulled away.
She looked at him, her eyes red. "You have to go, there isn't more time."
"I…" He wanted to tell her he'd stay, but the lump in his throat meant he couldn't get the words out.
Margaery's face was so agonizingly understanding. "Go."
He choked on a sob as unflinching hands pulled him to a different door. As they reached the door his hand shot out clutching the doorframe. "Margaery! I love you, always."
"Live Loras." She half shook, one of her arms wrapping around her stomach as if it would protect her from the grief of their parting…or perhaps the grief of his loss. For that's what it was.
And then he was gone, hauled out into the dark of the night. A haze descended on him then. He'd never hated himself as truly as he did at that moment. He was a puppet breathing the stench filled air, stumbling over broken cobblestones as he was dragged to the harbor, up a gangway, and then crammed into a small berth. And then his mind and body simply gave out and he knew no more.
/
Loras woke up apathetic at his position. He lolled his head over on the lumpy pillow under it at the sound of the door opening. He absently recognized the woman who came in. One of his sister's twittering handmaidens. Though absently he realized she was dressed far more practically than any of the handmaids did. Not a Tyrell rose or a bit of gold and green to be seen on her person.
She looked at him with something like pity and disgust. "Get up, you need a bath."
"No." He rolled over away from her.
Loras yelped in alarm as freezing cold water doused him. He scrambled half out of the bunk in alarm before he even knew what had happened, his eyes skittering across the room for the members of the Faith here for him. Only it was just the handmaiden holding a bucket. The pity was somehow worse now.
Her voice was sharp. "Get up, we can't have the full crew realizing who you are."
"What does it matter if they do?" He bit out, he'd lost his last shred of self-respect, allowed his family to be ripped from him. What did the rest of it matter?
She was forward in two steps and grabbed him by the front of his rough shirt. "I don't know what they did to you. But if you give us away we'll both be killed. Your sister didn't risk everything so you could wallow and give up."
He cringed from that, his eyes leaving her in shame. But he meakly nodded.
She straightened back to her feet. "Get up, and my name is Mira since you certainly have forgotten it."
Loras hefted himself to his feet, his body protesting the action. But he did it. On shaky legs, he followed her across the rocking wooden floor through the door and into what was clearly a nicer room. Dimly he realized he'd been put into the attached servant's quarters of a modest ship's cabin. In the center of the room was a large metal tub of water.
"Get in, we'll have to dump your clothes overboard."
He realized she wasn't leaving the room and honestly he was too exhausted to care. So he shucked his clothing that was more dirty rags than anything else. As the fabric hit the ground he climbed into the tub. The best that could be said was that it wasn't ice cold.
With methodical movements, he began to soap and wash his filthy flesh. It took longer than he'd have liked, and the water was nearly black as he climbed out. He didn't even feel properly clean just...not coated in filth. He grabbed the towel laid out for him and dried himself. The fabric wasn't soft, but kinder than he'd had since he'd been dragged away.
Once as dry as he was going to get he pulled on the clothing neatly laid out for him. It was all of good quality but plain, warm, and meant for a man of some means but not of the nobility. Based on the leather outer jerkin a well paid mercenary, or perhaps a trusted member of a household. Now that he was paying some attention he saw the sword set by the clothing a quick check showed it to be good castle steel, and of his preferred design. But it, like the clothing, was merely good, not fine or anything better. His squires had had better. He looked at Mira who'd been staring out the small window, her face drawn as she avoided looking towards him. He felt more human than he had in...however long he'd been in that cell. But the carved out empty feeling hadn't changed. "What now?"
Mira looked at him, she certainly wasn't impressed. He half remembered her twittering about and flushing at the slightest attention from him. But then all the girls Margaery surrounded herself with acted like that. Either way, she hadn't stood out from the rest. But she was cool towards him now. "What did Margaery tell you about our plan?"
He swallowed but answered. "That it's arranged, we're to go to Winterfell, ask Sansa Stark for sanctuary if she won't help I'm to head to the Wall. She said there were letters in a trunk."
"Well, that's less than nothing." She eyed him critically. "You don't really remember me at all do you?"
Loras barely cared enough to frown ever so slightly at the disdain in her voice. "No, one of my sister's handmaidens?"
"Well, I shouldn't be surprised you never noticed us particularly." She gave him a pointed look. "My name is Mira Forrester, and I'm of the Forresters of the Ironrath in the North. I tried to save my family by working with Lord Tyrion."
He winced, that'd have been a political death blow.
She gave a sharp nod. "Margaery was kind enough to have my husband killed. Now, you're a mercenary I've hired to kill my husband and escort me safely back to my family. We sail for White Harbor and will purchase horses there and ride for Winterfell. Your name is Tom Rivers, now sit down. We're going to have to do something about your hair."
Loras...sat. He processed the story, just moons ago he'd have railed at the indignity of being forced to adopt a bastard name, of wearing common clothing, of this whole theatre. But now...now he simply did as he was told. He was alive, and it may make him weak but he'd chosen this indignity.
Mira stood, wielding a pair of scissors. She quickly wrapped his still damp towel around his shoulders and then began to cut his hair. She cut short, not so short as to imply it'd been shaved, but rather he was poor and it was easier to keep less hair clean. A not uncommon practice among some sellswords. His beginnings of a beard were trimmed into neat order, and then she pulled away. "Well, let's clean all this up. The hair and your old…" Her nose wrinkled. "Clothes can be thrown out the window. Then we need the crew to see you, your story is you were so drunk you don't remember getting on the ship."
He gave a nod and began to assist in the work. Once he was done he'd be free to...well hide in his bunk.
/
A moon and a half of travel on the boat and Loras had recovered a great deal. His body no longer pained him, the stiff sea air, and unappetizing but regular meals allowed him to work himself back to near fighting form. He felt more himself, though the cold air meant he'd been stuck layering near all his clothing just to keep from freezing his ass off. His companion Mira was...well she'd had a rough go of it and was cold at best to him, but better than the iciness she treated the rest of the crew with.
The ship, The Merman's Tail was a stout northern ship, and the captain and crew had made no secret of the fact they meant to never return south again if they could help it. They all laughed at his reaction to the cold, but he'd found an extra blanket in his tiny bunk. It'd been...strange but as close to good as he likely would have again.
Loras carefully pulled on the thick fur cloak and tightened the leather straps to himself. The rest of the contents of the trunk was easily packed into saddlebags. Finally, he slung the saddlebag strap over his shoulder and stepped out into Mira's cabin. Her own things were already packed into her own saddlebags already. "Are you ready?"
"Let's go, we have a long ride to make." Mira stood.
He just...he nodded and hauled up her bags and hung them over his other shoulder, and followed her out into the northern air.
An hour later and they had purchased horses, and their bags had been secured. Loras looked around the streets of White Harbor. "This is the largest city in the North?"
"It doesn't smell of shit like the southern cities." Mira replied stiffly as she swung herself up into the saddle.
He looked at the streets, and they were clean and the atmosphere and stench of fear was missing. "I'd have expected….less safety."
"So would I." Mira admitted, her brows furrowed.
Loras mounted his own horse, it was a different breed than those his brother bred in the Reach. They were stouter, their fur thicker. "Any clue why?"
"Latest news from the North was the Boltons were dead and a Stark back in Winterfell. But this is...not what I was expecting." Mira perked up suddenly. "Riders, House Woolfield." And there was relief there.
Loras was shamefully ignorant of Northern Houses. But then he'd only ever cared about other knights and his own home. Northern Houses had always been..well hardly a concern of his. Certainly, not smaller Houses like Woolfield undoubtedly was. "Can we trust them?"
"They're of the North." Mira's eyes held enough darkness that it was clear that she knew that wasn't enough to mean safety. "Lord Manderly's wife is Leona Woolfield now Manderly. The Manderly's are staunchly Stark men, they owe everything to the Starks. If we wish for news and possible aid in reaching Winterfell they're a good choice."
He looked down at his northern leather jerkin, thick woolen garb, and felt the fur collar of his cloak tickling his bearded cheek. "Do I look Northern enough?"
"You'll do." She eyed him. "And you're a Riverlander remember Rivers? They'll know as soon as you open your mouth you're not one of us."
Loras gave a sharp nod, this was dangerous. Now that they'd reached the true North it wouldn't be hard for her to give him up and let some enterprising Lord sell him to the Lannisters for gold. Or simply have them kill him for being a southerner from a House allied with the Lannisters. He probably should have been nicer on the boat ride...Margaery would drag him from the seven hells herself if he died for being dumb.
Mira urged her horse forward. "Woolfield!"
A man in furs, giant longsword strapped to his back turned in the saddle from the middle of the group of mounted men. A great smile split his face. "Good gods! MIRA fucking FORRESTER!" He turned facing them fully.
She laughed, bright and free. "Markas, I wasn't expecting to see so welcome a face so soon."
"Come, I could eat and I imagine you have a tale worth hearing." He wasn't as large as some of the Northern men seemed, but he certainly had a broadness to him and a build that told Loras he knew how to use the sword on his back.
Mira smiled. "I would welcome good Northern food, it's been too long." She waved to Loras. "This is Ser Tom Rivers, he's been paid to escort me safely home. Ser Rivers, this is Markas Woolfield, third son of the current Lord and a friend of my second brother's."
"Aye, Asher was a good man. Shame what happened to him, nasty business. I'm only sorry we weren't permitted to aid your House." Markas shook his head. "Come, there's a tavern just up ahead.
Loras eyed the party of twenty men they'd joined as the horses began to ride towards this tavern. He kept his mouth firmly shut. While Mira had implied they rode for the Ironrath he had no doubt any girl who'd spent years with his sister could explain their true destination of Winterfell if needed. And if he'd breathed a breath of relief at her introduction of him as Tom Rivers, well, who'd blame him?
Mira's smile was charming but far more honest than expected as they rode. "Is there news of my family?"
"Your brother Lord Forrester is expecting his first child in a moon or so. But I've heard of no deaths since the last of that business with the Whitehills." Markas's face was openly disgusted by that. And what was with these Northerners and openly emoting every damned thing in their heads?
Mira made a small choked sound. "Yes, Talia and Ryon?"
"Still alive my Lady." Markas's face was kind then as he pulled his horse up. He looked at his men, and they were clearly soldiers. "See to the horses, and Lady Forrester and her companion's before you come in."
Loras dismounted, passing the reins and offering a hand to Mira. She raised a brow at him but accepted. His voice was a low hiss. "What are you doing?"
"We'll need more than us to make it to Winterfell." Her eyes were sharp. "A party of this size is likely going further north and will hopefully agree to escort us part of the way."
He held her eyes for a long moment but then stepped back. This was her home. If she thought it necessary it was not for him to argue. Instead, he fell into step behind her, hand on the hilt of his sword. They stepped into a clean if simple establishment. Loras was at least pleased as Markas waived them to an out of the way table, the tavern mostly empty.
Markas raised his voice at the tavern keep. "Ale for my friends and I, as well as your best stew." He waved them to a table, taking a seat across from where Mira was sliding onto the bench. "Now, how are you alive? Or here? And don't give me some crap about making it out. We'd thought you lost, your brother thought you lost."
"I am not here by the kindness of others if that's what you wish to know." Mira's voice was that carefully cultivated tone of courtiers everywhere not meant to travel. "Her grace, Queen Margaery would send word to Lady Stark." Mira's face was tight then. "I do not know what the letter contains, only that at least a half dozen men including the man I was wed to died so that myself and Ser Rivers here could get out of the capitol without the Lannister's being alerted to our absence."
"Mira…" He frowned deeply. "You mean to ride for Winterfell then?"
She gave a slight nod. "Aye, and if we could accompany you and your men for any part of the distance I would be grateful. If my freedom means delivering a letter it's not a price to scoff at."
"No, no it's not." Markas made a groaning noise. "The old gods favor you, we're headed for Winterfell ourselves. A Lord's Moot was called to rename the Starks as Wardens of the North. Of course, we'll escort you safely, but if that letter holds bad news...Lady Stark is not the forgiving type. Damned terrifying woman. She's gone and wiped two Houses off the map and brought the Dustins and Ryswells to their knees."
Loras couldn't help the noise of sheer disbelief that came out of his mouth at that. "Sansa Stark did what?"
"House Bolton and Karstark are gone, dead to the last man. And the Ironborn reavers have been killed or driven off. She's the Red Wolf, and Winter is here for the enemies of House Stark." And the man sounded awed. The type of awe that was born from bone deep loyalty, faith rewarded.
But his words were...unbelievable. Terrified, pale, and fluttering Sansa Stark? The terrified plaything of the Lannisters? Killing whole Houses? Two Houses whose names he knew, that were two of the most powerful Houses in the North? A wolf? The girl had been a bird in a cage, her wings broken and tattered. "How?"
"The Bolton army is the Stark army now, the Wildlings of the North march under a Stark banner, and even the Skagos men answered her call. If they name Rickon Stark she'll be regent." Markas looked fucking reverent.
Loras swallowed, this wasn't...this wasn't the danger he'd have expected in the North.