The mid-summer's heat bore down upon her skin; sweat glistening over her joints and dampening her locks of gold. Breathe, just breathe, she coached herself as her body tried to betray her.
Her feet were raw and worn, crimson coated and swelling more as the stones passed beneath the bare skin. Her arms were gaunt and weak, barely keeping her balanced as she ran along the riverbank. Dried blood had trickled from her nose to her lip, which was considerably dry in comparison to the blood that made its way from her hips to her knees.
She could not look back, she would not look back – she would remain "forward moving," as the words of her house said. What lay behind Siobhan was nothing; there was grassland literally, and a blank void metaphorically. There was nothing to turn around for, there was no place to return home to, and there were no arms to run back to. Though she felt as though her knees may cave beneath her, forward moving she kept. She could not look back, she would not look back.
The Dothraki had certainly had their way; killed and conquered the small village that Siobhan had been travelling through, though they made one mistake. When they took the village and reaped their spoils of war, they did not just take the peasant women of the town. No, they took a northern lady of Westeros in their grasps who simply happened to be passing through; surely a grave mistake if she were, in fact, within Westeros – but the Dothraki did not seem bothered by it. They laughed among themselves, teasing her golden hair and green eyes, and enjoying the way she fought back more than the other peasants who had accepted their fate. They knew they had taken what they shouldn't have, and they enjoyed it.
What were rules for, anyways? Rules were not followed when the Ailington's went to battle, standing behind their allies in support. No, the Ailington's had been slaughtered as if they themselves had started the conflict; leaving behind very few, with nothing left. Land, wealth, and titles were lost on the day the war ended, and Siobhan's house crumbled before she had even been born in to this world. The only thing that was left to hang on to were two words, "forward moving."
Of course this was not the only time she had been in such a situation. There was a reason Siobhan left the North, and it was not the crumbling of her house. In fact, the Ailington's had recovered reasonably well when taking in to consideration that other houses have become non-existent under the same circumstances. Her house had regained ground, and while they were far from Lord's and Lady's, they were respected as more than peasants – a hard-working, yet admirable middle ground that could rise again; and would rise again, if Siobhan's marriage had worked out.
Even Siobhan knew that had her marriage worked out, she would never have found herself across the Narrow Sea. This was her escape plan, for the family she has been married off to was more than she had bargained for. While the Ailington's had been promised land, power, and wealth be returned to them, the Bolton's did not come good on their end of the bargain. A spoiled child such as Ramsay Bolton of course was not nearly man enough to be fit for a husband, nor was he mentally well enough to be around any living creature. If she did not leave, Siobhan would undoubtedly be dead.
This made it all the easier, the pain she was enduring now. It was nothing to the physical, psychological, or sexual torture her husband had subjected her to. Though she craved home, she knew there was nothing there for her beyond extreme pain (of many kinds, in many ways), so she had to remember to stay forward moving – there is nothing in Westeros for me anymore, was all she could remind herself when feelings of longing would enter her mind. There is nothing there for me.
Siobhan did not know what it was that she was searching for, but she knew it could not be found in Westeros. There was no safety or security, only danger and pain; there was no chance of finding a home, there was no hope of having a life. Perhaps that was what she was searching for after all; a home, a life. There was no way that could be, though – not now. Now she would travel Essos, perhaps finding a place she can settle herself or perhaps not. The only thing that was certainly known is that she was never going back, she was always forward moving.
Forward moving, through the tall grass and weeds along the riverside; forward moving, though he blood tracked through the mud and body grew weaker was time drew on. She could not stop, no matter the toll it took upon her body – she could not stop and face more attackers, she could not stop and make herself vulnerable to what could victimise her next. She would not stop, she would not be a victim – she would be a force, and that force would not let her next enemy take her. She will be smarter, she will be faster, she will be stronger.
And then, a "snap," came through the air; fire, Siobhan knew the sound. Crackling fire came mere moments before the smell of cooking meat. Cautiously closer she moved as boisterous voices started to fill the air – echoing through the tall grass. Moving slowly, methodically dancing through the reeves, she weaved her way around the clearing in the grass. The Dothraki had set up a camp directly in her path.
This truly was a "no-brainer," as anyone could figure out. The task was to stay in the tall grass, to work her way around the camp, and get to the other side without being caught; this would be her only way of continuing the journey. It would have been a straight forward mission, had something not caught her eye when she was almost to the other side.
It was a tent, but not like the others; no, this tent had the fixings of Northern Westeros. Sure it had clearly been erected in traditional Dothraki style, yet a bear's pelt was hung as a door covering. Through the creases and cracks of the animal's fur, there was a shimmer that came from within. Very clearly this was no Vaes Dothrak, this was Northern armour and weaponry. This was not something Siobhan's eyes had feasted upon since crossing the Narrow Sea. Perhaps it was a sign that she should not abandon all hope of what was past; pillage the gear and fight her attackers the way a Northerner would.
The (what can only be described as a) party was happening at least twenty feet from this tent. Slowly, gracefully and delicately Siobhan slid out from the stalks of tall grass. This was not a difficult task for her, having always been slender but particularly more-so now that she was on the move. The fire and those around it created shadows that danced across the ground, giving Siobhan the perfect camouflage as she dipped below the bear's pelt and sunk in to the tent.
A sigh of relief fell silently from her lips. Wow, she thought as she observed her surroundings. This was no normal tent here in Essos, this clearly belongs to a Westerosi – specially, a Northerner (as the pelt had given away). There were several stacks of books; history accounts of the Seven Kingdoms, the rise and fall of noble families, and the settling of the North to name a few. Wine glasses not made of horn and bone, utensils far too sophisticated for the likes of the Dothraki, fabrics clearly brought from Westeros that made up durable clothing – not like the weak and cheap fabrics of Essos; it took Siobhan no time at all to decide what she would take with her as she moved forward in her journey.
As she quietly dug her way through this stranger's belongings, she came across a small box – leather-bound, it was a funny little box to see in a tent, let alone in the wild throws of the East. Sliding her fingers gently along the leather, she took a breath in and admired the scent of the cattle hide. What she found upon opening the box nearly took her breath away.
Jewels of amber laced though a delicate silver bracelet, far too feminine for the likes of what was in this tent. Curious it was, and even more curious was where; clearly a Nothern metal, with precious stones that are mined from the southern tip of Westeros, there was no need for such a beautiful treasure to be found in a man's tent in Essos. Yet, here it was, resilient and brilliant as the day it was made.
This means something, Siobhan told herself. No man would carry around women's jewelry if it did not have meaning, deep personal value – would they? No, perhaps not – so she did what an honest Northerner would do, and returned the jewelry to its safe-keeping.
"You should not be here," the voice startled Siobhan as she jumped. A young child speaking Dothraki, a language that she was still learning, stood in the door way of the tent for a moment – before disappearing quickly.
This was not good, and if Siobhan couldn't move fast enough, this was going to be extremely bad.