Dawn had broken across the horizon in pink heavenly undertones. Did they reflect the towering crimson façade in the distance before her or the blood of innocents that had ran like rivers in the streets?
Dacey Mormont did not know. Nor in all honesty did she care. They had been at war. And the greatest price of war? Blood. It was a fact she held no qualms about.
The clip clopping of a single pair of hooves echoed on the almost deserted road in the early hours of the morning. Dacey had rode through the night. A dangerous feat for a group of men let alone a lone woman. But fear was not something Dacey Mormont prescribed to or indulged in.
Urgent matters on Bear Island had called her back after the war of the five had come to an inevitable end with Viserys Targaryen claiming the Iron Throne. Luckily, Bear Island had not suffered greatly being a detached land. Though this had not stopped attacks. However, the Dothraki clans who had braved the sea fare to pillage Bear Island had not expected the ferocious warriors – men and women – who inhabited the small island, armed and ready for battle. Nor, had the Dothraki known how very bare and deprived of wealth Bear Island really was.
The thought spread a wealthy grin upon Dacey's remarkably handsome face. If only she had been there to witness the Dothraki's surprise when they landed on her home island. Alas, she had been away fight at Robb Starks side.
Not that she greatly feared for Bear Island, when she had been away at battle. Not with her mother in charge and her sisters to aid. Meage Mormont was a woman to be greatly feared. And her daughters were no less. Bear Island had been in capable hands and Dacey thanked the Old Gods they had all come through unharmed.
Dacey spurred her Courser faster as the Red Keep loomed closer. Her dark locks carrying with the wind as the mail shirt she wore over her tunic jingled with the movement of the obsidian coloured horse. The slight feeling of awe that filled her was not enough for her to stop and admire the keep. Kings Landing, held no particular fondness for Dacey. She had immediately wanted to return back home as soon as the unbearable heat of the South had hit her.
But there was no turning back. And she felt no great strain in attending the King's Council to aid her Liege Lord, Robb Stark. It was her duty and Dacey Mormont did not turn away from her responsibilities.
It was less then an hour later that she stood at the foot of the entrance to the Castle.
A burly looking guard dressed in the Targaryen armour halted her from entering the Keep. Dacey raised a defined brow in amusement. It had been much too long since she participated in a bout of swordplay, Dacey mused. Unfortunately, she had no time for play right now. She was already late and patience was a virtue. One, the Lady did not possess at the moment.
“And who might you be wench?” The Targaryen guard asked of her with an air of superiority much in excess of his post.
“Dacey Mormont, Lady of Bear Island.” She replied frankly. “I would ask the same of you. However, I don't posses the luxury of time at the moment, so if you'll excuse me.”
“I ain't never seen a Lady of rank strolling around in breeches and mail.” He declared with a sneer; the tip of his sword pointed dangerously close to her throat. “You expect me to believe that you're the Lady of Bear Island and let you in?”
More then the fools words, the sword at her throat rose Dacey's ire. She was no real Lady. And she suffered no weapon pointed at her or the person who threatened.
“I should remove the sword if I were you.” The Lady of Bear Island advised in a voice completely calm.
“Oh? And why should I do that wench?”
“If you value your life it would be wise.” Dacey replied.
Hearty laughter filled air, as other Targaryen soldiers surrounded closer to view the encounter.
“You think you are a threat upon my life?” The guard questioned as he continued to laugh.
Dacey needed no other invitation. Her anger was like the silent storm that crept along the sea. With a swiftness and grace possessed by no other Dacey's unsheathed blade slashed through the air.
The sound of metal clattering to the floor filled the sudden electric air as the guard looked with fright and astonishment at the half of his sword that remained in his hands.
Yet, Dacey Mormont was not done.
Her booted foot made contact with the man's chest sending him reeling, landing hard on his back and before he could even move, Dacey's sword was levelled at the centre of his thick neck as her tall dark form loomed over him.
“I should cut your throat as swiftly as I cut your sword. However, I don't believe King Viserys would appreciate that. You can thank him for your life.” Dacey smiled down at him sweetly before flipping the sword around in her hands; knocking the man unconscious as she swung and the hilt made contact with his face viciously. “You.” Dacey commanded, turned on her heels. “Stable my horse. Make sure he is well watered and fed.” She did not wait for a reply as she removed her shirt of mail and threw it across at a maid that had ventured out at the sound of the commotion. “And you, make sure my belongings are sent to my chambers.”
Somewhat calmer now and with the hindsight that came with it, Dacey realised she should have been a little more diplomatic with the fool guard. But riding havey cavey through the night to make it to the council meeting on time had left her rather irritable. It could not be helped, Dacey decided as she swept passed the gob-smacked curtsying maid into the Red Keep.
She wondered if Viserys Targaryen would find the tale amusing . . .
or if he had any sort of a sense of humour?
Dacey Mormont entered the great dinning hall, where to her surprise the small council was meeting. In fact, she decided she much preferred it. It seemed less formal. Formality was not something Mormont's prided themselves on, Dacey mused with an inner smile.
She strode in with grace and elegance as regal as any Queen without an ounce of self-consciousness; even dressed as she was in dark breeches and a green tunic belted at the waist with the House of Mormont's sigil stitched on the centre.
The room was already filled. Many of the people she did not know by face but by name alone and the meeting already seemed under way. But Viserys Targaryen was unmistakable with haunting lavender violet eyes and stark white hair, sat as he was at the head of the table with his sister.
If she was a conforming type of female, Dacey mused, she may have felt intimidated by the incandescent three beauties sat at the table. Luckily, she was not a conforming sort and appearances held little regard for her. They were often misleading and beauty in itself was a fleeting quality.
Aquamarine eyes casually scanned the rest of the party. They all seemed much to grave. She wonder what was being discussed.
Spotting Robb Stark, an almost indistinguishable smile touched her lips.
“Lord Stark.” She bowed, acknowledging her Liege Lord and friend first, though it would have been proper to acknowledge the King first; it mattered little to Dacey as she came to stand next to Robb's seated form. “Your Grace.” She finally bowed and then turned to the rest of the group. “My Lords and Ladies. My sincerest apologies for the lateness of my arrival.” She addressed the group with complete
insincerity. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dacey Mormont, Lady of Bear Island.”
A softness touched her fingers, Dacey peered down to see a Dire Wolf stroking it's long form along her legs. Dacey grinned, as she petted the the Wolf's head with a roughness she knew he preferred.
“And hello to you.” She whispered.