Foreign Shores (A Song of Ice and Fire/Exo Crossover)
Title: Foreign Shores
Rating: PG
Word Count: 786
Genre: Drama
Summary: Danger lurks over every unfamiliar horizon - but some dangers are more deadly than others.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Their original plan had been to simply get away from the city. Going north would take them past Myr, and the people who were the greatest danger to them, so they initially headed south. They had then considered taking refuge in Lys, before deciding that the other island state was equally vulnerable to attack as Tyrosh had been. They had to decide - should they head west for Dorne, or east to Volantis?
For all intents and purposes, they had chosen Volantis, but in reality the weather chose for them. Three solid weeks of simply trying to keep the ship upright, while constantly being battered by wind and wave, had culminated in a violent shipwreck.
By some miracle, the widow of the late Archon of Tyrosh had survived the chaos, along with her infant son. Standing on the tropical shoreline, the glaring sun that had come out a day too late beating down on them, their ragged band of survivors were simply trying to get their bearings.
Lyriia stumbled over to Ser Alester Morrigen, a burly Westerosi man who knew the sea better than any of the others.
“Where are we?” she asked hoarsely.
He sighed, shaking his head. “I wish it weren’t so, my lady, but that gale... it drove us due south. Due south for nigh on three weeks, and there’s only one place lies due south of Volantis.”
Lyriia felt her blood run cold, despite the searing heat. She had always been good at geography as a child; she knew what that meant. And Sothoryos was not known for its welcoming environment.
As if on cue, they emerged silently from the trees. Numbering almost twenty, they wore naught but vividly coloured feathers, artfully woven into the hair that they all wore long. Their expressions were unreadable; the spears they carried at their sides, a warning.
No one moved an inch. They were exhausted, stranded, completely empty-handed; none of them had any desire to fight. Not now, when they had just lost the fight to the altogether more powerful opponent of nature itself.
But the tribesmen were the unpredictable variable in this equation - how could they know that these men had not come to claim their lands, when for the past 50 years, that had been the sole aim of any expedition to Sothoryos? Was there the slightest chance that they wouldn’t strike at once, trying to defend the land that was rightfully theirs at the best opportunity they were likely to get?
The seconds stretched on, suspended in time, as both the natives and the interlopers tried to gauge the other party’s next move. Lyriia barely dared to breathe; the sensation of pure terror was too overwhelming.
Suddenly, there was a sharp cry of pain, and the terror in her heart coalesced into something heavier, something more akin to despair. Lyriia knew that voice.
That was Kris’s voice.
They could kill the rest. They could kill every one of the men who had been her protectors and friends these past weeks. They could kill her. She didn’t give a damn if these men killed them all, so long as her only son was safe.
She whirled, eyes desperately searching for her son, who she knew had been beside her only minutes beforehand.
Moments later, she saw him - he was stumbling towards her from an outcrop of rocks, only a few feet away. He was holding his upper left arm tightly, but there was still blood oozing through his fingers.
Uncaring of the consequences, Lyriia ran to him, wrapping him in her arms before checking the wound. It was a shallower cut than she’d feared - he must have caught it on a jagged edge of one of the rocks, nothing more.
She’d almost forgotten the other threat, blocking out the rest of the world in her panic. But suddenly, a hand fell on her shoulder.
Looking up, she saw a man looming over her who had to be an elder of his people, judging by the grey salting his beard and the sheer number of feathers decorating his long braid. He crouched down beside her, proffering a handful of leaves.
“Heal,” he said simply, the word clearly foreign on his tongue.
Lyriia didn’t see Alester slowly remove his scabbard from his sword belt and throw it down, just behind her. She didn’t see the tribesmen lowering their spears as one in response. All she saw was Kris staring up at the elder, wide-eyed, and the kindness in the old man’s eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered in return, almost sobbing in relief. They had survived once more; and for her son, Lyriia would do anything to ensure that death did not claim them tomorrow, either.
END
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