shiri + romund // protest
Who: Melisandre of Asshai & Stannis Baratheon
Where: Myron Estate
When: October 20th
Rating & Warnings: PG for some language and talk of rotting
"I don't care what fucking state he's in, get the hell out of my way," Shiri barked at one of the maids, kicking her long skirt with every step. Fuck this Myron and his staff. Fuck his stupid Other tourism, she thought, as she glared at the occult memorabilia he'd lined every surface with. Fuck it all.
When the maid tried to catch up with her, Shiri saw that the girl was on the brink of tears. She begged her not to go in there. She'd regret seeing him, the maid insisted. "I can smell him from here," Shiri screeched, "Go cry somewhere else!"
Poor girl didn't deserve being treated that way, but she was going to see Myron one way or another. She pushed open the door to his study, her orange dressings tangled around her slight frame. Still, her fury showed on her face. "Lord Myron," she began politely, trying not to shout, "I'm Shiri Qattawi. We've spoken. You're... indisposed," the maid hadn't been kidding, "So you'll forgive me if I'm brief."
The shouting in the hallway had registered, briefly, but he hadn't thought to look up from his desk or investigate until his doors slammed open. Romund stared at the woman in his doorway, pen mid-stroke. Indisposed, yes, and startled. No one disturbed him during the day. At first he'd found the seclusion lonely, but now he treasured it as the most valuable half of the day, the half in which he could think without interruption or distraction.
Romund cleared his throat - it rattled, dry as the yellowing eyes in his sunken sockets, the papery pale skin of his face - and set his pen down. "Madame Qattawi," he rasped with a brief, slightly puzzled incline of his head. Even most Others had the courtesy and sense not to disturb him during the daylight hours. "Please, come..." Further, "In." There was a chair opposite him, much smaller than his own. After dark it was his daughter's chair, but during the day it remained empty, coated in a thin layer of dust. He coughed again - something wriggled in his throat - and motioned towards the chair.
Shiri settled herself behind the chair she'd been offered, fingers resting on its back. Her experience with Others, even as an Other, was limited. Myron was just a walking corpse, wasn't he... Still, she didn't feel the revulsion a human might have. She'd seen more dead bodies than any of them.
"I'll stand, thanks," she said. His office wasn't any different than the rest of the house. Strange artifacts that he put some faith, or fetish, in hung on the walls, sat on the shelves. Quite a collection.
"I just came to ask what the fuck," she spat, "You made us expose ourselves for if you're going to do nothing about the Citadel."
He'd written to the fucking Occia and expressed gratitude? Shiri managed whores and she took better care of them than this man with his 'Order'.
He watched her calmly, a faint frown furrowing his forehead. "The Citadel lies in ruin," he rumbled in slow answer, settling his hands flat against his desk. The stiff joints in his fingers creaked. "Half the Cancellari are wounded or dead, and the creature that called itself Cita is gone. They are in shambles, Madame, and they ask for peace."
Romund's head tilted slightly towards her. "Do you believe I should deny them that?" Shiri Qattawi. The succubus, if he remembered correctly. There was not a man in Tyrol who was unfamiliar with her establishment, though he himself had not frequented it before. He had not expected her fury, let alone for her to come calling.
"Yes!"
Shiri slammed her hand into his desk as hard as she could. "You told us that we'd have protection in numbers!" She hit the desk again. "The Hour had that and look what happened."
So many Others had died. She'd lost whores as well. Sad, pathetic, little Essa had come back from an errand with a mangled hand because she'd tried to stand up to the Citadel's champions. "They'll turn on us as soon as we've given them time to recover. Why should we," she beat her chest once, "Honor the people that hate us?"
"We honor their plea for peace, not them," Romund corrected quietly, unphased by the fire of the woman before him. The attack on the Hour had devastated Tyrol, and more than just its Others. Humans on both sides had died. Half the city was mad with grief. He should, he reflected, have expected an outcry at his inaction.
"It is not possible to retaliate, however much you desire it," he explained in a slow, patient rumble. "The Crown has guards posted at the Citadel's doors. The Hour is badly wounded." Romund flexed his hands again, blinking against the dry itch of his eyes. "Once the city has calmed I will speak with the King concerning the sentence of those who took part in the attack on the Hour. Until then, inaction is our wisest course of action." He inclined his head. "My Lady." It was not, he expected, the answer she wanted to hear, but it was the only answer he had to give. Striking the Citadel now might truly wipe out their Cancellari, their Occia, but near the entirety of Balfour followed Cita. They would not lightly forgive such a crime, and the King's hands would be tied. If they attacked, they would die for it.
"I could do that. Any Other could do that with the same level of success! The crown won't fucking listen to us!" she shouted, turning her back on Myron. It was good to know he was a husk of a man inside and out. She felt for the humans who'd died as well- died at the hands of the Citadel. He seemed to feel for nothing.
Rubbing her clavicle nervously, Shiri fretted about. This was still a lord's home, she couldn't just throw whatever she liked, as much as she wanted to. "You asked us to join you. You do nothing." She looked over her shoulder, the kohl around her eyes badly smudged. "You ask us to do nothing. How can you care so little?"
"The King has already granted me audience once, and from that meeting we became citizens under the Crown's protection," Romund reminded her. This woman was a tempest, he thought wearily. Would anything he said calm her? She looked restless, eager for something to destroy until her anger had drained her. Understandable, given the situation, but frustrating too. He may as well not be answering for all the consideration she gave him.
"I care a great deal. And I have done everything in my power to keep us safe. You mistake my cause if you believe me interested in warfare."
She hissed her derision. The crown was doing whatever was easiest; it didn't matter that Myron was a lord when he went to speak with the king. The government knew what it was going to do before hearing any input. And, really, who the hell was Myron ever going to sweet-talk?
"I don't think you do, sir," she said, trying to keep calm as she faced him once again. "Others agree. I don't want to fu-" she bit her tongue, "I don't want to hurt anyone, but I think you need to do something more than have tea with kings."
Romund folded his hands together and looked up at her, yellowing eyes attentive, if tired. "What do you suggest, Madame?" It was an honest question; he was far from a politician, and had done his best to avoid such things in life. He'd taken the position now simply because no one else had, and he had the resources and clout to help. It could very well be, Romund admitted, that he was doing many things wrong - but none, save this woman, had thought to tell him so thus far.
She was slightly taken aback when he appeared ready to listen. Shiri hadn't expect that from the lord. Rearranging her dress, she looked around the room and tried to collect her thoughts. Anything she would do in his position was too extreme to suggest. After all, twisting Gomer's arm, calling a favor in to The Whispers and assassinating the fucking lot of the cancellari would end badly for most Others in the Order. Still, they had to make a statement.
"There's one of us in the guard. Two, possibly," if he hadn't gotten himself killed again, "We rely on the guard to protect us and we attend services at the citadel. All of us."
Romund's heavy brow lifted. To enter the Citadel before its fall would surely have been suicide; now, he wondered if it might not work. The Citadel was understaffed, recovering, weak. There were Royal Guards at its doors; the Cancellari were under surveillance. If Others entered the Citadel in great enough numbers and went about it peacably... no, they could do nothing about it.
He considered the suggestion for a long moment, dark eyes narrowed. It would agrieve the King to hear the Order had done such a thing, but it may well help their cause. So would it put the Occia's plea for peace to the test. If the Citadel struck out at them without provocation, they would cripple their already faltering hold on the city. "A peaceful demonstration," he rumbled finally, watching Shiri to be sure she didn't flinch at the suggestion. "We show no aggression. No violence. We enter, we listen, we leave."
Fuck him for looking at her like she was an insect under a magnifying glass. Shiri nodded, doing her best to hold Myron's stare. It was unnerving to see his dry eyes bulge and cave in like there was something living inside of them, but she wouldn't let him know that. "A peaceful protest. Naturally. It'd be fucking suicide to go start a fight in the citadel."
Peaceful until one of the cancellari shows their poor impulse control and attacks some poor bastard, she thought. She'd already taunted one of them; hopefully, they'd come after her.
"So you'll do it?"
He looked at her for another long moment, then let out a long sigh through his nose and nodded. "I will. The Order... will. I, myself, cannot attend. My appearance during the day would cause them... undue distress." It was one thing to be frightening because he was an Other, Romund felt, and quite another to be a walking, rotting corpse. As guilty as they were, the Citadel did not deserve to see another body. His presence, his scent, would make them ill. The protest would accomplish nothing if the Civitates were too busy retching.
"You will go in my stead." Romund gave another brief cough; the thing squirming in his throat seemed to fall into his chest. "I trust you will keep your word, and prevent any violence that might stir."
"That's what we want. Undue distress. Or, or, due distress. They should know what you are," she said, getting riled up once more. It was clear that she didn't really have a head for politics, but she knew how to care about them. "If we're going to do this, we all do this, not just the... pleasantly human-shaped ones." He was still human-shaped, more or less. Shiri tossed her hair over her shoulder and stared him down. Scorpions could shoot out of his eyes and she wouldn't so much as blink.
She sucked at her cheek in thought. Perhaps she shouldn't have spoken so soon... She'd be in charge. She'd be able to make the call if peace simply wasn't an option working out. "My lord, they'll listen to you. My whores are the only ones who listen to me."
She wanted Myron to be there, to disgust the Civitates, to make them face what being an Other was truly like. But... well, if he told the Order to follow her, she wouldn't shirk her responsibility.
"Pleasantness has little to do with it," Romund explained patiently. "I am a rotting corpse, Madame, and my presence may make more than just the Civitates physically ill." Most Others, after all, had a sense of smell. "I will be a distraction to our cause, not an aid."
There was always the possibility that some of his Order would see his absence as cowardice, or as a sign that he thought the protest doomed to failure - or worse, death - but Romund could not see a way around it. If the Citadel held service at night he would attend, but they did not.
Slowly, Romund rose to his feet. His joints cracked, and his skin rustled as if it was dry paper. When he was at his full height, he frowned down at Shiri. "More than that will follow you, Madame. You have a fierce tone."
"Well," she couldn't really argue with that, but she was damn sure going to try. Try to try. When no follow up to 'well' came, she folded her arms and nodded tensely. "So long as you're safe at home, comfortably rotting in your armchair."
And then he stood. Shiri wasn't fazed by Rasmus, but she always expected to be dwarfed when he was around. Myron, however, came as a surprise. For a moment she gaped, possibly wider than when she'd noticed that she could see his adam's apple peek through skin when he spoke, at how tall he was.
"And you're a big fucker." Somehow, she said that with a modicum of respect. Hardly cringing, she offered her hand over the desk. After all, she'd never shook hands with a corpse before. "I'll try to make them listen." Failing that, she'd just shriek.
Romund took her hand, careful to keep his grip light. One of his braver Order members had done the same once, and in his firm grip one of Romund's fingers had nearly detached. It had terrified the poor man.
"You took my attention," he said, with a brief, pained grimace of a smile. His teeth were yellowed and stained with blood at the gums. "You will command theirs as well. But remember, Shiri--" He held her stare longer than he needed to. "Peaceably."
A muscle in her neck twitched as he smiled. Weakly, she returned the smile and gathered up her skirts. What a face he'd been left with. Perhaps she'd been too hard on the man. Anyone would try to stamp out all emotion if they were literally falling apart at the seams. "Peaceably. I swear."
With a slight bow (she never curtsied), Shiri started to back out of his office. "Lord Myron."
Where: Myron Estate
When: October 20th
Rating & Warnings: PG for some language and talk of rotting
"I don't care what fucking state he's in, get the hell out of my way," Shiri barked at one of the maids, kicking her long skirt with every step. Fuck this Myron and his staff. Fuck his stupid Other tourism, she thought, as she glared at the occult memorabilia he'd lined every surface with. Fuck it all.
When the maid tried to catch up with her, Shiri saw that the girl was on the brink of tears. She begged her not to go in there. She'd regret seeing him, the maid insisted. "I can smell him from here," Shiri screeched, "Go cry somewhere else!"
Poor girl didn't deserve being treated that way, but she was going to see Myron one way or another. She pushed open the door to his study, her orange dressings tangled around her slight frame. Still, her fury showed on her face. "Lord Myron," she began politely, trying not to shout, "I'm Shiri Qattawi. We've spoken. You're... indisposed," the maid hadn't been kidding, "So you'll forgive me if I'm brief."
The shouting in the hallway had registered, briefly, but he hadn't thought to look up from his desk or investigate until his doors slammed open. Romund stared at the woman in his doorway, pen mid-stroke. Indisposed, yes, and startled. No one disturbed him during the day. At first he'd found the seclusion lonely, but now he treasured it as the most valuable half of the day, the half in which he could think without interruption or distraction.
Romund cleared his throat - it rattled, dry as the yellowing eyes in his sunken sockets, the papery pale skin of his face - and set his pen down. "Madame Qattawi," he rasped with a brief, slightly puzzled incline of his head. Even most Others had the courtesy and sense not to disturb him during the daylight hours. "Please, come..." Further, "In." There was a chair opposite him, much smaller than his own. After dark it was his daughter's chair, but during the day it remained empty, coated in a thin layer of dust. He coughed again - something wriggled in his throat - and motioned towards the chair.
Shiri settled herself behind the chair she'd been offered, fingers resting on its back. Her experience with Others, even as an Other, was limited. Myron was just a walking corpse, wasn't he... Still, she didn't feel the revulsion a human might have. She'd seen more dead bodies than any of them.
"I'll stand, thanks," she said. His office wasn't any different than the rest of the house. Strange artifacts that he put some faith, or fetish, in hung on the walls, sat on the shelves. Quite a collection.
"I just came to ask what the fuck," she spat, "You made us expose ourselves for if you're going to do nothing about the Citadel."
He'd written to the fucking Occia and expressed gratitude? Shiri managed whores and she took better care of them than this man with his 'Order'.
He watched her calmly, a faint frown furrowing his forehead. "The Citadel lies in ruin," he rumbled in slow answer, settling his hands flat against his desk. The stiff joints in his fingers creaked. "Half the Cancellari are wounded or dead, and the creature that called itself Cita is gone. They are in shambles, Madame, and they ask for peace."
Romund's head tilted slightly towards her. "Do you believe I should deny them that?" Shiri Qattawi. The succubus, if he remembered correctly. There was not a man in Tyrol who was unfamiliar with her establishment, though he himself had not frequented it before. He had not expected her fury, let alone for her to come calling.
"Yes!"
Shiri slammed her hand into his desk as hard as she could. "You told us that we'd have protection in numbers!" She hit the desk again. "The Hour had that and look what happened."
So many Others had died. She'd lost whores as well. Sad, pathetic, little Essa had come back from an errand with a mangled hand because she'd tried to stand up to the Citadel's champions. "They'll turn on us as soon as we've given them time to recover. Why should we," she beat her chest once, "Honor the people that hate us?"
"We honor their plea for peace, not them," Romund corrected quietly, unphased by the fire of the woman before him. The attack on the Hour had devastated Tyrol, and more than just its Others. Humans on both sides had died. Half the city was mad with grief. He should, he reflected, have expected an outcry at his inaction.
"It is not possible to retaliate, however much you desire it," he explained in a slow, patient rumble. "The Crown has guards posted at the Citadel's doors. The Hour is badly wounded." Romund flexed his hands again, blinking against the dry itch of his eyes. "Once the city has calmed I will speak with the King concerning the sentence of those who took part in the attack on the Hour. Until then, inaction is our wisest course of action." He inclined his head. "My Lady." It was not, he expected, the answer she wanted to hear, but it was the only answer he had to give. Striking the Citadel now might truly wipe out their Cancellari, their Occia, but near the entirety of Balfour followed Cita. They would not lightly forgive such a crime, and the King's hands would be tied. If they attacked, they would die for it.
"I could do that. Any Other could do that with the same level of success! The crown won't fucking listen to us!" she shouted, turning her back on Myron. It was good to know he was a husk of a man inside and out. She felt for the humans who'd died as well- died at the hands of the Citadel. He seemed to feel for nothing.
Rubbing her clavicle nervously, Shiri fretted about. This was still a lord's home, she couldn't just throw whatever she liked, as much as she wanted to. "You asked us to join you. You do nothing." She looked over her shoulder, the kohl around her eyes badly smudged. "You ask us to do nothing. How can you care so little?"
"The King has already granted me audience once, and from that meeting we became citizens under the Crown's protection," Romund reminded her. This woman was a tempest, he thought wearily. Would anything he said calm her? She looked restless, eager for something to destroy until her anger had drained her. Understandable, given the situation, but frustrating too. He may as well not be answering for all the consideration she gave him.
"I care a great deal. And I have done everything in my power to keep us safe. You mistake my cause if you believe me interested in warfare."
She hissed her derision. The crown was doing whatever was easiest; it didn't matter that Myron was a lord when he went to speak with the king. The government knew what it was going to do before hearing any input. And, really, who the hell was Myron ever going to sweet-talk?
"I don't think you do, sir," she said, trying to keep calm as she faced him once again. "Others agree. I don't want to fu-" she bit her tongue, "I don't want to hurt anyone, but I think you need to do something more than have tea with kings."
Romund folded his hands together and looked up at her, yellowing eyes attentive, if tired. "What do you suggest, Madame?" It was an honest question; he was far from a politician, and had done his best to avoid such things in life. He'd taken the position now simply because no one else had, and he had the resources and clout to help. It could very well be, Romund admitted, that he was doing many things wrong - but none, save this woman, had thought to tell him so thus far.
She was slightly taken aback when he appeared ready to listen. Shiri hadn't expect that from the lord. Rearranging her dress, she looked around the room and tried to collect her thoughts. Anything she would do in his position was too extreme to suggest. After all, twisting Gomer's arm, calling a favor in to The Whispers and assassinating the fucking lot of the cancellari would end badly for most Others in the Order. Still, they had to make a statement.
"There's one of us in the guard. Two, possibly," if he hadn't gotten himself killed again, "We rely on the guard to protect us and we attend services at the citadel. All of us."
Romund's heavy brow lifted. To enter the Citadel before its fall would surely have been suicide; now, he wondered if it might not work. The Citadel was understaffed, recovering, weak. There were Royal Guards at its doors; the Cancellari were under surveillance. If Others entered the Citadel in great enough numbers and went about it peacably... no, they could do nothing about it.
He considered the suggestion for a long moment, dark eyes narrowed. It would agrieve the King to hear the Order had done such a thing, but it may well help their cause. So would it put the Occia's plea for peace to the test. If the Citadel struck out at them without provocation, they would cripple their already faltering hold on the city. "A peaceful demonstration," he rumbled finally, watching Shiri to be sure she didn't flinch at the suggestion. "We show no aggression. No violence. We enter, we listen, we leave."
Fuck him for looking at her like she was an insect under a magnifying glass. Shiri nodded, doing her best to hold Myron's stare. It was unnerving to see his dry eyes bulge and cave in like there was something living inside of them, but she wouldn't let him know that. "A peaceful protest. Naturally. It'd be fucking suicide to go start a fight in the citadel."
Peaceful until one of the cancellari shows their poor impulse control and attacks some poor bastard, she thought. She'd already taunted one of them; hopefully, they'd come after her.
"So you'll do it?"
He looked at her for another long moment, then let out a long sigh through his nose and nodded. "I will. The Order... will. I, myself, cannot attend. My appearance during the day would cause them... undue distress." It was one thing to be frightening because he was an Other, Romund felt, and quite another to be a walking, rotting corpse. As guilty as they were, the Citadel did not deserve to see another body. His presence, his scent, would make them ill. The protest would accomplish nothing if the Civitates were too busy retching.
"You will go in my stead." Romund gave another brief cough; the thing squirming in his throat seemed to fall into his chest. "I trust you will keep your word, and prevent any violence that might stir."
"That's what we want. Undue distress. Or, or, due distress. They should know what you are," she said, getting riled up once more. It was clear that she didn't really have a head for politics, but she knew how to care about them. "If we're going to do this, we all do this, not just the... pleasantly human-shaped ones." He was still human-shaped, more or less. Shiri tossed her hair over her shoulder and stared him down. Scorpions could shoot out of his eyes and she wouldn't so much as blink.
She sucked at her cheek in thought. Perhaps she shouldn't have spoken so soon... She'd be in charge. She'd be able to make the call if peace simply wasn't an option working out. "My lord, they'll listen to you. My whores are the only ones who listen to me."
She wanted Myron to be there, to disgust the Civitates, to make them face what being an Other was truly like. But... well, if he told the Order to follow her, she wouldn't shirk her responsibility.
"Pleasantness has little to do with it," Romund explained patiently. "I am a rotting corpse, Madame, and my presence may make more than just the Civitates physically ill." Most Others, after all, had a sense of smell. "I will be a distraction to our cause, not an aid."
There was always the possibility that some of his Order would see his absence as cowardice, or as a sign that he thought the protest doomed to failure - or worse, death - but Romund could not see a way around it. If the Citadel held service at night he would attend, but they did not.
Slowly, Romund rose to his feet. His joints cracked, and his skin rustled as if it was dry paper. When he was at his full height, he frowned down at Shiri. "More than that will follow you, Madame. You have a fierce tone."
"Well," she couldn't really argue with that, but she was damn sure going to try. Try to try. When no follow up to 'well' came, she folded her arms and nodded tensely. "So long as you're safe at home, comfortably rotting in your armchair."
And then he stood. Shiri wasn't fazed by Rasmus, but she always expected to be dwarfed when he was around. Myron, however, came as a surprise. For a moment she gaped, possibly wider than when she'd noticed that she could see his adam's apple peek through skin when he spoke, at how tall he was.
"And you're a big fucker." Somehow, she said that with a modicum of respect. Hardly cringing, she offered her hand over the desk. After all, she'd never shook hands with a corpse before. "I'll try to make them listen." Failing that, she'd just shriek.
Romund took her hand, careful to keep his grip light. One of his braver Order members had done the same once, and in his firm grip one of Romund's fingers had nearly detached. It had terrified the poor man.
"You took my attention," he said, with a brief, pained grimace of a smile. His teeth were yellowed and stained with blood at the gums. "You will command theirs as well. But remember, Shiri--" He held her stare longer than he needed to. "Peaceably."
A muscle in her neck twitched as he smiled. Weakly, she returned the smile and gathered up her skirts. What a face he'd been left with. Perhaps she'd been too hard on the man. Anyone would try to stamp out all emotion if they were literally falling apart at the seams. "Peaceably. I swear."
With a slight bow (she never curtsied), Shiri started to back out of his office. "Lord Myron."