Inflamed Revelry
Twenty-Seventh Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC
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Ducking under the side-winding punch from the staggering opponent before him, the Stormlander wrapped two brawny arms around the wincing hedge knight, the man's wheezing gasp barely heard over the roaring laughter of the crowd gathered together in the late evening. The Last Stand was filled to bursting, one among many taverns in the Deep experiencing an extreme upsurge in clientele, well-known to hosting off-duty Legionnaires, now taking the custom of dozens of knights. From what Ceria had said, even some Lords attending the King's festival in secret.
Criston dropped the man like a sack of grain, twisting their arm until they thumped a closed fist upon the ground in submission. He sprang back up like he was five and twenty again, spry as a young buck with something to prove, making him think of those distant years he had traveled to shores such as these with violence at hand and duty in mind. The kind of blood he'd been shedding in these lands of late had been done with a lighter heart and no crying widows and maimed men who would never be able to stand upon the field again ere the war was done.
Then again, he had been touched by strong restorative magicks that had eased the worst aches and pains age had to offer to a man approaching his fifth decade, surrounded by a mix of sword arms from both the younger and the more contemporary generations, Bonifer Hasty, newly taking up his jousting lance even after he had sworn off tourneys for piety, among them.
Seeing as how it was Thoros of Myr pressing a tankard of ale into his hand the moment the bare-chested wrestling match he was cajoled into was done, he marked down the irony well. Not that long ago the stout red priest had been trading drinks and war stories with Robert bloody Baratheon, twice damned traitor. Though that perhaps spoke more of the substance of the times than the company worth keeping. Criston emptied his cups as fast as the red robed priest and with almost as much enthusiasm as Ser Philip Foote who had been swept up in the celebrant jousters and some of those warriors who had traded blows out on the sands.
Scarbrand and Argo the Cunning crashed enormous mugs together while men around them cheered, two emptied barrels of ale lying forgotten nearby, having had no small part in the provenance of this gathering's libations. Ser Garth Greenfield, another Westerman, was red-faced and hanging over a banister on the second floor of the tavern, surrounded by the laughing faces of Harmen Flowers and the sellsword Vaevar who had recently pledged service to the Dragon Banner.
Bonifer Hasty smiled at the antics Criston had dragged him into, steel grey hair drawn neatly out of his face making him seem younger with the dust of the trail beaten off his back, even if the both of them were out of the shining steel armor the King had gifted them. Criston swung an arm around the man's shoulder, the knight pouring the pitcher into his cup with steadfast resignation and even a hint of amusement dancing in his eye. "Damn it all! Stop clapping you louts!" Criston jeered at the impromptu stage, causing a new round of laughter. "If you want to applaud, give a hand to my friend Ser Bonifer here! A man who can hit you so hard from any angle you'll be pissing blood for weeks unless you know a good healer!"
"Perhaps a boast lacking in much appeal for those being hit," Bonifer honest-to-gods jested.
Who says you can't teach an old salt new tricks, Criston thought, hand flying to where the other Stormlander's lance had driven him from his horse.
"Nonsense," Criston dismissed, "Everyone likes a hero of the hour." And Hasty was more palatable for some of the more pious peacocks to tout as a paragon of virtue regardless. It was a sour pill to swallow to cheer on a Dothraki lancer who had gone so far where others had fallen, for instance. That they were a Dothraki
woman a moral outrage.
Can't protect the 'weak' and women if they're taking up arms themselves, now can they? The thought rang through his head not bitterly but with an air of amusement, the pair of Stormlander knights crashing mugs together with the priest he'd bested in turn, though perhaps only by being well prepared for some of their tricks. No amount of preparation would help against someone who was just that damn talented on a horse like Ser Bonifer, though.
"It would seem to me the hero of every hour in this city couldn't be more certain," Bonifer replied lightly.
"Oh aye," Thoros agreed, "And a thousand mugs raised in his honor upon every hour too. Still, he can't hold his ale half as well as some Stormlanders I know do..."
"You speak like you've drank with him," Criston sniffed, finding it hard to believe this red-faced Essosi had managed to get pissed with not just one but two Kings. Thoros raised both brows and smiled serenely behind his mug. "No..? You drank with Viserys Targaryen?"
"If you're wondering, don't get into a competition with that boy. He cheats shamelessly," the Myrman said with his usual amount of cheek.
"And you don't?" Kennos of Kayce queried, laugh-lines becoming more pronounced as some unspoken message was passed between the two in that moment.
"The Lord of Light guides us all... sometimes through peril, sometimes through a hangover."
The four men chuckled. When was the last time any of them had to deal with a hangover, one from a great store of temperance, three from copious use of alchemical relief.
Criston didn't doubt that the greatest thing to come from mixing rare herbs and spices together in a decanter had to be a hangover cure.
***
The laughs and smiles could still be heard from the floor below, but in the upstairs private seating of the Stand, Thoros' were now all gone. They were joined only by Kennos, presence tolerable to their guest given he was a still somewhat new convert to the Red Faith and devout at that.
Eventually she spoke, the momentary shiver going up the Myrish priest's spine going ignored in favor of the sheer presence she exuded with every breath. "Thoros of Myr. I recall you being charged with the conversion of one King, only failing in that to willfully descend into debauchery and decay with another. What guided your hand to this place where East and West meets, lying in the shadow of crimson wings?" Red eyes flashed with the same startling intensity they took on in all things she considered of real importance.
"The same as you, I'm sure," Thoros eventually replied sharing a glance with his friend across the table. "The Lord of Light has guided me back to this place to see the birthing of an Empire, to learn the shape of the land in the days to come from the molten bedrock which will shape it, changing and destroying with every churning motion brought forth."
"Creating," Melisandre spoke, the merest nod to the truth of his words not making the Knight nearby relax an ounce given how she had all but demanded they speak. "And do you now take up those duties thrust upon your shoulders by the Lord with a will and passion?"
"Everyone has their place," Thoros sighed, "...and I believe mine to still be in Westeros. Eventually I will return there, for there is much darkness and evil to fight."
"If you were to remain longer... what would you say to training another?" Her eyes flashed aside to Kennos then, who stiffened sharply. "The Lord's Light has protected this weary soul, that much I can see..."
"That is up to Him, is it not?" Thoros said after long consideration.
"This is true, yet the rituals and scripture could be of some use. He is not... the most orthodox in his beliefs, I can see, though there might be some...
worth to that. In these days."
"Don't I get a say in this..?" Kennos asked wearily, though Thoros just shook his head.
"The Lord's chosen will appear as he wills them to... but could you really turn away His touch if it was offered to you, knowing what you agreed to face?"
"No," Kennos said, thinking of all the horrors he'd endured and not able to turn them from his mind for anything. His fist clenched around the Horn of Herrock until the joints were white.
The Priestess' hand broke him from his stupor, soft fingers clenching against his shoulder. "You need not struggle alone. And I have... reflected that sharing these burdens with unlikely allies holds greater merit. I sense His touch upon you, his Light burns in all of us though manifests more in those who have their assigned time and place to shine. Would you agree that one should be prepared to undertake what is asked of him, even if they are plagued by fear or doubt?"
"His words are all I had while under lash and collar, both held by vile fiends. I know what the Flame is for," Kennos said quietly.
"Then you will learn how to cast it upon those that hide in the dark," Melisandre of Asshai spoke with all the finality of a nail in the coffin.
Thoros wondered if he would come to regret dragging his friend into that braying Abyss after him. Or introducing him to this red woman who remained an impenetrable enigma to him. Thoros had many regrets, but the greatest was ignoring His call when it might have done the most good.
And he would never ignore that calling ever again.
