Ten-thousand Ironborn, and she should've been with them. She should be there in three weeks time to watch the capital fall, to taste a victory so sweet it would practically be honey on the tongue. The fall of Queen's Landing was there, ready for the combined forces of the self-proclaimed Kings to reach out and take, but Kára couldn't go with them, wouldn't be there to witness. Hardly a league had ever separated she and her sister and she wasn't keen on having the whole of Westeros between them.
Having made up her mind, she'd bid her farewell to the marching lords at Deep Den, sitting astride her horse at the crown of the hilltop, watching as a sea of banners steadily made their way south, to whatever fate would befall them there. She prayed to the Drowned one for her countrymen, that they might be triumphant in battle and that those who fell might dwell swiftly in his halls. The Lannister forces were of no concern to the heiress, and she barely paid them a glance as she wheeled Tÿr about, headed back along the road whence they had come.
A day it had taken, and a small sum of hours, but the remaining forces under Volmark and the Lannister king had not moved scarcely a few miles from where she left them, and she sighed in relief to see the swathe of canvas, a multitude of colors and the sigils of every house on proud display. The area where the Tawney encampment had been set up since the beginning of the journey was empty, and relief coursed through her petite frame at the revelation. A few words with her first mate and the crew began to reestablish theirselves, driving stakes into the ground and pitching tents.
Lady Tawney rode on, the gazes of many men trained on her as she passed, but she acknowledged not a one. Several minutes passed before the Leviathan loomed in the distance, and she'd never been so happy to see the banner of House Volmark. It was a strange feeling after all that had transpired, but where Arryk dwelt so would her sister.
She wore traveling clothes, sturdy riding boots and snug leathers, a fitted, sea green linen shirt beneath a decorated leather cuirass, cloak draped over her shoulders and pinned there with two clasps in the likeness of the sun. The sword she had commissioned at the forge hung at her waist, shield slung over her back, and sun bleached waves cascaded over her shoulders, parts of it done in intricate braids to keep the majority out of her face.
At the sight of the banners of Houses Tully and Lannister her lips pursed, and she noticed the party waiting there for the Greenland lords. A cry nearly escaped her lips at the sight of her sister, dressed as a woman should and not as a warrior. She looked lovely, her features softened by obvious pregnancy, and a hug was in order but she merely guided her mount a few steps closer, liquid eyes passing over the Volmark and settling on his guests. Lucion Lannister she remembered from the feast, but not the younger man next to him. They would notice her soon enough, she supposed, but she would not speak before.