Black Moth Rising [ASOIAF/SW, Robert's Rebellion AU]

[Endymon_Selene]

Also, I hope you motherfuckers appreciate this chapter, my search history is now filled with shit like "disgusting rotting naked old man" trying to find a picture of Maester Hobber. My recommendations will never be the same.

Click to shrink...

Delete your history and that should clear up your recommendations. Oh, and be sure to have a backup of your passwords, usernames, and what websites they are for.

 

[PrognosticHannya]

Fuuucccckkkk. I'm not as young as I used to be.

I slowly ease down onto my bar seat as my second-eldest son orders ale from the barkeep, Ashara giving me one of those knowing looks as she glances at my lower back.

I just raise an eyebrow in response, and she meets my gaze, not looking away.

Heh. That golden gaze of yours can unnerve anyone else, but not me, girl. I remember when those eyes of yours were wet with tears, crying for your mother's milk, or because you'd just shit yourself!

After a minute or so of our silent match, Ash eventually bangs a hand down on the table, and I curse myself for my instinctual reaction as my eyes flick to look at it.

I grumble mentally, but can't keep the proud smile off my face. Damn precocious brat.

I hear a mirroring grumble from my other side, and have to suppress a smile as I look upon my daughter's new squire.

The boy's a good sort: gruff, but with a real sense of loyalty under there, despite that unfortunate scar. He's a perfect fit for our family styles too, being almost as tall as me, and still growing yet at five and ten.

I know I'm not exactly a wealthy man by any means, or even a prosperous one, compared to my trueborn siblings. Stevron, despite how much I love him, isn't really suited for the subtle games of court, and so could only manage to get me a knightly household in the face of our disapproving cousin Othell.

Granted, I think it might be something in the blood, because I'm shit at it too. There's a reason I let Jyn handle most of the actual "lord-ing" that comes with our title, and it's not because she can suck my brains out of my cock while sleeping.

Although certainly helps…

Damn I love that woman.

But as I was saying, I'm not exactly a wealthy man, and many other bastard boys in my position would feel slighted. After all, I'm the cousin of the Lord of the damn County, baseborn of a whore as I may be, and a distinguished warrior in battle. Hells, I'd bet my whole damn keep that ten times as many people from the War know my name than my irritating prick of a Lordly cousin.

For a while, when my blood still ran hot, I was ambitious. My daughter didn't get that desire to leave a legacy from nowhere, to have bards sing of your deeds for generations.

But time, like it does all things, tempered my expectations, and I've come to terms with the fact that I'll never be a great lord or legendary warrior.

And while I may not have the legendary status of the Dragonknight as I wished in my youth, or a seat at Mothhold Keep, I'm no less proud or content with my lot. I have a wonderful wife, my other half, six incredibly children growing up into young men and women I can be proud of.

There's little Garin, the light of the household, always able to bring joy wherever he goes. I swear, some of the maids are calling him "the little lamp" for how bright his smile is, and already gossiping about what a charmer he'll grow up to be.

Hells, if the Blackmoth blood runs true, he might just be able to use that smile of his to get into more pants than I did in the Stepstones! And trust me, that was a truly prodigious amount of pants.

Then there's Ros, our little hellion. I'm honestly astounded at how much energy that girl has, and how often she gets underfoot. Archery, swordsmanship, riding… anything even remotely martial and she's out to do it. She's talented at it too: only four-and-ten and one of the single best archers I've seen this side of the Marches!

And when she's not training, she's always playing pranks! Gods, she's inherited her mother's cunning more than any of our children, but has channeled it entirely towards disrupting the day-to-day patterns of life at the keep. Horse-hair in Bella's bed, glue on my armchair, sewer-water in Jyn's perfume, she's done everything you can think of, somehow without ever escalating past the line of "harmless fun".

The only ones she doesn't prank are the twins, and I'm fairly certain that's because shes terrified of what Ash would do if she made Erryn cry. Well that, and she worships her eldest sister so hard I worried about her starting a cult for a few years.

Luckily, it looks like puberty's finally kicking in, and my eldest daughter has decided to channel Ros's admiration in a more… productive direction.

I snort. Gods, that Alymer boy is never going to know what hit him.

And practically her opposite, although no less perfect for it, is sweet Bella. I'm so proud of her, growing into the perfect, refined little lady. She's an incredible singer, only rivaled by her eldest brother, and has inherited the full force of both her parents' charm, although she uses it disappointingly little.

When she does though… well, I'm still in awe of how she convinced one of our senior cooks to let her eat the raw dough for sweetmeats, despite me having personally chastised the kitchen staff for doing so on so many occasions I had to resort to threats of firing to try and get them to listen.

However, despite that near-frightening level of manipulation, I'm not at all worried she'll turn into some Alicent Hightower, a grasping social climber willing to walk over friends and family to put herself at the top.

She's one of the rare people out there who truly, actually cares for every person she meets, high or low, and will give and give and give of herself to make them happy. Honestly, I'm a bit confused to where it came from given her parents. Maybe Dad? He was a damn good man, a better father than I deserved. But even then, Bella is practically the maiden made flesh compared to his generosity (although I may be a bit biased).

She thinks she's so damn clever, sneaking out every seventh-day to help feed the poor and hungry in Lovecraft, and taking up a midwife's training to make sure that she'll be able to help cure any ailment she comes across. Our smallfolk practically venerate her like Baelor come again for how she hands out her coin to those in need. And yes, of course they know who she is, she's not nearly as good at hiding as she thinks she is.

Kind, generous, and with a sense of duty only matched by Durran, I think she'd make a fine wife for even a King once she shakes off some of her naïvete.

And Durran! Durran, my strong, cunning warrior, the perfect combination of both his parents. He's got my skills with a warhammer at only five and ten, complimented by his mother's cunning and political acumen.

He's no snake though, he's thankfully not inherited that part of his mother's cunning. As much I love Jyn, I hold no illusions that she was considering knifing me and stealing my gold for the first few months I was courting her. Hell, it's what attracted me to her in the first place!

Unlike his mother, Durran's inherited that upstanding Stormlander sense of honor and duty, throwing himself into the tasks of an heir with a vigor even I find astounding.

And yes, Durran is the heir, despite the fact I've made no official announcements. It's not that I don't love Erryn, it's just that he, to his own acknowledgment, would be much more suited for a Maester's chain than a knightly title.

He's one of the smartest lads I've ever met, even outstripping Castle Arrington's Maester in everything from art to warfare to history to his beloved blacksmithing, but he's just not cut out for the stresses of lordship. He may be able to bring a whole room full of Lords to tears with his voice, but he clams up the minute someone tries to interact with him outside the bounds of his music.

And by the gods, his smithing!

You wouldn't think it from his looks, fairer than most noble maiden's I've seen, but that boy can smelt! It's one thing to be claimed a genius by a Maester who spends more time around books than people (not that Erryn's much different), and it's another to use your wits to discover a secret metal-smithing technique so precious house feuds have been started for to keep safe those who know it from poachers.

And that's no even speaking to the quality of his metal, better than all but the best works coming from the Street of Steel! Or his truly moving artistic abilities with the metal, perhaps the only thing that can match his wits or his shyness.

Even so, I'd most likely make him my heir to prevent grumblings among the other knightly houses sword to Lord Arrington… but I know he'd be miserable, with Ash alongside him, and I can't stand to see my children cry. Call me a sentimental fool if you will, or a man even less able to control his children than Aegon the Unlikely, but I'm not ashamed: I love my children more than life itself, and I'm not willing to ruin their lives just for some political advantage, no matter how great.

And speaking of Ashara…

Well, out of all my children, I think Ash takes after me the most: hard-drinking, hard-loving, and with a tremendous skill in battle only matched by a lack of tact and common sense. I know it's going to get her into trouble one of these days, but I also know from my own youth that the only way to learn humility is through experience.

That might be a bit difficult though, given that she has more of a reason than anyone to be arrogant: she's the single most skilled warrior I've ever fought, even without all those extra lessons in foreign styles she's been getting from who-knows-where. She has a passion for bladecraft fit for the legendary hero she wants to become, rivaled perhaps only by her devotion to her family.

Or possibly her lust, she inherited that part of me more than any of my children as well.

I mean Gods, she outfought Lord Baratheon yesterday! Two decades ago, I would think it a mad fantasy for her to do so much as befriend young Androw Horpe, the foolish wish of a man ignorant of the vast the gulf between him and the heir of his liege's liege. And now look at her! Making fast friends with a man as high above cousin Lyonel as cousin Lyonel is above me!

Truly, she's a prodigy among prodigies, I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that she'll be able to win this tournament, and go on to forge whatever legend she wants afterwards. She could outfight a fully grown knight by one and ten, and could put me on the ground only two years later. Hells, I wouldn't be surprised if she could fight two Kingsguard at once and come out on top, all conditions equal.

I just hope she learns earlier than I did that not all conditions are equal.

She's not even close to invincible, and one of my greatest fears is some lucky peasant will snuff out her light with a well-placed spear. I'm still missing three fingers from when that "untrained shit-farmer levy" I ignored made a lucky swipe that nearly cut my hand in half…

"Bran!"

The cheerful exclamation has me turning to look at the bar, where a cheerful Ryam Rambton is holding up a tankard, ram-shaped helmet put on the table to the admiration of the other patrons. "Over here, man! How've you been?"

I smile, looking over the motley crew, I used to traipse through bars with in Essos.. "Can't complain, can't complain."

"Jyn's doing well?" asks Martyn Tallhands, clad in the green livery of his minor Stormlander knightly house.

I nod. "You oughtta see her. I was worried that she'd feel alone in the Stormlands, but she's taken to them like a Tully to the Trident."

"I knew she was special when you snatched her up to make Bran the Bastard-Seeder settle down" another friend says, a minor knight from the Westerlands named Hugh, " You're a lucky fuckin' man, Storm."

I chuckle. "It's 'Blackmoth' now, thanks to that woman you're lusting over. And Gods, 'Bran the Bastard-Seeder'. I haven't heard that one in years."

"Why not?" Ryam asks, chuckling, "I can't Jyn as the type to… abstain."

I smile, glad the beginnings of grey in my beard finally allow me to pull of the 'mysterious wiseman' look. "No comment."

I hear a chorus of boos. "Horse shit!" Ryam says with a hoot. "Ain't no way the two of you haven't been knocking up every pretty maid in that damn keep of yours! Lovemaker Castle, or whatever you call it."

"Lovecraft" I say with a raised eyebrow, "and it's the name of the only town in my lands."

Tallhands wiggles his eyebrows. "'Cause you're such'a crafty lover, that it?"

"It's had that name for ages!"

"Sure, sure. 'Oh, it was already like that when I got here!', you sound like my damn boy when he ripped up that nice tapestry Ser Mattos gave us."

The table breaks out into laughs.

"So then… you're a proper knight and everything now" Hugh says, raising his eyebrows. "Well lah dee lah, how fancy!"

I snort, raising my mug. "And you're not? You're just as much a 'proper knight' as I am now, 'Ser Goldcoat"."

"Bah" Hugh says, waving me off. "Fuck all that! The Strongboar may have given me and Marla some nice land to pop out some sprogs onto, but that don't make me no knight!"

"That's what a knight is, idiot."

"Fuck you, cunt!"

We shout a few insults back and forth, laughing all the while, before trailing off into a comfortable silence.

Ryam knocks back a pint. "That was your boy I fought in the melee, wasn't it?"

I can't even help the beaming smile that breaks out on my face.

Hugh snorts. "Ah, that's the face right there."

I look at him inquisitively.

He laughs. "The one that says 'I'm so damn proud of my kids I'm fit to burst'."

I just shrug, conceding with a nod.

"Boy's better than you are" Hugh says, clapping me on the shoulder, "if he keeps going like this, he'll be a fuckin' beast by the time he's twenty."

The others nod in agreement. "He's faster than he has any fuckin' right to be" Ryam says with a grumble, downing his drink, "it's like fightin' a hummingbird, but the hummingbird's got a fuckin' hammer."

Tallhands raises his glass. "To Durran Humminghamer! May he have a long and fruitful life full of pissing off old fucks like us with his prancing!"

We all laugh at that, downing our drinks.

"You got any other kids?" Hugh asks, having received only sparse updated from the rest of us thanks to his location in the Westerlands.

I smile again. "Five."

Hugh spits out his drink. "Fuckin' six, already?! Seven Above man, are you part rabbit?"

Ryam chuckles. "Well, they don't call him 'Bran the Bastard-Seeder' for nothing, not do they?"

"So six, huh? Jyn must be pullin' out her hair."

"Less than you'd think, actually" I say to Tallhands, taking a sip, "most of 'em were pretty quiet babies, and Bella's been an absolute sweetie since the moment she popped outta the womb."

Ryam raises an eyebrow. "Bella? The one that wants to be a Septa?"

I groan. "Don't remind me. I love her, she's the sweetest, kindest girl I've ever met, the type who'd stop her whole damn day to give alms to a beggar… but sometimes I think I shouldda named her 'Baela' instead, the way she goes on 'n' on 'bout the Seven."

Hugh snorts. "Oh, poor Bran, he's got a daughter that's too sweet and kind. We're all weepin' over here, let me tell you."

"It's just…" I say, struggling to verbalize my thoughts through the haze of alchohol, "she's causing all these problem with the other kids, y'know? Like, she keeps tryin' to tell them how to live their lives and shit, tellin' Ash and Durran off for being 'livacious', whatever that means."

The table breaks out into laughter at that. "Fuck" Tallhands says, "you're tellin' me that your daughter- no, your and Jyn's daughter, is trying to get everyone else to stay chaste?"

I nod, silently gesturing upwards in a plea. "Do you know how hard it is to hide par'mours from her! Ever since she's started goin' around lookin' for sins we can only bring another girl into the bed once a month! A month!

"You know" Hugh says, looking on with unabashed jealousy, "if you were anyone else, I'd think you were fuckin' joking. A new girl every month?! Maris would geld me if she'd heard I even looked at a whore ten years ago! You live a blessed fuckin' live, Bran."

"What about your younger ones?" Ryam says, doing his best to change the subject, "I know all about the twins from your letters, but we haven't written much in the past few years. Hell, I didn't even know you had sixth kid."

I beam. "Yep! Little Garin"—"of course he's fuckin' named Garin" Tallhands grumbles in the background, ever the Stormlander—"is just about two now! He was a bit of a surprise, we thought we'd stopped having kids, but the local herbalist had a shortage of moon tea, and well…"

Ryam snorts. "Explains it. The sun'd sooner rise in the West than the Bastard-Seeder'd stop seedin'."

We all laugh.

"How about… er, Rose?" Ryam asks, ordering another pint.

"Ros, actually, short for Roslyn."

"I didn't fuckin' ask what it's short for, I asked how she's doin'"

I chuckle. "She's a little hellion, she is. I can't count the number of times I've had to wrangle her back into bed after she's snuck out to practice her archery."

Hugh hums. "Archery? Suppose that's the Dornish in her."

I shake my head. "Rhoynish, more like. Jyn's mother was an Orphan of the Greenblood, she's got less First Man blood in her than Jon fuckin' Arryn."

Ryam chuckles, knocking back another drink. "That just makes her more Dornish. I love Jyn, but she's the type of woman who'd cheerfully put a poisoned knife in your back and then talk you around to thinkin' it was your idea."

I can't help my fond smile. "I think she actually did that once, with some blacksmith that was using shaved weights."

Hugh speaks up from where he's been staring into his drink. "Speaking of shaving… were any of you there to see the King?"

Instantly, the air thickens. "…Hugh."

"No, no!" Hugh says, clearly too drunk to be subtle, "that's not just me, right? I saw Aerys back in the Stepstones, and he was pretty normal, for a Targ. What the fuck happened?"

I'm just glad the tavern is mostly empty besides us and the kids, the bartender very purposefully not paying attention to anything we're saying.

Ryam grimaces. "I've… well, you didn't hear this from me but—you all know what happened in Duskendale?"

We all nod.

"Well, rumor has it that the Lady Darklyn decided to torture him when he was captured, and kept him in a cell that would make the fuckin' Ironborn blush."

My eyes widen. He's not saying…

"They say he came back… changed after that. Started refusin' to cut his hair or nails, wouldn't eat, would declare war and then call it off two days later… and that's not even counting the wildfire."

I hear Hugh gasp. "You're… there's no way you're saying what I think you're saying."

I have to give a bleak snort. "C'mon Hugh, you saw him. Man looked crazier than a sack'a weasels, but twice as loud."

Ryam just gives a grim nod. "You heard what he did to the Darklyns? Well, he's started doin' that to just about every thief and cut-purse he can get his hands on, but using magic fuckin' flame. 'Saves on the costs of hanging' he says, what a load a' shit. What's he savin' on, the rope?"

Tallhands stares at Ryam with a fascinated horror. "Why the hell would he even want to do that?! 'S he tryin' to be Maegor come again?"

Ryam shrugs. "Dunno. Some people say it's intimidation, some say he gets off on it… personally, I think he's just plain mad."

Hugh lowers his voice, glancing around to ensure that we still don't have any eavesdroppers. "Is… is anyone trying to do anything? I know he's the King, but burning men alive… We're not Volantis, for the Father's sake"

Ryam grimaces, eyes flicking back and forth. "…alright. You definitely didn't hear this from me, understand?"

We all nod without hesitation. Even if the bonds of friendship weren't enough to keep our potentially treasonous talk secret, none of us want to see our families immolated.

"They say…" he says, voice practically lowering to a whisper, "they say that Prince Rhaegar had Lord Whent call this tourney to organize a Great Council."

I pale. "The last time that happened…"

He grimaces. "Yeah. They say this whole thing might escalate into a another Dance."

"Well" Tallhands says, shuddering, "I'm just glad that there aren't any dragons about anymore, if there is going to be one. A war's bad enough without fields of fire."

Hugh snorts. "Maybe that's what the King's trying to do with all the wildfire, put on the world's most expensive historical mummery."

The tension breaks with that joke, and we all break out into relieved laughter.

"You know who I'm curious about?" Tallhands says after a minute of semi-comfortable silence, "that lady in the tourney. What were they callin' her, the Ash Lady or somethin'?"

I have to suppress a laugh.

"Aye" Ryam says, taking a sip, "I saw her too. The one that beat Garth Greysteel, right?"

Tallhands nods. "Yeah, her. She dismantl'd one of the finest blades in the Reach without takin' a scratch. I can count the number of people in all the Seven Kingdoms tha'ccould do that on my hands and still have fingers left over."

I'm practically beaming at this point, doing my best to not spoil the reveal in my inebriation.

Hey, my daughter got her sense of theatricality from somewhere.

"Shit" Tallhands says, "she practically ran through knights like a fuckin' thresher through grain. Who the hell is she, and where'd she learn to fight like that? The Kingsguard ain't trainin' women, last time I heard."

I chuckle, drawing the table's attention to me as I buff my nails on my coat. "Kingsguard? I appreciate the compliment Martyn, but I don't think I'm quite that level. My Ashara's skill's're all hers, I'm afraid."

My three companions just stare at me for a beat, before exploding into questions.

"Are you sayin'-" / "Wait thass 'little Ash'? / "She's yours?"

"Settle down now" I say cheerfully, "one at a time, if you would. We're civ'lized men, here, not Dough… Doatthraki."

I can practically feel all three of them roll their eyes.

"Bran" Hugh speaks up, practically slamming his mug down on the table, "no bullshittin' now. You're tellin' me that yer the one who trained that girl?"

"Sired'er too" I say cheerily.

I wave my hands, cutting their cries off. "Fine, fine, I'll talk."

They sit on the edges of their seats, still only half-believing that I'm telling the truth.

"…Iss true. The 'Knight of the Moth-Wing'd Blade' is in fac' 'little Ash', and yes, I'm the one tha' trained'er up."

I suppress a twitch at the lie, my eyes flicking over to where she's drinking with her siblings. She's tried to hide it, but I'm still sharp enough to recognize my girl using someone else's style.

Like I said before: she's a truly superb mummer, but I saw her when she was still shitting her breeches and yelling for milk. There's not much she can hide from me.

"Bran, I-… You-… No, jus'… what?!"

Tallhands's exclamation seems to sum up the reactions of the rest of the table, and I don't even bother to hide my smirk, although that might just be an effect of all the alcohol we've consumed..

"Fine, I s'ppose I can tell you th'whole story, if you ask nicely…"

Ryam just rolls his eyes, clapping me on the back of the head.

"'Eah yea… fine" I say with a chuckle. "So, Ash's always been a bit of a… pr'cocious girl…"

Over the next twenty or so minutes, I lay out my daughter's life story (minus he sorcery, of course), to the shocked and disbelieving reactions of my audience.

It truly is an incredible tale; almost out of a song, as my daughter likes to smugly remind me. The girl born of a bastard son of a bastard whore and a half-Essosi Dornish peasant, rising up through nothing but her own grit, determination, and raw talent to become one of the best blades in the land. I think that if they didn't know me for as long as they have, they'd be calling horse shit.

Gods, but am I proud of her.

I just want to know how the hell she manages to hide all her paramours from Bella, so I can copy her. Jyn and I need our weekly orgies back, damnit!

​

~~~

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Ellyn PoV

[URL='https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gvjOG5gboFU']"Oh, way down South in the land of traitors,"[/url]​

​

"Blackfyres and Seven-haters!"​

​

"Right away! Come away! Right away! Come away!"​

I roll my eyes as I hear old wartime drinking songs echo out through the night, belted out by a group of particularly rowdy and off-key group old knights.

"Where gold is King and men are chattel,"

"Stormlanders will win the battle!"

"Right away! Come away! Right away! Come away!"

Well, maybe not "old", but definitely old enough to have served in the war as young men. Somewhere in their forties, maybe, if they were in their teens when they went down to the Stepstones two decades ago?

One man breaks away from the others to call out to me, a tall, stout fellow with a bush of particularly vibrant red hair just beginning to go grey. "H-Hey!"

I tense, up, ready to bolt if it looks like the old stallion is rearing up to try and stud for a beautiful young mare like myself.

"Sh-.. Y-oush look like m'girl! B'lla!"

I snort despite myself, tension slowly uncoiling from my shoulders. I doubt he's sober enough to stand upright, let along attack anyone, and his companions certainly aren't drunk enough to realize he's wandered off as passers-by join them in belting the famous refrain.

"Oh~ let's kill us nine a penny~! Away! Away!"

"Teach each and ev'rey bitter man,"

"Their gold's no good in stormy land!"

Also, I may be biased, but he's a father. Fatherhood is certainly no guarantee of moral virtue, but I know from personal experience that there's nothing that puts a man off from younger women than having a daughter their age.

"Oh, I wish I was upon that shore,"

"We'd make those bastard traitors roar!"

"Right away! Come away! Right away! Come away!"

Unbidden, memories flash through my mind. A flash of bright red hair over emerald eyes like mine, a similarly jolly voice booming in laughter as he tosses me into the air, his careful whispers as he sneaks down to the village to see me, the gurgle of-

I flinch. No! No, not here. Not now. You will not lose control again!

You didn't even see it happen anyways, why are you pretending like you were there for him, you're just a shameful excuse for a-

Thankfully, it seems that the towering man from before is content to serve as a distraction.

"G-Girl!" he hiccups, "y-yer a g'd girl! Look likea fighter."

He gives a booming laugh that sounds so much like his, no! don't think about him don't think about him

"Y'… Y'may luk lik'a Bellyua, but y'got the… y'heart'a… iss ash's!" he trails off there, seeming to loose his train of thought.

"We'll put the kinslayer to rout,"

"I bet my boots we'll smoke 'im out!"

"Right away! Right away! Come away! Come a-*hurk*!"

I just roll my eyes as he stumbles away, quietly thankful for the distraction. I've been around plenty of drunkards before, and cryptic, incomprehensible statements are no surprise.

Although, "heart of ashes?" I know from his tone he was trying to compliment me, I honestly can't think of any way that couldn't be interpreted as an insult.

"Ay!"

Maybe he means that it's smoldering?

"Ay, yoo… yoo fuks!"

I hold back a chuckle as he wildly waves his arms, trying to get the attention of his no-longer-singing companions. Unfortunately for him, they seem quite occupied, two of them holding back the long hair of a third, who's vomiting into the "alley" beside's a potter's tent.

Eventually, the idea of actually walking over to the people he wants to get the attention of seems to pierce his drunken haze, and he begins to amble back over.

"C'm… Y'guys! Y'guys'r fuckin' dicks!"

The vomiting man stands up, wiping his mouth as he turns around. "F'k yoo Bran! Yer the dick! B'stard!"

The four break into inexplicable laughter at that, either sharing some inside joke or just too plain drunk to care. Stumbling, they continue their way down the alley, belting out the same tune.

"Oh~ let's skin us an Essosi~! Away! Away!"

"Teach each and ev'rey bitter man,"

"That ships of gold will sink off-land!"

I turn around, continuing on my way, chuckling as I hear the singing trail off as the friends go their separate ways. I almost put it out of my mind, thinking of it only as an amusing anecdote, when I hear a commotion a ways behind me.

"Oi, old man! Watch where th'fuck yer goin'!"

"Eh? Sh'ry, dinn'…"

Turning back around, I see the redheaded man from before being confronted by a group of eight or nine younger men in ratty clothes, the leader's head cloaked.

"I don't think 'sorry' is gonna cut it, boys…"

By the Gods, does he think this is subtle? He's very clearly doing his best impression of a Lannisport don't think about it dockside accent, but I can practically hear those glass-cut vowels hiding underneath it.

If that boy's not noble I'll eat my metal boots.

Still though, inept as he might be in disguise, his weapon's real enough. He's carrying a wooden club, nails hammers through the ends to create an impromptu mace, with his backup carrying everything from a large knotted branch to a rusty Ironborn axe.

I grimace, checking my own coin purse at my side.

"G'lost, cunts."

"I don't think so, old man. Now hand over your coinpurse"

"…wha'?"

"Alright, boys" the leader says, raising up his club, "looks like we have a recalcitrant one. Let's give him some… motivation."

"Oi, what's 'recalcitrant' mean?"

"Not the time."

They surge forward with that, and I can only watch in horror as they raise their weapons.

He does well for himself, even drunk, managing to take out two of them…

But in the end, he's one man, and they've got over a dozen.

I have to suppress a scream as they savagely beat him, almost throwing up when I hear the "crack" of his ribs shattering.

I do throw up when I hear his knee bend backwards.

After five or so minutes, they're finally, blessedly done, and I can only hide in terror in an alley, hoping the cutpurses don't take notice of me.

"Awright, friends. Let that be a lesson to… ah, fuck!."

"Dad? Dad!"

I feel my eyes watering.

"Who are you people!? Get the fuck away from my father!"

That poor girl…

~~~

How do you like the explainers? I realized many of my readers would be coming in fresh from the series, and so wouldn't know many things about the lore and worldbuilding more longtime fans would take for granted

As always, feedback makes the writing come faster.

Also, switching to a Tuesday-Friday update schedule to not overburden my backlog

 

[Nuitblanche]

I have no idea who Ellyn is but she's about to witness a butchering.

 

[PrognosticHannya]

I have no idea who Ellyn is but she's about to witness a butchering.

Click to shrink...

She's from the Westerlands, has red hair, is an orphan, had to cut herself off from saying "Hill" when asked for her surname, and described "gurgling" being involved in her father's death. Clues are all there.

 

[PrognosticHannya]

"Ash!"

I feel my body moving, kneeling down next to his pale oh gods how much blood has he lost body. It's almost like my body is a holocron and I'm the ghostly guardian, hovering outside my own body without any control over what it does.

"Oi, moth-girl!"

My cheeks are wet. Am I crying?

"Ash!"

Gods, he looks so fragile. He's always been so vibrant, so strong, so full of life, brimming with barely-restrained energy even into his forties.

"Ash!"

My head snaps up. Is Erryn calling me?

"What." I feel my mouth say flatly.

"Ash, you have to let go! I can't see his injuries if you're holding him!"

I feel my arms clutch him tighter, my eyes focused in the middle distance.

"Fucks sake, moth-girl."

I start to tense up as I feel hands cover mine, Sandor's surprisingly gentle calloused grip pulling me back. Finally, ever-so-slowly, my ghost starts to slowly merge with my form, and I jump up, letting my father's corpse body drop to the ground.

I stumble away. "W-Wha-… is he…"

Erryn gives me a grave look, bending down to put a hand over his mouth.

The silence feels like it lasts years.

"….he's still alive. He's got both knees shattered, and a few cracked ribs, but he'll live."

I feel a massive weight drop off my shoulders, only to immediately be replaced by a seething rage as I spy the prone form of his assailant.

"You!"

The cloaked figure coughs as I manhandle him.

"Who are… the squire? From the melee?"

He sneers. "That's right, bitch! The one you cheated to get past! Looks like all your-"

I don't even let him finish, throwing him back against the ground, letting his head smack onto the cobblestones.

"Gods moth-girl, tha's fuckin' vicious, even for me."

"Alright!" I say, picking up the next thug, "I know that a prissy noble scion like Ser Lannett here wouldn't touch any of you with a ten foot pole. So what's going on?"

The thugs stay silent, glaring at me, as the Lannett lets out a groan.

I growl, lifting one up.

"You have anything to say?"

He spits. "Fuck y-ooOUUUU!"

I give a vicious smile as I crush his hand, my massive force-enhanced strength almost pulverizing the delicate bones in his fingers. "Alright!" I say, dropping the sobbing cutthroat to the floor, "we're going to play a little game! It's called, 'whoever talks first gets to keep both their hands."

Remarkably, the proud and haughty Westerlander was a great deal more cooperative after that.

~~~

"Ash, don't do this! That's the son of the Lord Hand!"

"No" I snarl, pushing past Durran on my way towards the tourney grounds, "that's the brother of the bitch who tried to get our father killed!"

"Yes, and that bitch has half the realm competing for her maidenhead!"

"Let's see if they still do once I shove a spear up that golden cunt of hers."

"You already angered her with your insults, please, don't make things worse!"

He runs in front of me, laying a hand on my breastplate.

"Ashara, please, you know that this isn't what Father would wan-"

I spin on my heel. "Oh, really? Did you ask him? Oh wait, you can't! Because his knees are shattered and he's in a fucking coma!"

"Ash" Erryn says from Durran's side, "your eyes are glowing golden…"

Oh, am I…

No. Fuck Erryn, fuck Durran, and fuck Nadros. Maybe a Sith is what I need to put these haughty fucking lions in their place.

I brush past him before he can say any more. "Keep your peace all you like, I'm going to avenge our father."

I stride into the ring with vicious grin, which grows even wider as I feel how unsettled it makes the Lannister. With his level of magical sensitivity, I'm near-certain he can feel the wrath billowing out from my aura, only barely restrained from forming a howling storm by my willpower.

Good. He should fear.

As the bell rings, I hold out my hand, stopping the lion in his tracks.

I hold out my shield, arm extended, reveling as the crowd goes silent.

Excellent. I know that these stands are designed to funnel sound straight to the ears of the spectators, but I wanted to be sure that everyone is about to witness the humbling of the Lion.

With a smirk, I drop the shield on the ground. "Won't be needing this."

The Lion glares at the insult.

"After all" I say, "if your sister feels it necessary to send common thugs to fight a man of eight-and-thirty, what does that say about your skills?"

He gaze hardens as he gives me a vicious smirk. "Oh? That sounds an awful lot like slander, milady.."

My temper, held back only by a thread at this point, snaps completely in the face of his smugness.

"Slander?" I snarl, "The bitch practically admitted it! Said that I should be 'careful not to overstep my station', the arrogant cunt!"

I can see Durran glaring at me from the stands, but I'm too angry to care. These lions were going to pay for harming my family.

"Did she?" he says with a smirk, "I recall her saying that about someone else. If you were so quick to associate those words with your own father's troubles, well…"

"'Troubles'? Strange thing to call four broken ribs and two shattered legs."

I send out a few probing stabs, testing his defenses. They're irritatingly competent.

"Ah, I see the problem. You are concerned that with no knees, he can no longer kneel in the dirt before his betters, where he belongs. Don't worry, I'll forgive you the disrespect. We are generous Lords, after all."

This-!

I feel the dark side of the Force surge around me as I leap forward, snarling as I commit to a vicious slash he's only barely able to block. "Generous?Generous?!"

He swipes back desperately, backpedaling to avoid my feral swipes with wide eyes. I scream out in rage, loud enough for even the most distant spectators to hear. "Your bitch of a sister tried to have my father assassinated! All because I defended my brother when she screeched at him for getting a spot of mud on her dress when she tried to bowl him over!"

"All to soothe her petty." I don't let up for a second, jerking into a series of downward slashes, over and over again in the same direction to emphasize my words.

"Vicious."

"Spiteful pride!" I roar, hitting him so hard he goes flying backwards when he tries to block.

Unfortunately for me, the distance seems to have let him get back on his feet, and he approaches me with much more wariness. I give a vicious smirk. Good, little lion. Fear all you want, it won't save you.

I can feel the Force billowing around me, hate and rage practically flowing out to cover the tourney grounds in a vicious miasma. I have no doubt that if my eyes weren't already golden, I'd be getting some pointed questions about witchcraft.

Fucking ignorant little sheep, bleating in fear to try to bring down their betters.

The Lannister comes back at me with a vengeance then, no longer put off by my surprise attack.

I grimace.

He's good, very good, better than anyone I've ever faced by miles.

I snarl, lashing out with another series of brutal swipes, but this time he manages to parry them easily, some of his swagger returning. "Ah, so it looks like the moth bitch is all bluster. Tell me, whose cock did you have to suck to get in here?"

"I don't know, ask your sister."

He gives a derisive chuckle, but I can feel his hatred spike in the Force. He yells out his next line, loud enough to be heard by the furthest watchers. "Tell me, did their taste better than your daddy's did? I think that might be what really injured him, having you jam that ugly face of yours down so hard it shattered his hips."

I open my mouth and r o a r.

~~~

*SLAM*

I growl, a red haze over my vision. This cunt, this little worm, he dares to strike me? To make a dent in my shoulder-plate? I'm going to-…

I breath in. No. No, Ashara.

The haze fades as I curse myself. Be a Jedi, don't let your anger control you!

I take a deep breath in, breaking our bladelock and jumping back.

I should have realized after Garth Greysteel managed to knock aside my helm, but this tourney hosts an entirely different category of opponents. Even my father, experienced as he is, is nothing more than a page playing with sticks in the face of the furious Lion of the Rock.

"Oh, cowering away so soon? As is the place of a moth before a lion."

I tense, but eventually bring my breathing back under control

Don't let him get to you Ash, he's trying to make you angry. What was the first lesson Nadros taught you?

I feel my overwhelming, burning rage at what his family's done to my father, and grit my teeth.

No.

No, fuck the Jedi. I don't need peace here, I need focus. I won't be a slave to anyone, least of all my own anger. "The Force will set me free".

With an effort of supreme willpower, I force down the howling gale of rage inside me, shackling it once more to cold calculation.

I won't get anywhere by lashing out like a mad dog.

This little worm thinks to hurt my family, to ruin our good name, to make me into a laughingstock?

No, death and quick defeat are too good for a man like that. I'm going to humiliate this little insect.

"Apologies" I say, voice hard, "I'm afraid my anger got away from me there."

The Lion chuckles.

I step in for another swipe, feigning the same type of reckless anger that had almost seen me beaten.

He moves to block me with a smirk, but this time, I twirl around his blade to get a cut in, which he barely avoids.

He scowls, and this time, it's my turn to smirk.

He grimaces, moving forward with a series of textbook slashes.

I give a carefree laugh as I fend him off, sending the tip of his blade skittering into the dirt as I kick him back with a leap.

"What's wrong, little lion? Having trouble dealing with the big, bad moth?"

He moves back in with a series of lightning-quick Westerlander slashes, and I'm put on the back foot as I work to block.

I lock his blade briefly, openly scoffing as he manages to disentangle himself from it.

Internally, I grimace. Despite my mummery, this isn't the nonchalant walk through the Godswood that I'm portraying it as.

I narrow my eyes.

I parry his swipe, launching a leaping counter that's disarmed every knight I've ever tried it against, but he avoids it with the skill and grace of a veteran.

"Is this all the famed House of Lannister can offer? A green boy, barely a hedge knight?"

He growls, but doesn't break his focus, sending a quick series of stabs at me that forces me on the defensive.

I growl, slamming his blade away on the last parry with a Force-enhanced swipe, more strength than would be possible for a non-combatant of my frame.

He stumbles, blade almost wrenched out of his hand at the vicious use of Ataru, and he only barely managed to evade my follow-up overhand slashes, strong enough to almost disarm him.

His eyes widen briefly, and I smirk. He knows very well that the type of strength and speed I'm showing can only be matched by the highest class of fighters, the Daynes and Selmys of the world.

And for all his talent, the Young Lion is still a decade away from reaching that level.

He glares at me, until his eyes suddenly light up.

"That's some nice armor he says", he says with a Force-enhanced shout to be heard in the crowd, "which Lord did you steal it from? Lord Horpe, perhaps? Given the moth theme. Although I don't know if even he is wealthy enough to afford Westerlands work this fine."

I laugh, and his smirk falters. I roll my eyes. "Honestly, do you think if I was stupid enough to steal this from Lord Othell, I'd be stupid enough to wear it here? Even beyond the idiocy of the move, he's a good lord-"

A lie, but he doesn't have to know that. "-and I'd never insult him so. Well, technically Lord Lyonel's the head of house, but I doubt he'll be getting fit for custom armor any time soon."

He glares. "So you say… yet still there you stand, wearing armor worth more than two decades of coin from your tiny little keep. Perhaps that's why your father was crippled, he was so poor at coin he beggared himself and had to purchase loans from cutpurses."

My smirk falls, and I glare.

"Nothing to say to that? It seems like you really are that foolish."

I give him a vicious smile, bearing my teeth like a predator. "Actually" I shout, enhancing my voice with the Force to be heard even from the back of the stands, "I thank you for bringing up my armor."

"This is not, as you assumed, the work of the Westerlands guilds. For you see, while your metalworkers have held the monopoly on colored steel for centuries, ever since you eliminated the smithing guild of the Reach…"

His eyes narrow.

"Behold! That is the case no longer! Thanks to my twin brother Erryn, Lovecraft Village is now the second place in all the Seven Kingdoms that can produce dyed steel!"

He scoffs. "You expect me to believe that? That your little mute bard brother somehow managed to figure out what centuries of smiths have tried and failed to do. That he's some sort of… genius of blacksmithing, beyond even the Archmaester?"

I just shrug, smirking. "You said it, not me."

He rolls his eyes.

"Besides," I say, "as you said, this armor is clearly custom-made for me. The Moth is not that common a symbol, and it's tailored to fit me exactly."

"However" I say, directing my comment at the crowd, "I encourage any lords that are skeptical to come by Lovecraft themselves, or place an order with my younger brother Durran. I assure you, you won't be disappointed."

He growls, moving back in to slash at me.

I just smirk, deflecting his blows with the flat of my blade. Trying to brand me a thief in front of all the realm? Thank you for the free advertising!

We trade a few more blows back and forth, probing, as my style slowly becomes more anf more offensive, shifting increasingly towards Makashi and Ataru.

He manages to block or dodge all of my slashes, and I grimace. Fuck, he's almost as fast as I am.

After a few more exchanges though, I start to smirk. He's flagging, I can see it!

It wouldn't be obvious to anyone but a knowledgeable warrior, but I can see how his swings are coming just a fraction of a second slower, his blocks wavering my a scant few hairs.

It seems that in order to match his speed to that of the greatest fighters, the Young Lion as had to sacrifice his training on strength and endurance.

I give him a nasty grin. Unfortunately for him, the one factor that determined s your endurance in a fight… is how deeply one can draw on the Force.

"I cannot imagine the shame to House Lannister" I say, raising my voice to be heard even from the furthest stands "taken out in the Hedge Knight's round? Your brother may have the height of a hedge, Ser, but you have the skill of one."

"Hedge Lion! Hedge Lion!" I hear from the crowds, and I have to suppress a smirk. At least that plan has stayed on track, despite my little outburst.

Turns out that in the right hands, a few silver stags can go a long way.

He glares at me, taking a few swipes, just a bit lagging behind where he was at the start of the fight. "I've asked around about you, you know" he says with a falsely-confident smile, "you may have gotten lucky with Garth Greysteel, but I assure you, I am on an entirely different level."

I chuckle. "Perhaps. But that does not mean you will win. You are tall indeed, but no man is taller than a mountain."

I make a quick overhand slash, using my height to my advantage, and he only barely manages to parry it.

I smile. He would have been able to deflect that at the start of the fight, and judging by the sudden panic on his face, he knows it.

He snarls, sweat beginning to bead on his brow. "You consider yourself a mountain? You? You are a woman, the daughter of a bastard son of a bastard whore, who further sullied his blood by breeding with some… with some bastard half-Essosi Dornish peasant!"

"That's true" I say with a nod of my head, "my blood's as dirty as you can get without being a commoner, and perhaps dirtier than even that. What does that say about you then, that you will lose to me?"

He growls, making a series of rage-strengthened slashes, his presence surging within the Force. "I am the Lion of fucking Lannister! My family has ruled for longer than there have been Andals in Westeros! Who the fuck are you, you little whore?"

I smile. You want to draw on your rage, little lion? I'll show you what a true master of the Force looks like. I draw up my memories of my father's broken body, his screams as those Lannister men smashed in this legs, how frail his body was when he rested in my arms…

I have to bite back a snarl. It wouldn't do to have the rage overtake me, not now, so close to victory.

I bat his swings away with my sword, each swing seeing his strength flagging, and mine only growing, drawing deeply on the Dark Side.

I give him a nasty smile, nearly wrenching the sword out of his hands with my last slash. "But don't you see, hedge lion? If you're Lann's blood, I'm Lann."

I send a nasty side-slash at him, denting in his armour with my blunted blade.

I smirk as his eyes widen. He and I both know that if this was live steel, I'd have carved a great gash through his plate, and deep into his flesh.

"I'm my own famous ancestor, I need no other. Generations will pass, our lines will wed, and your grandchildren's grandchildren will beam with pride as they recount the tales of their forbearer, the Great Lady Ash."

He glares at me, trying to hide his panting. "Brave words, for one who can not even afford their own armor. Tell me, which of your betters did you steal that from? Lord Brax? Lord Farman? Lord Lannett? Hm, perhaps him, maybe that's why you went after his son…"

I snort, carefully calculated to show the maximum derision. "If by 'went after' you mean 'barreled through so easily it was like breaking down a door made of feathers', than yes, I suppose I did. But truly, you must try harder with your theorizing: I went after the little Lannett last, after all."

"Hmm…" I say ponderously, "The Last Lannett… that has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? It's a fitting punishment for him: to forever be remembered as a footnote in someone else's story. So even if the whole of Lannisport cheers his name, they will be cheering mine."

Jaime pedals back, putting some space between us. "You are less skillful at deflecting questions than you believe yourself to be. Although what can I expect? It would be absurd to expect the graces of the court from of of your… humble bloodline."

"Humble? Perhaps. If you would say that Lann's children were humble, having been from 'such a newly-founded house'."

I rush forward then, not giving his exhausted frame a chance to parry, and smack his sword from his hand.

"And look here!" I say with my sword to his neck, voice booming with the Force, "the vaunted Young Lion, basted by the daughter of a peasant and a bastard knight he tried to have killed! Yield, Hedge Lion!"

He glares at me, and I can feel the pure rage, hatred, and humiliation wafting off him.

"I… yield" he grits out lowly, each word seeming to be dragged through his clenched teeth.

"What's that?" I say, a vicious smile on my face. "I didn't hear you! Perhaps I should shatter your legs if you still want to fight, just like you did my father's."

A brief surge of panic flashes in his eyes, before he steels himself. "I yield, my lady" he says, voice loud.

I smile, removing my sword, and turn to face the crowd, my back to the downed lion.

I raise my sword in the air, removing my helm, and the crowds explode into cheers.

~~~

AN: Remember, feedback makes the writing come faster!

Yes, I know that in real life, swords can't cut through plate armor, but this is ASOIAF, where swords can cut through anything. See the Index section "Why Swords?" for more info.

Also yeah, Jaime can be a cunt. Tyrion doesn't get his biting wit from nowhere.

To anyone who thinks Jaime is acting overly antagonistic, I have two responses. Firstly this Jaime is a far more brash and headstrong idiot than his older canonical counterpart, and secondly, you have to consider the social context he's operating within.

To the majority of the nobility, Jaime is so far above Ash they aren't even the same category of being. They think of Ash and her family the same way you think of your neighbor's dog and its puppies.

If there's something I feel the majority of ASOIAF/GoT fanfiction authors fail to understand about nobility (because fantasy is an inherently reactionary genre), it's that "thinking peasants are less than human" does NOT mean that you have to hate the peasantry, or even be antagonistic towards them. After all, people love pets just fine, and scorn those who abuse them, but no one would argue that a cat's life is equal to a person's.

So this fight isn't "one person blatantly insulting another", it's more "a person yelling at and striking a dog". Sure, it's a bit gauche to scream at a dog or openly hit it, and it makes you look like an ass, but if the dog bites you first? Well, I can't think of many people that would get angry at your for smacking a rabid dog that's trying to bite you.

This is why Robert's Rebellion happened the way it did in canon. It's not that the nobility didn't care that Aerys was burning smallfolk alive, of course they cared! They're not heartless.

But it's the same way that if one of your neighbors was caught skinning and torturing cats, you'd cry over the pain those cats must have felt, and keep a careful watch over him to make sure he won't graduate to doing anything worse… but you wouldn't try to have him arrested or killed, not in the same way you would if he started doing the same to humans.

Or to give an example on the opposite end of the spectrum, Margaery Tyrell thinks of herself the same way as a modern-day person who's super involved in animal abuse charities. She's generous to the smallfolk bc it's sad when they don't have food or water, not because she believes that they're of the same moral worth as she is.

And before anyone says "oh, well in a world with magic/the force as something that transmits through bloodlines, the nobility really are better!"… before Ash, the last capital-h Hero chosen by the Force was Ser Duncan the Tall, the son of two flea bottom peasants. And he was a force-sensitive on par with his predecessor Daemon Blackfyre, the dragon-iest of all dragons.

What's interesting is that despite utterly disdaining this feudal mindset, Ash herself has that exact same hierarchical mindset in spades, as evidenced by her rage-fueled internal monologues. Except for her, the deciding factor isn't lineage or prestige, it's willpower and strength in the Force (which tend to overlap on a planet of Force sensitives, just look at Dathomir).

 

[PrognosticHannya]

Posting this as a seperate threadmark.


To the majority of the nobility, Jaime is so far above Ash they aren't even the same category of being. They think of Ash and her family the same way you think of your neighbor's dog and its puppies.

If there's something I feel the majority of ASOIAF/GoT fanfiction authors fail to understand about nobility (because fantasy is an inherently reactionary genre), it's that "thinking peasants are less than human" does NOT mean that you have to hate the peasantry, or even be antagonistic towards them. After all, people love pets just fine, and scorn those who abuse them, but no one would argue that a cat's life is equal to a person's.

So this fight isn't "one person blatantly insulting another", it's more "a person yelling at and striking a dog". Sure, it's a bit gauche to scream at a dog or openly hit it, and it makes you look like an ass, but if the dog bites you first? Well, I can't think of many people that would get angry at your for smacking a rabid dog that's trying to bite you.

This is why Robert's Rebellion happened the way it did in canon. It's not that the nobility didn't care that Aerys was burning smallfolk alive, of course they cared! They're not heartless.

But it's the same way that if one of your neighbors was caught skinning and torturing cats, you'd cry over the pain those cats must have felt, and keep a careful watch over him to make sure he won't graduate to doing anything worse… but you wouldn't try to have him arrested or killed, not in the same way you would if he started doing the same to humans.

Or to give an example on the opposite end of the spectrum, Margaery Tyrell thinks of herself the same way as a modern-day person who's super involved in animal abuse charities. She's generous to the smallfolk bc it's sad when they don't have food or water, not because she believes that they're of the same moral worth as she is.

And before anyone says "oh, well in a world with magic/the force as something that transmits through bloodlines, the nobility really are better!"… before Ash, the last capital-h Hero chosen by the Force was Ser Duncan the Tall, the son of two flea bottom peasants. And he was a force-sensitive on par with his predecessor Daemon Blackfyre, the dragon-iest of all dragons.

What's interesting is that despite utterly disdaining this feudal mindset, Ash herself has that exact same hierarchical mindset in spades, as evidenced by her rage-fueled internal monologues. Except for her, the deciding factor isn't lineage or prestige, it's willpower and strength in the Force (which tend to overlap on a planet of Force sensitives, just look at Dathomir).

 

[PrognosticHannya]

I open the door to the small shack I've been assigned as a contestant in the brackets, only to find a worried Erryn and absolutely furious Durran waiting for me.

"What the fuck, Ashara!"

I grimace. Now for the fun part.

"Do you want to make us the next Reynes, you idiotic fucking meat-head!"

I hold up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. "I… you were right. I lost control"

"No shit!"

"I know. I went to far, insulted him too much. I should have kept my cool. I let me hate take control of me, instead of me taking control of it."

Durran stops short at that, the wind taken out of his sails by my frank admission.

I let out a great breath. "Fuck, Durran… it was like all I could see was dad's broken body, just… lying there.

Erryn cuts in, moving over to hug me. "Ash…"

What's this wet feeling on my cheeks?

"I… I just… fuck Durran, he was so fragile…"

Durran sighs. "Gods damnit Ash…"

"I know, I know. I shouldn't have taunted him, shouldn't have insulted House Lannister. Now the Hand might get involved."

"It…" he flops down next to me, lying a hand on my shoulder, "…he was probably going to get involved anyways. Something like that doesn't escape Tywin Lannister's notice."

I snort. "Don't patronize me. I made things personal, brought his house into it. One of the most powerful houses in the fucking seven kingdoms."

We sit there in silence for a few minutes, just digesting what I've done.

"…honestly." He eventually says, sighing. "I can't blame you. If I had been in that position, hearing what he was saying…"

"Fuck," he says with a mirthless chuckle, "my hands were gripping the bleachers so hard I had to dig splinters out of my fingertips…"

We fall into a minute of contemplative silence, Erryn slowly humming as he runs his fingers through my hair.

"…so how fucked are we? You're the political one, out of the three of us."

He grimaces. "Not… not as badly as we could be. We have the moral high ground, even a lackwit could see that by how angry you were. I suppose it served some use in that respect."

I chuckle.

"No, don't. I did exactly the opposite of what I'm supposed to do… I let my hate control me, instead of me controlling it. Some sorcerer I am."

Durran snorts as Erryn brushes a lock of hair out of my eyes. "Sorcerers aren't exactly known for their calmness and restraint, my dear sister. I'm just glad you're not burning people alive, or whatever those people do."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not a R'hllorist Erryn, thank you very much."

They both laugh.

"What?"

Erryn chuckles. "It's just… the way you say that, you sound like you're talking about some particularly rancid pile of shit."

"I am" I say flatly, trying to contain my mirth, "do you have any idea how bad at magic you have to be to sacrifice a whole damn person just to… I don't know, what do they do. Light a candle?"

Durran raises an eyebrow. "I think it's a bit more than that."

"But regardless!" I say with a reluctant smile, "I have no idea how they get anything done over there, with all the people they have to burn. You'd figure they'd run out, at some point."

We break off into laughter for a minute, until settling down.

"…but no." I say "I did fail. Nadros's order of sorcerers is known for their calmness and rationality, and their greatest enemies are the type of crazed berserker I was on the battlefield. Well, that's according to them at least. I've gathered that the Sith are a little more nuanced than that."

Durran cuts in then, surprising both me and my twin brother. "Nadros is the little man in the cube?"

"…I didn't know you'd seen him."

"Sister, you are many things, but 'subtle' is not one of them."

Erryn chuckles at that. "He's got you there, Ash."

I snort. "Yes, yes, I suppose you're right. And he's not really a 'man', more like a mummer putting on a show. He only has so many lines to say, so many things to feel, et cetera et cetera."

"…sounds like a cold existence."

I shrug. "I don't think so. It's not him, not really, the real Nadros is long dead, gone back to join with the Living Force."

"…'The Living Force.' That's their afterlife?"

I grimace. "…sorta?. You know how Nadros's people think of magic, right? 'The Force'?"

He nods.

"Well, in their beliefs, everything is the Force, deep down. Every rock, every tree, every plant and animal… even Gods and souls are the Force. So it's like… your soul just flows back into the world, back where it came from. It leaves an impression behind though, watching over the living. It's a bit like how Harren's cruelty stains Harrenhal, cursing the inhabitants, even though everyone involved is long dead. You've felt that, right?"

He nods with a shudder. "Yeah. I'm not nearly as good at sensing at you are, but I'd have to be blind not to notice that."

He trails off, and Erryn suddenly cuts in with a hum of interest. "…you know, now that you say it aloud, it actually sounds quite familiar. It reminds me of how Northerners and other First Men speak of the Old Gods."

"You mean the 'going to rejoin the world' thing?"

My twin nods, Durran leaning in interested.

I hum in agreement. "I noticed that too. If I didn't see Septons and Septas call on the Force every time they went to heal, or knights calling on it to strengthen their swords, I'd wonder how the Andals ever conquered Westeros."

"So the Force… it encompasses all religions, then? R'hllor, Seven, Old Gods… it has explanations for all of them."

"Well" I say, shrugging "I guess? I doubt they'd see it that way, though. Magic, miracles, souls afterlives… it's all the same stuff in the end. All the Force."

We sit in silence for another minute, until Erryn cuts in, a sheen of wetness on his eyes. "…what does the Force say about Dad? What if he doesn't make it… will his soul just disappear, if it's all the same in the end?"

"No." I say forcefully, turning to stare him down. "Dad is not going to die, not for decades at least."

"But what if he does? What happens to him then!?"

"Then…" I flop back with a sigh "then his soul goes back to rejoin the living Force, watching over us."

I have to choke back a sob. "And… and some day, when you get married and take up the Lordship… you'll feel a soft breeze ruffle your hair, the subtle warmth of your of a hand on your shoulder. And you'll know that some part of him is still out there somewhere, smiling down on all of us."

Erryn tears up himself at that, turning to embrace me in a hug and Durran moves in to lay a hand on my shoulder. "…It's gonna be alright Ash, like you said. He's going to live, and thrive, and he'll grow old watching us have a dozen kids each."

I give a wet chuckle at that. "He'd like that, wouldn't he? Carrying on his legacy."

Durran gives a mock shudder at that. "Please. I learned far more about Dad's 'legacy' than I ever wanted to thanks to Ryam Rambton, thank you very much."

We break down into laughter then, and I feel a weight lift off my shoulders.

~~~

The next day I wake up, feeling refreshed, and I step outside our tent, hopeful for the coming day…

Until I see the lurking form of Sandor Clegane, looming over our tent like some broody spectre.

I grimace. This is not a conversation I've been looking forward to.

"Moth girl…"

"I know, I know" I say, cutting him off with raised hands, "and I'm sorry. I appreciate how… difficult I've made your position."

He snorts at that.

"Sandor" I say, tone turning serious, "if you truly want to leave my service, I won't stop you. But I want you to consider something."

He just stares at me, emotions too conflicted to determine even through my mastery of the Force.

"Do you know why they call you the hound?"

He frowns. "'Cause there's hounds on my shield. Not exactly a hard question."

"We both know that's not the truth" I say, looking at him with my most serious expression, "All the Lords and Knights of Westeros hate nothing more than an upjumped commoner, believe me. Your brother is too much of a monster to mock, so they turn to you."

"'Kennelmaster's get', they say, 'and that's what he's like.' Isn't that what they expect? Strong, dumb, and loyal? Good just for sniffing out enemies and savaging them like a beast?"

If I strain my ears, I think I can hear his teeth grinding.

"They say the same thing about me, you know. Daughter of an upstart bastard and a Dornish commoner, too daft to know she's not a man. Do you know what I say to them?"

"...what?" I have to hold back a smile as I feel his emotions roll and shift in the Force. Silver tongues have nothing on magic empathy.

"Nothing. Because I don't think of them at all. They don't matter. In five centuries, the Lady Ash will be remembered by smallfolk from Dorne to the Wall as the greatest knight to ever live, while not even their families will remember them."

I can feel his incredulity. "'Greatest knight to ever live'? You're fucking mad, moth girl."

"Am I?" I say, unfazed except for a single raised eyebrow. "You could probably beat most knights in a straight fight, and, not to brag, but I utterly destroyed you, even with all your tricks."

"And? You're no Sword of the fuckin' Morning. I'm leaving."

"I'm going to beat Arthur Dayne."

I don't know if it's the absolute confidence in my voice or the almost hungry tone I take when speaking the name of my greatest challenger, but something makes him stop and turn back around.

"You. The batty fuckin moth girl. Are going to beat Arthur gods-damned Dayne, the greatest swordfighter in ten fuckin' generations... in a swordfight"

"Yes" I say without hesitation, smiling at his incredulity.

"And I suppose you'll be beatin' the Prince, and the White Bull, and Barristan the fuckin' Bold too?"

"Well, probably not the White Bull, the tournament matchups mean he'll most likely lose to Barristan before I can get to him."

"'Get to him? Fuck girl, you really are mad."

"Really?" I say, posture unchanged, "do you think I'm the type of person to make a promise I can't keep? I told you I'm going to win this tourney, and that's what I'm going to do."

"Now Sandor, the question is… what will you do."

He doesn't respond, looking at me warily.

"Why do you care what Tywin Lannister thinks of you anyways? You hate your brother, and he's inheriting the family Keep, unless you're planning on- oh."

At once, his glare turns near-murderous. "Whatever th'fuck you think-"

"No, no, I understand!" I say, "Seven know if half the things I've hear about him are true I'd want to kill him too, brother or no."

He just glares at me mulishly.

"So" I say, "you obviously don't have some deep, abiding respect for the Old Lion, and if you get your wish he'll be coming after your head, so… why care what he thinks about being my squire."

"Because he's Tywin bloody Lannister" Sandy says, and I think it's telling that this seems to be an even more astonishing pronouncement than my desire to best the Sword of the Morning. "Even if the hand of the king's a cunt, he's still the bloody Hand of the King, and one that shits gold besides. Fuck if I'm calling that down on me."

"Like you won't be calling it down if you kill your brother?"

"I ain't killin' Gregor yet."

"And maybe not ever" I say blandly "Hounds aren't known for gnawing down mountains, after all."

He growls.

"Anyways" I say, "back to my point. Why do you care what Tywin Lannister or any of those those, as you put it 'massive cunts' think? They'll never not see you as a yapping puppy, eternally barking at the feet of his betters."

He moves his hands towards his sword, face contorted in rage.

"Not unless you make them."

I grin as he pauses in his movements, and I continue, letting my passion infuse my voice. "Own the name. Use it as armour so they can never hurt you with it, show them why men keep hounds leashed in fear of their wrath."

"You're a man out for blood, a man who would chase his quarry across half of Westeros to find his revenge. A Lion can't do that, a bull can't do that, hells, even a bloody dragon can't do that. Only a hound."

I can see his grip on his sword is white with tension.

"I can teach you how to swing your sword so you'll never miss, how to read your opponent's body so well you know where they're going to move before they do. How to find your prey wherever they hide, and how to run for days straight to chase them down. How to be to a common knight as a common knight is to his cobbler. To fight your way through any obstacle, break down any barrier, climb any mountain and cross any ocean."

I can hear his teeth grinding.

"So then, Sandor Clegane, what do you say? I showed you my skills, I beat… no, I humiliated the greatest knight in the realm… now let me help you show the Lords and Ladies of Westeros just how much of a Hound you are."

He pauses for a minute, body tense. "...why me?" He eventually growls out.

"Didn't I tell you?" I say, "my gut never lies. Fate has brought you here before me Sandor, this I truly believe. How else would I know to find you across half of Harrenhal? You have the chance to be great, to forge a legend that will last the ages, I can see it as surely as I see the stars in the night sky. "

"...fate, huh?"

"Fate, the Seven, the Old Gods, the Lord of Light, the Will of the Heavens… whatever you call it, there's a Force that flows through everything, everyone. Guiding all paths, our actions echoing through the past and future. Run left, run right, chart any course you want, but all rivers eventually flow to the sea… to your destiny."

He pauses then for almost a whole minute, emotions turbulent, until he finally stills and gives a sharp nod. "Alright then. Why the fuck not."

 

[themanynamed]

I'm usually a lurker, so consider it something of a feat that this story provoked me to respond.

To be honest, I'm really struggling with this fic. I decided to sleep on it, in hopes for clarity. With a little luck I can give you some solid concrit.

The first thing I noticed is that our cast of OCs are rather familiar. The main character is Robert with tits. Her sibs? They bare a remarkable resemblance to the Stark kids. There is some diversion, particularly in later chapters, which is good, but the similarities remain. The parallels to Sansa and Arya are particularly intense. This may change in the future, so I won't delve too deep here. Just be aware of it.

Secondly, I noticed an inconsistency of tone and your intentions as a writer. Is this PWP? A commentary of social inequalities and injustices in Westeros? Both? The problem is that the former elements of the story are clearly operating on porn logic, which is to say, there isn't any at all. The latter are a lot more complicated. I will get into this more deeply when I tackle Ashara's characterization.

So, as a reader I am left to assume this is some kind of lighthearted romp and maybe lampoon of certain characters? The problem is that you seem to be setting up Ashara as more meaningful. She has superpowers (the Force) and you're hinting she might become Lyanna's stand-in for Rhaegar's obsession with Visenya reborn. Or, if this is incorrect, that she will still have an impact on Westerosi society/politics. Again, this just doesn't fit the rest of the story or even Ashara's character.

To be honest, you need to decide what the overall tone for this story is and what kind of story it is meant to be. Then you need to make what you have fit. Right now it's going every which way and failing to fulfil any of its possible configurations. I'll give examples as we go along of this detrimental tone switching, where it makes the most sense.

Now we'll talk characterizations. I'll note you've received a few criticisms of how you've dealt with Cersei. That was disappointing and I generally agree you dropped the ball here. I suspect you were trying to be humorous but it was off mark. I'll leave that there as your depiction of Rhaegar was solid. He came across exactly how he was perceived pre-Lyanna. You also did well in depicting Aerys. The tension, disgust and general disbelief when he arrived was very well done. Then you jumped straight to porn logic with the Vore guy and it just… yeah, not funny.

As for Ashara herself, I struggle to like her. You're billing her as Robert with Tits but what you have failed to comprehend is that even Robert's behavior (the excessive whoring, drinking and masturbatory fantasies involving war) were considered aberrant by Westerosi society. The only reason he got away with it as much as he did was because he won a civil war by strength of arms, he was backed by an unprecedented alliance and he was king. It also helped that the realm was spent and recovering and that by comparison to Aerys, Robert must have seem relatively benign.

Ashara has none of that and she's a woman.

Honestly, I'm not sure what the point of the main character being female is. There doesn't have to be a reason, really, but the gender divide is repeatedly raised as an issue. You keep reminding us that she's meant to be a female character. The problem is that she doesn't read as female. She's just a blank slate with negative male stereotypical traits tacked on. That she's completely oblivious to how her actions are affecting others, particularly other women, makes her seem even more unrealistic. So does her dismissal of the pressures and trials women face in Westeros.

Those negative stereotypes are pretty excessive too. We have female character whose majority of personal traits are bizarrely derived from toxic Westerosi male culture. It's like we're being hit over the head with the magical dudebro stick every other sentence. Not only is she a woman but SHE'S ONE OF THE GUYS. More even because she has to out dude all the dudes, in public, before the realm and in the most punitive ways possible. While, yes, supposedly being one of the top 5 beauties of the realm, which as far I can see is the story's only concession to the character being female. That, however, sadly dovetails with toxic male culture, which objectifies women by their appearances and general attractiveness.

The sex so far has been a good example of her problematic characterization. Adultery and pre-marital sex are serious business in Westeros. As a woman, she should be painfully aware of that. The noble girl she knocked up? Probably has zero marital prospects and it's completely ignored just how dire this actually is for the girl. When your prospects are all that will make sure you eat in winter, have access to medical care and hopefully find a partner who doesn't drink, whole, gamble or beat you, it matters. But, hey, main character had sex, amirite?! The married peasant woman followed in a similar vein, with massively ignoring the realities of Westerosi culture and how dangerous that encounter could was. If she'd born a black haired bastard, conceived at the suspicious time of her husband's death, she would probably have been killed. This all comes across of callous, coercive and just sordid, which doesn't reflect well on the main character. Even Robert didn't really get away with it- it was written in such a fashion to convey the social disapproval, that the author knew it was shades of disgusting and the reader would naturally agree. There is no such insight here.

Finally, consequences in general are being completely ignored. Her family should have been feeling this long before the tourney. Ashara simply wouldn't have the suitors you've shown. Honestly, they seemed like a badly done parody of Ranma. That was yet another example of where tone didn't match the rest of the story. To get back to the point, Ashara's family would also have struggled with being socially ostracized. Price of key goods would go up, their trade partners would cut ties, their peers would shun them, their lord would put pressure on them and there would be no hope of decent marriages. Being on the bottom of the social order should only make the status quo more viciously enforced. Yet the story reflects none of that.

I do hope that Ashara and the family has a hard kick in the pants, in the future. You do seem to be partial moving towards that, particularly with the Lannisters. It just isn't Westeros without political consequences for even a mouse's fart.

I think you have a story to tell. Unfortunately, you seem to be pulled in too many directions. Decide what you want to write and be ruthless with yourself and your story. I think you have the ability to write something good. It just needs focus and perhaps a little self-awareness.

 

[PrognosticHannya]

I look at the girl in armor standing across from me.

She's skilled. Very skill. It's not by accident you manage to beat—no, humiliate—the young Lannister, and then breeze through Marq Coldwater.

"Lord Baratheon" she says, kneeling, "it is a true honor to fight you, my liege."

I roll my eyes, for all that she can't see it.

Spoiler: Big Bobby B.

Spoiler: Ignore Tattoos

"Stand up, stand up. I won't have you killed for not kissin' my ass. Where's your house from again?"

"County Horpe, milord. In the Arrington Lands."

"Should'a guessed, with the moth theme. You said your name was 'Blackmoth'?"

She nods, her armour clanking faintly.

"Well" I say, eyeing her speculativley, "I'll be sure to remember your House in the future. A woman who can kick the Young Lion's ass? Such an… exquisite specimen can't be overlooked!"

Heh, I can see Ned holding his head in his hands from here.

Sorry friend, but you should know by now that you can't stop The Stag!

I see her go tense.

"…I am flattered milord, but I am here as a knight. A lady I may be, but armour is armour, and a sword is a sword."

I hold up my hands. "Alright, alright! I can tell when a lass isn't interested. Comes with experience, y'know. Only man who needs to force a woman to fuck is one whose cock don't work, or whose face is bashed in"

She can't see under my helm, but I'm sure she can imagine my wink.

The tension loosens from her shoulders, and she laughs. "I'm sure, milord"

She grins, and I find her toothy smirk mirrored on my own face. "Now… shall we commence the fighting?"

I smile, hoisting my hammer off my shoulder. "Pah! None of those 'milord's' here, girl! This is battle, just 'Baratheon' will do."

"Perhaps if I'm winning" she says drily "If I'm not, I'll most likely use 'cock-sucking buggering son of a poxy whore', or something along those lines."

I don't even bother to contain my bellowing laugh. "Hah! I should introduce you to Ned, you two sound just alike. Too damn clever with those words of yours."

"As opposed to the subtle humor of bashing a man in the face with a hammer?"

"I wasn't aware you were a man, milady."

She grins and makes a lewd gesture towards her crotch. "Only where it counts, Baratheon."

I laugh again at that, swinging my hammer.

Father Above! She's like a damn rabbit, bouncing away from my strikes! No matter how fast I am, she's not there, jumping away gracefully enough you'd think she was dancing!

I try a few more swipes, but she avoids each of them handily. "Seven girl, how're you doin' that?

"Well, the first step is to bend your knees."

I snort, moving for an upward swing. "Oh, I'll have you bendin' your knees alright."

She's wearing a helm, but somehow I can tell she's giving me a look flatter than the tits on that armour of hers. "I would imagine so. That's rather the point of a Lord Paramount, I've been told."

I make a few more swings, trying to vary my angles of attack, but she dodges them like it's a summer's breeze. Gods, what is this bloody woman!

We continue on like that for a few minutes; me laying into her with a barrage of furious slashes, and her dodging gracefully, and parrying with a shocking amount of strength where she can't.

I take a moment to admire her armor. It looks like she's clad in damn smoke, with the wings of some great butterfly torn out and mounted upon her. There's some strange scene on the back, a bunch of knights with colored swords, which I guess has some personal meaning to her.

The colors are bright, vibrant, so much that I'm honestly shocked she's wearing metal and not some sort of fabric. This is why so many lords love that damn colored steel, it's so bright and clear that it's almost impossible, let alone how it'll never chip or flake like regular painted armor.

Gods, I need to get me some of my own. I may not be a vain maiden, but even I know that there's nothing that looks worse than steel with half the paint torn off by use and enemy weapons.

Truly it's exquisite. If her brother really did make it, I know my taxes from county Horpe are going to increase tenfold over the next few years. I mean, turning the Lion's accusation of theft into an advertisement!

Damn she's good.

"Tell me" she says with a smirk, "is 'Baratheon' really appropriate? With the way you're performing, I think 'Wee Bobby' would be more apt."

"Oh, I'll make you remember my name, girl. I'll use that 'wee Bobby' to make you scream it all night!"

She laughs. "…did you really just call your own cock 'wee'?"

I slap my chest. "Compared to Big Bobby? Gods yes! I'd rather not split women in half when I'm fuckin' 'em!"

She chuckles. "'Robert', then? Not easy to make a pun out of that."

Hah! Is that a challenge?

I wiggle my eyebrows underneath my helm. "Only people that call me that are family, friends, or girls that are touchin' my Robert. And you're not family…""

She stares at me flatly. "…We're second cousins."

I stop in the middle of my swing, and hold back a wince as I feel the strain on my bones. "…really?"

She lets out a great sigh, looking up to the heavens. "Yes, really. My great-grandfather is Lyonel Baratheon, same as yours."

"…how the hell did that happen?"

"Are you asking me to explain reproduction to you? You really should be called 'Wee Bobby'…"

"Hah! I have plenty of experience in that, thank you. I mean how'd you end up related to the Laughing Storm?"

"Well, consider the first thing you said to me, and then consider the fact that people say you resemble your great-grandfather quite a bit."

I laugh. "Fair, fair. Who was the kid?"

"Laena Storm, who had my father child with Lord Galladon Horpe."

My eyes widen. "Laena the Whor-… the Lewd?! Seven, I know who you are now! Bran the Bastard's daughter, are you? I heard he knew my father spoke well of him during the war."

She smiles. "Thank you, truly, I will convey Lord Steffon's esteem to him. He had an incredible respect for your father, called him the greatest man he ever knew. Noble enough that he would even ask after a bastard, had he fought beside him."

I grimace. "Well… thank you, I suppose."

I don't like talking about father, and certainly not here. Family or no.

"Wait" I say, "so we're second cousins then?"

"…that's what having the same great-grandfather means, yes."

"Damnit!" I yell, throwing my hammer and shield to the sky in an exaggerated motion. "The Seven just truly have cursed me, to have made such a fine woman such as you my blood!"

"Well, you are a quarter Targaryen…"

Both our composures break at that, and we burst out laughing.

"I like you girl" I say after a minute, "feel free to call me Robert… cousin."

"And I suppose you can call me Ashara then, Robert" she says, giving me a truly stunning smile.

I once again curse the gods for making her unavailable. Relations between second cousins may not be that scandalous—look at Tywin Lannister, he bloody married his—but I prefer more… distance between me and any woman I'm fucking.

Strange quirk, I know, with my dragon blood, but I think of it as the Gods telling me that there are a thousand more steeds out there to ride!

And… thinking about it now, it probably wouldn't be the best idea anyways. She's more a man than half the men I've met, and if she's anything like our great-grandfather, she'll cut my balls off if I try to lay a hand on her.

Also, I may be a brute, but not even I'm dull enough to miss what she implied about what's between her legs. See Jon, your lessons are paying off!

~~~

Small chapter that didn't really fit anywhere else. Don't be disappointed though, the next chapter is 6k words, and probably my favorite in the story so far.

Hey everyone! I need some feedback.

Ash is going to take a trip after the Tourney, in the timeskip before the rebellion. Where do you think she should go? The two main options are the North or Western Essos (Andalos, the Disputed Lands, and the Rhoyne).

 

[PrognosticHannya]

For those reading on another platform, I highly recommend reading this chapter on SpaceBattles, SufficientVelocity, or Questionable Questing. Published under the name "PrognosticHannya"

~~~

A week.

My father lay unconscious, legs bent backwards, for a week.

All of our family at the tourney—me, Erryn, Ash, and Uncle Bonifer—kept watch over him, but we all had duties, and so weren't there when he first woke up.

The Maester came as soon as he'd opened his eyes, but the walk to the healer's tent might as well have been the longest in my life.

"D-Durran?"

"Father!"

He coughs. "W-What happened? I remember, there was… I was d-drinking and then…"

"I'll tell you what happened" Ashara growls, "That Lan-"

I shoot her a glare, and she bristles, but falls back next to Erryn.

"You were attacked" I say, gently taking hold of his hand "by a group of footpads."

"Gods" he says, moaning and flopping his head back, "the boys will never let me hear the end of it. Bran the Bastard, taken out by some common thugs."

I can't help but chuckle at that. "If it helps, one of them was the son of Lord Lannett. So a group of thugs an an heir."

I cringe right after I say the words, and Ash shoots me an incredulous look.

Father chuckles, a frail, wheezing thing. "Don't-" he coughs "don't look at y-your brother like that, young lady. Do you r-really think I can't tell something else h-happened? You three are good, but not t-that good."

Ash stands back, abashed, and I have to hold back a laugh at how easily Father can read us, despite my flush of embarrassment.

"So" he says, propping himself up a bit, "the… Lan somethings? L-Lannetts, Lanneys, Lantells? Who the h-hell'd I piss off this time? I don't think I've had any W-Westermen or women recently…"

"Well…"

Ash looks to me, and I hold her back with a shake of my head, much to her chagrin. This is no place for her rashness.

"A few days ago, Cersei Lannister s-"

I have to stop as he descends into a choking and coughing fit.

"I-I'm sorry, Lannister?"

I nod.

He falls back with a sigh. "…Seven fucking above, how'd that happen?"

I sigh. "It was when Erryn and I were signing up for the tourneys. I bumped into her in line, and splattered a few drops of mud on her dress."

He raises an eyebrow in a way that's intimately familiar.

"Yes, that really is what started it. A few drops of mud."

I continue. "She started yelling at me, screaming and berating and insulting me. Telling me that her dress cost more than my whole lordship, and that she'd sell me to a Lyseni pillow house to make up for it, or something like that."

"And you responded?" he says, face grim.

I shake my head. "No, but… I honestly can't say I wouldn't have. But I was honestly just too shocked to respond for a bit, I mean… the daughter of the Tywin Lannister, screeching like some evil goodmother out of a maiden's tale?

"He didn't respond" Ash says, eyes hard, "I did."

"Ah" father says with a coughing sigh "yes I… I s-see the problem now. What d-did you say to her."

I jump in to defend my sister. "Honestly, nothing too awful. A few subtle insinuations, 'mistaking' her for her Aunt Genna… nothing too scandalous. Positively restrained, actually, given the types of threats the lioness was hurling at me."

I nod at Ash's look of thanks. Despite her later… rash actions, she handled her first confrontation with Cersei Lannister remarkably well.

He arches his eyebrow once more. "I have a hard time believing that that would warrant some… some attack on my person."

I grimace. "The thing is…"

Ash continues, squeezing Erryn's hand in silent support. "Prince Rhaegar was there."

He coughs again, dissolving into another fit.

Ash gives a grim smile. "Yes, he was in disguise trying to sign up for the Bard's tourney. If it's any consolation, the two of us got along rather well, I think he rather likes me."

"And he saw this, and interfered?"

"I called him in" Ash said, "I admit, it was in a way that was a bit taunting, giving him a compliment for his wife right after insinuating something negative about Lady Cersei, but still. I'd hoped he'd defuse the situation."

I turn to look at her in shock, and she snorts. "What? I do have some sense, brother. I was just trying to get one last jab in. And it worked, didn't it?"

Reluctantly, I nod. The Prince did break the two of them up…

Father sighs, his head flopping back to his pillow. "So… she decided to get revenge? Presumably by hiring those thugs through the Lannett heir?"

I nod. "Ash had beaten the Ser Tion in the melee-"

Father laughs. "That's my girl!"

"-and he apparently nursed something of a grudge. With some… encouragement he was eager to tell us all about how his liege lord's daughter seduced and paid him to go after one of us, whichever was the most vulnerable."

I'm about to explain more, but I'm cut off by the arrival of my honorary Great-Uncle.

"Brandyn!"

He coughs. "U-Uncle. I'd say it's good to see you, but I don't think there's much good of anything right now. You win?"

He sighs. "Brandyn, this is no time for jesting. You've been seriously attacked!"

He arches an eyebrow in the same way Ash and I both do, a way I know he learned from Mother.

My great-uncle rolls his eyes. "No, I didn't win. I was defeated just today in the fourth round by Ser Barristan".

Father smiles.

"G-Good f-" he breaks off into coughs. G-Good for you, the Bold K-Knight's a t-tough damn opponent."

"Gods" my the purple-clad knight says, dropping into a chair next to the three of us beside father's bed, "this is like a nightmare. Do you know what happened?"

He gestures to us with a fond smile. "I think these three runts here know, but they said they would only give the full story i- when you woke up."

Father coughs. "If I woke? Gods, it really must be bad. And yes, they explained i-it to me."

Uncle Bonifer frowns. "And?"

"W-Well" Father says, trying to prop himself up to see the brother of his father's wife, "y-you know how back w-when I was a kid, when S-Steve and I would spar?"

The knight smiles. "Yes, I do remember the two of you swinging those wooden sticks at each other, nephew. Didn't you almost take out each others' eyes?"

My father laughs, which quickly transitions into a hacking cough.

"W-Well" he says, "it was a lot l-like what happened with that Bolling Squire."

My uncle grimaces. "Ah, that explains it. No one likes an arrogant scion, let alone one as self-righteous and petty as that little thing."

My father chuckles, and we fall into a comfortable silence.

Eventually though, my father sighs, and looks down to the sheet covering his lower half, before turning to the Maester sitting in the corner.

"Whelp, best get it over with. How bad is it, Maester?"

I look at him quizzically.

"What?" he says with an arched brow, "there's a d-damn sheet in between my head and my legs, and shins have been b-burning like they're on fire ever since I woke up."

"Well" the Maester says, moving over to adjust the hanging, "it's not as bad as it could be. If these two had gotten you here any more slowly, we might have had to amputate entirely."

Father lets out a sigh of relief at that.

"But…" he says, grimacing, "unfortunately, we weren't able to completely reconstruct the shin when setting it."

Father's face, normally so full of joy and life, goes flat. "Just tell me p-plainly."

The Maester pulls back the sheet, and the three of us gasp.

It's not utterly pulverized, not like I'd thought, but it's noticeably broken and healed unevenly, making his left leg a few inches shorter than the right.

Father shudders, seemingly transfixed by the sight of his own ruined legs. "Will… will I…"

"Yes" the Maester says, "you'll be able to walk, but not well. You'll most likely be relying on a cane for the rest of your life, and you shouldn't go faster than a hobble for your own safety."

He grits his teeth. "I…"

My eyes dart to Ash and Erryn, but they look just as lost as I am.

I can see his hands turning white as the grip into the wood of the cot.

"Father…" Erryn says.

All at once, the tension seems to leave his body, and he flops back down onto the straw mattress from where he's been holding his torso up. "Just… j-just… fuck. My w-whole life…"

Erryn, ever the empath, steps up and wraps him in a hug. "No. your life is not just fighting, not anymore. that may be how you won your keep, but it's not how you've kept it. Your life is us now, your family. Me and Ash and Durran and Bella, mother and little Garin."

"Gods" he sobs, not once having looked away from his legs. "W-What's Jyn going to think of this? Who in t-the hells wants a cripple for a husband?"

"No" Erryn says forcefully, grabbing Father's head and yanking his gaze off his injuries. "She loves you, father. You know mother; you could have been the Warrior himself, and it wouldn't matter one bit to her."

"He's right, Bran" Great-Uncle Bonifer says, laying a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "You're not defined by your hammer, for all it's on your coat of arms. You are not just a fighter, but a father, a husband, a lord, a ruling knight… and above all those things, an upright and noble man. Losing one does not diminish the others."

My father closes his eyes, seemingly deaf to his Uncle's words.

"Bran." he says sternly, "do you think Jynessa would want you to brood like this? What did Galladon and I teach you? If life knocks your down…"

That seems to get through to him, despite his normal reluctance to talk about his departed father. He lets out something between a chuckle and a sob. "…get back up, and punch life right in its smug face. "

Ash raises an eyebrow. "Oh? I didn't see you getting up much, Uncle, when Ser Barristan knocked you flat on your ass like an unruly squire."

We all break down into laughter at that, the stress of the day overcoming us.

Eventually though, the brief respite dies down, and my father is still left brooding, looking at his shattered body. "I… I suppose all of you have a p-point. This is just one more obstacle to overcome."

I lay a hand on his shoulder in support, and see Ashara lean in to wrap him in a hug.

He sighs. "I just… Thank you, a-all of you. Could y-you just give me some t-time to come to terms with this?"

"Of course" Erryn assures him, quickly echoed by us at his prompting.

"So…" he says, looking between the three of us, "let's move onto s-something… well, something happier, I s-suppose. Tell me Uncle, how d-did my kids do in the tourney!"

We all laugh at that, wrapping him in warm hugs, and begin to regale him with our tales of strength and heroism.

And though the minutes pass, full of laughs and congratulations, I still worry. There's a seed of loss behind his eyes, a seed of anguish, one I can only hope does not flower into a poisonous fruit.

~~~

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), I don't have much time to contemplate my father's condition, as Ash's next fight is scheduled for an hour later.

We leave father, promising to give him every detail when we come back, and split off when we reach the field.

I try to immerse myself in the atmosphere, try to take my mind off my father's empty expression when he first beheld his mangled legs, to only partial success.

It's been eight days since her… ill-advised fight with the Lannister heir, and four since she beat young Marq Coldwater in a farce that could barely be called a match. So needless to say, I'm eager to see her in a normal fight, for once.

Unluckily, it doesn't look like I'm going to get my wish.

"Announcing… Lord Euron Greyjoy, the Son of the Sea Wind, second in line to the Seastone Throne, son of Lord Paramount Quellon Greyjoy, who is Lord Reaper of Pyke, Lord of Great Wyk, Old Wyk, Harlaw, Saltcliffe, Blacktyde, and Orkmont, King of Salt and Rock, and Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands! "

"And his opponent, Lady Ashara Blackmoth, daughter of Ser Brandyn Blackmoth, Knight of Lovecraft Village!"

I have to suppress a laugh at the disparity in titles, until it abruptly dies upon seeing my sister's opponent.

The man now unhurriedly strolling to meet my sister isn't anything impressive at first glance, looking like just another one of the hundreds of sell-swords come to test their luck at the Tourney. He's not even wearing proper armor, clad in the studded leather brigadine common to sell-sails and pirates across the world, no Greyjoy kraken in sight.

But despite all this, despite his supreme averageness, there is something deeply, deeply wrong with Euron Greyjoy. I can feel it through the force, and judging by the way they fall silent, some hidden subconscious corner of the crowd's hind-brains can as well.

I might not know many of the more esoteric skills Ash or Erryn have cultivated, but I've made sure to become quite skilled with aura-reading to give me an advantage when playing politics.

His aura is radiant, shining brighter than any I've seen outside Ashara, but twisted. No, not twisted, because "twisted" implies that the thing was at one point straight.

Euron Greyjoy is just… built wrong.

It's like someone reached into his mother's womb with a scraper hollowing out all the parts of a man that makes him a man. Not just the joy and love, but even the baser emotions, all the pain and rage and hate and pride, leaving nothing behind but an empty, all-consuming lack; and then out of that lack sculpted a facsimile of all the complicated mechanisms of the soul.

I wouldn't even call it greed, because avarice at least has some connection to other emotions. You want a weapon in order to feel secure, you want a beautiful woman in order to satiate your lust, you want a king's feast in order to satisfy your hunger.

I don't think the Crow's Eye even knows why he wants things… he just simply wants.

He wants money, he wants power, he wants women, he wants everything, not for any particular reason, but just because that's what he does. Like how a wolf searches out for meat, or maggots buzz to corpses, the Crow's Eye hungers.

He doesn't want them for anything, or even just to hold and admire and stroke his ego; I suspect he'd chase after the last leg of chicken on the table just as single-mindedly as he would a chest of Valyrian Steel. No, for him, it's a law of existence, as simple as gravity: he lacks something, so he must have it.

Man or woman, bird or beast, rusty iron nail or Blackfyre, it must- no, it will be his. Doesn't matter if it's the broken spindle of the widow down the road, or the treasure hoard from some ancient Sothyori Empire, he wants it all the same.

I don't even think he's capable of comprehending a world in which there's something he does not want, no more than a lion can comprehend a world in which it doesn't hunt lambs. I'm certain the only reason he's not slaughtering every man, woman, and child here for their meager possessions is patience.

I wouldn't even call him evil. After all, would you call a boar evil for goring a man with its tusks? A storm evil for demolishing a village? You're not a victim, no more than a mound of dirt is the victim of a battle in which it's kicked over.

He smiles, and while a blinder man might call it charming, it is one of the most terrifyingly empty things I have ever seen.

"Lady Blackmoth. I've heard much about you.".

Ash's shoulders are tight, ready to spring forward, like me not for one minute fooled by his genial facade.

"Thank you, my lord. I have heard many things about you as well."

He laughs, actually laughs at that. "Only good things, I hope?"

"…if you'd like."

Surprisingly, he speaks in a crystal-sharp Kings Landing noble accent, much different from the high, nasal tones of the Ironborn bandits we encountered on the way here. It wouldn't be out of place at the finest, most sophisticated of court functions, which makes it even more unnerving coming out of the mouth of an axe-wielding pirate.

He's standing up straight now, letting the handles of his axes dangle freely from his grip, looking out at my sister with supreme confidence.

He's still just standing there, hands not even on his axes, radiating nothing but confidence in his ability to emerge from this battle unharmed.

The bell rings, then, sending them rushing at each other,

There's a swing, a block, a clang, and any hope I have of a quick fight is dashed.

I grip the wooden palisade in front of me worriedly. For as long as I've known her, Ash has always had an almost preternatural awareness of herself and everything around her. Fighting her is like fighting a smarter version of yourself, it feels like she knows every move you're going to make before even you do.

That's one of the reasons it's so hard to actually beat her: even if you have the speed to match hers, it won't matter when she's already at the place you were swiping towards.

But here, with the Crow's Eye… there's none of that.

Oh, she's still one of the fastest people I've ever seen, don't get me wrong, but that supernatural sense of awareness about her opponent's actions is almost entirely absent.

Or no, not absent… countered? After all, it doesn't matter if you know your opponents moves in Cyvasse four in advance, if they also know yours four in advance.

Fuck, is the Crow's Eye capable of the same type of awareness as Ash? A man of his skill, his power in the Force, capable of harnessing his battle prowess solely to analysis of the enemy…

That's absolutely terrifying.

"I saw you fighting the little lion, Ashmoth… you were beautiful."

I have to suppress a laugh. Well, of all the things I thought this empty-souled barbarian would be doing, flirting is among the last of them. Although I suppose a sailor is a sailor, no matter how you dress them up. Perhaps he wants to "plunder her booty", so to speak.

Won't he be surprised once he sees what treasure she's hoarding!

Ash snorts. "I would thank you, but it would be a lie. I lost control, plain and simple, and went against everything I believe."

She frowns. "If you see that as honorable, my Lord Greyjoy, it says a great deal more about you than it does about me."

The raider just laughs. "Oh, but it was. The passion, the anger, the raw power and fury… I've sailed from Bear Island to the Arbour, and I've never seen anything like it. Indeed, you truly are a gem most rare, Ashara Blackmoth."

His eyes take on a disturbing glow, like they're lit with wildfire.

"Don't you tire of it?" he says stepping back from the fight, "hiding away, bowing and scraping to these peasants around you?"

Ash's grin becomes fixed.

Euron gives a sly smirk then. "I can see it in you, burning and boiling just as it is in me. That desire, that need for victory, for triumph, for domination over all others. The only real person in a world of things."

"You misread me, pirate, I am not your twisted ilk."

She leaps forward, starting a blazing offense I recognize from our sparring.

The Greyjoy counters it with ease, his axes a blur.

"Oh, but I don't! And 'Pirate'? You're no more a pirate than I am, my lady! You're something more, something real in this world of dream and mist and illusion."

"Of course you would say that. You are a monster, and so of others all you see if prey."

"My lady" he says with a vicious smile, "if I'm a monster… what does that make you, who seeks to best me?"

She grimaces, so swift I only catch it because of how well I know her. "I am a woman, Greyjoy, and a knight, though I have sworn no vows before the Seven. Make of that what you will."

He cackles at that. "You really think you're some sort of… noble warrior? A woman of the people, a champion of these flat little phantoms?"

"That's all that the world is, you know when you truly look. Just light, playing off the morning dew… like a mummer's shadow-play, and only we can draw back the curtain."

She growls. "Those 'phantoms', as you call them, are my family, my friends, my lovers. They have thoughts and feelings just as I do, their souls shine like ours, if not as brightly."

"Careful," he snarls, his rapid change of emotion taking me by surprise "You might insult me, comparing me to these little wretches."

"Good." my sister says, I can see feel rage and indignation billow out of her.

She moves forward, drawing deeply on the Force as the Greyjoy does the same, their strikes coming more quickly than any outside the Kingsguard. Back and forth they go for almost a minute, trading furious blows, switching between styles quicker than I can follow.

After a minute, the Greyjoy breaks the stalemate by slamming his axe into her shoulder hard enough to cripple if it were live steel, and Ash lets out a snarl of pain. "You are a plague."

He makes a dark sound, somewhere between a snarl and a chuckle. "Oh? By what measure?"

"By any." she says.

She launches into a series of attacks, the clang of sword on axe ringing out over the grounds. "I've heard your father is a moral man, how saddened he must be by you."

"Cruel, Ashara, cruel!"

She glares.

"Do not presume such familiarity."

"Why not? Should not two peers cross swords as equals?"

She snorts at that, amusement the first emotion I can feel other than caution and righteous anger. "You are more foolish than I thought, if you presume us peers."

"Oh? You cannot feel it then? How we are so much weightier than the sheep?"

She scowls. "I know not of what you speak."

He snarls, low and primal, and rushes towards her. "You know it, just as I do! So I just-"

He makes an leaping overhand swipe, yelling.

"do"

Ashara parries a slash.

"not"

An overhand slash hammers down.

"understand!"

He rights himself

"-why you seem so set on pretending it is not the case!" he growls, making a sideways slash strong enough to cave in plate.

My sister just stands there, resolute.

"I am not you, Euron Crow's Eye" she says, her soul practically radiating power.

The Greyjoy just snarls, and slashing a few more times.

"I will beat you." Ash says with a focused expression as she parries. I'm struck by how certain she sounds: not confident, but certain. It's not a threat, or even a prediction that she's issued forth… it's a fact.

He swipes at her, sharp and vicious, just like him. "Bold, Ashmoth, to make such grand assumptions.".

She parries his swipe, and they move into another exchange of blows before she responds. "'Ashmoth'? A strange name, from a strange man, but not one I find all too displeasing."

He nods. "For it is only right. Names are power in this world, and so your power needs a fitting title."

She nods. "I suppose to you that would be evidently plain, with your title set upon every pair of lips. 'Crow's Eye' they say, 'the darkest kraken'."

He gives a bloodthirsty smile. "Aye, a crow's eye I am."

She snorts, ducking under a blow to just barely miss his helmet. "I shouldn't be surprised. Of course you'd chose to grant yourself his name. A wretched raven bathed in blood, a slayer of both kin and kings."

"Hmm," he says, smiling "'wretched'? Perhaps. But while the King bled out upon the grass, his body pierced with raining shafts of ash-wood… such 'wretched' birds flew above untouched. So tell me, who was the greater man? The one that's 'evil', or the one that's 'good' and 'just'?"

I don't think I've ever seen her immerse herself this deeply into the currents of magic, into the weight of her own soul pressing on the world… I can feel her own cloak of majesty settle upon her shoulders, billowing out and giving heart to all the spectators.

She sneers at him. "'Great'? If you measure greatness so, I'm glad to be a pauper. A hero's blade is showered in fresh blood, but so too's the cultist's knife that slits his sleeping brother's throat upon an altar."

The Greyjoy's smile only widens, taking on an almost unnatural length. "And yet, the brother dies, and the man will live. For all your King did bear the sword, he fell yet to a bow. A crow's eye of a crow's eye, made an eyeing crow."

Their movements seem rhythmic now, almost as if they've choreographed a mummer's farce.

Is this what it is to see the fights of legends? When Bloodraven looked down upon the Redgrass Field, did he see dancing?

She snarls, leaping into a powerful Juyo overhand slash. "You know nothing, little worm, the one that gnaws the bones of those like me! You call yourselves a crow, a raven red, and yet vultures you and he will ever be!"

I grimace, glad that I can only hear their conversation because of the spells Ash taught me to enhance my senses, and even then have to struggle to make it out amid the clashing rings of steel. I've always known she holds some strange reverence for figures of legend, but to defend Daemon Blackfyre… Well, I can't imagine that going over well.

He gives a vicious smile. "And yet your fire's black no more… bleached white upon the Field by hungry birds to gore."

She snarls at that, blurring forward with a slash he only barely parries, sparks flying from where her greatsword clashes against his axe.

For almost five whole minutes they go back and forth like that, in absolute silence, faces fixed into masks of concentration as they draw on the Force. On the sixth minute though, and they back off by some unseen signal, panting.

The Crow's Eye eventually gets his breaths under control, and stares at Ashara from across the field.

"You know" he says, "That spot of treachery, where the noble dragon fell. Where the crows impaled him, and on him feasted well. I often wonder, how did it gain its bloody name? Which broke first upon the wheel? Was it named because of treachery? Or was it for that name chosen, by Ser Bittersteel?"

Ash's eyes narrow. "Two and three make five, no matter if the three comes first. So what does it matter, truly, if or not the curser's born before the curse?"

He looks at her intensely. "My dear, it is the only thing that matters, for you walk on-"

He wrenches his axe out of her parry, and continues. "paths already tread: don't you know the grasping hand is stricken down, the black hero's blood is shed?"

Her eyes narrow, her magic billowing.

He gives her a smug, enigmatic smirk. "A clever jape, I think, for how ill-eased you are I am not the claw that slays, nor with them am I allied. By no axe of mine their blood will spill, nor slipping tongue, nor secrets I confide. No, it's by your arrogance they'll fall, by howling, roaring pride!"

He leaps forward, and I can see why he's gotten this far. He's an excellent fighter, yes, but nothing worthy of legend. Above my level, but not so far above it that it would be impossible for me to reach in a decade.

No, what makes men falter before this great beast inside a man's skin is his aura, his soul. It pulls at the world invisibly, tugging on the grand weave of the world to make him… more.

I can't really think of another way to describe it. It's as if with his very voice he's turned life into a fable, and stripped back the curtains to show you that he is simply more: the dragon to your terrified smallfolk, but with Serwyn coming to slaughter him.

It's not majesty, not quite that sensation I can feel when Ash truly delves deep into the waters of the Force, but something much more sinister. It's as if majesty had some twisted mirror image, imparting the knowledge that you are as an ant before a hateful god, and so must tremble in awe and terror.

Even I feel wary as I gaze upon him, far away as I am, but my sister stands before him entirely unintimidated. Her own soul radiates with light, pushing his darkness back, trumpeting to the heavens a defiance of his hunger and the truth of her own majesty.

She meets his eyes with a smirk, blocking a swing of his axe with uncanny grace. "Hah! Before I called you vulture, and my judgment does not fail. But I think a squid fits all the better… a thousand grasping arms yet not one tail!"

He growls, blocking a few slashes from her with almost preternaturally well-timed parries. to counter her Ataru. "Careful now, you little moth, we wouldn't want you caught in some sort of lordly wroth."

He lunges forward then with a growl, faster than even Jaime Lannister, striking out at her head.

Ash is unsettled, I can tell that from here. She might not show it, but I can see it in the way her hands clench around the hilt of her blunted greatsword as she parries his rapid blows, the way her feet are fractions of an inch out of position when she steps to guard, the way her aura billows out with wariness, shrouding her form like a cloak against the kraken's hunger.

Her inattention costs her, and she takes gash on her upper arm from his iron axes, the first wound she's taken the entire tourney. I can practically feel the crowd suck in a breath, waiting to see if this is the moment when the moth is finally humbled.

Ash is better than that though, and she regains her initiative quickly, managing to use the superior maneuverability to her two-handed grip to lock one of his axes and wrench it across the field.

Her mantle radiates awe and majesty, and I look in wonder at her full power in the Force. For a moment, her soul shines so brightly it outstrips even the Crow's eye's, and the whole world seems to rotate around her, the only giant in a world of paper ants. Even the mad kraken cannot triumph in the face of her majesty.

Greyjoy, though, seems entirely unintimidated. In fact, he seems nearly delirious with hunger at the sheer presence my sister exudes.

"Yes! That power which will shake the world, that sword which slays the beast! I'll eat your soul then, hero moth"

"And so now,"

He leaps forward then with a mad roar, wildly swinging with his axes as his eyes alight with rampant greed, faster than I've ever seen outside of my sister or Arthur Dayne.

"Let mE fEaS̴͗Ţ̵!"

I shake in fright at his power as he leaps forward, but still my sister stands strong, a light unwavering against his darkness.

Enough. she says, the syllable ringing out like a clear bell, purifying the land of his noxious presence as it spreads throughout the grounds.

She dodges, a leaf in the wind against is ferocious storm, and locks his last remaining axe away from him, throwing him to the ground and holding the blade of her greatsword to his throat.

"Yield." she says, determination shining from every syllable.

The Crow's Eye looks at her then, eyes wild, whatever facsimiles of emotions he has churning in the Force.

"No! I am the one that wins this!" he shouts, struggling against her Force-enhanced strength.

Finally, after a minute or so of bucking and writhing, he stills, all the fight seeming to go out of him.

"I yield." he eventually says, growling.

Ash gets up slowly, blunt blade still aiming at his neck, and backs away.

Once she's out of striking range, she lowers her blade, and he leaps to his feet with a snarl. For a moment I tense, thinking he's going to go back on the attack, but he begins to calm down though, visibly tamping down on his emotions, a truly ugly sneer breaking out on his face.

"You may have won today, pig, but you will not outrun me for long. I have seen it."

"No man sees all ends." Ash says with a steely voice, her aura fading as she stops drawing so deeply on her magic. "Least of all you, with just one eye."

Euron just gives her another terrifying scowl, his whole face twisted with rage like a twisted clay bust, stomping off.

His 'squire' runs up to him, a young boy dressed in the nine-headed serpent of house Saltcliffe. "M-Milord! A-Allow me to-"

Euron snarls, slashing out with his hand-axe and almost taking out the boy's eye. "Fuck off! Away with you, worm! Useless snake-fucking son of a whore…."

"M-Milord! P-Please a-a-allow me t-" The squire says.

"I said fuck off![/glow]" Euron roars, slamming his blade down into the young man's foot.

The squire screams as he topples, the crowd going silent at the display of brutality.

"[glow=#FF0000]You hear that, Ashmoth?[/glow]" he screams, voice half-feral, "[glow=#FF0000]I'm going to fucking kill you! I'm going to find that bitch father of yours and nail his split cock to his own forehead! I'll take your whore mother and shove her own legs up her cunt so far they burst through her throat! I'll find your little sister and rape her eye sockets bare in front of all-![/glow]"

Ash meets him then, her fist shattering his jaw as her eyes glow a sulfuric yellow with rage.

"Leave, now." She says, hate palpably wafting off her, "before I do something I'll regret and slit that wretched little throat of yours."

Euron just growls, pushing away her sword and righting himself, stomping off into the barracks.

I flop down onto my seat after he stomps out, the wind taken out of me.

The absolute power of the two combatants I just witnessed crashes over me, and I begin to shake in terror.

Gods. What kind of monster is Euron Greyjoy?

And what does it say about my sister that she can oppose him?



~~~

NOTE: And behold, your very own young senator from Naboo… Euron Greyjoy! Look what happens when you give a sociopath access to the Dark Side of the Force!

I know he may seem a bit out of character here, especially at the end, but please withhold your judgment until the next chapter comes out. His personality and seemingly out-of-character actions will be explained there.

Euron is scary for the same reasons Palpatine is scary: whereas most darksiders fuel the force with their negative emotions (hate, rage, anger, sadism, etc.), Palpatine and Euron don't even have those emotions, at least not in the conventional way. Just a single-minded existence consisting of possessing everything, and destroying anything he can't possess, like a twisted reflection of the ideal Jedi state of Zen calmness and passionless willpower.

If you stopped to ask Palpatine why he was becoming Emperor, knowing that he could easily live a life of wealth and luxury using his powers and Sith assets, he literally wouldn't be able to even understand the question.

It would be like asking a normal person "hey, why do you like to eat tasty things?" The answer is "because they're tasty", it's just a self-evident fact. That's what being 'tasty' means. Sure, you can imagine a world where you live off nothing but flavorless oatmeal and gruel, but it would be a form of torture.

"Sha Naqba Imuru" or "Sha Nagba Imuru" is the first line of the Epic of Gilgamesh, the oldest written story in existence, and means "He Who Saw the Deep" in Sumerian. Fitting for Euron, I think.

For reference, Euron is not the only fighter capable of high-level Force precog on Ash's level, she'll be matched by the very top-teir fighters like Barristan and Arthur Dayne. It's just that Durran hasn't seen either of the fighting yet, so Euron is his only example.[/COLOR]

 

[PrognosticHannya]

"Sandor… I'd like for you to come to the feast with me."

"Fuck off." A door slams in my face.

Well, I suppose I should have expected that.

---

"Erryn, do you want to come to the feast with me?"

"Oh… will there be people there?"

Definitely should have expected that.

---

Thankfully, Durran proves much more receptive to my invitation, and is practically walking on air by the time we reach the entrance of one of this cursed castle's many large halls.

I have to hold back a shudder as I feel its presence press down around me, and once again I question why anyone would choose to voluntarily live in this cursed hellhole.

Durran shoots me a look out of the side of his eye, and I shake my head. Shit, he can probably feel this too, can't he?

Thankfully, the man Durran wants to see isn't to far in the hall, muting the worst of the effects.

"Lord Robert!" I exclaim happily, walking up to the large man, "excellent to see you once more!"

The large, large man turns to me, and once again I marvel at just how potent the blood of Durran Godsgrief is, to carry on this almost giant-like size throughout hundreds of generations. Gods, he must be almost seven feet, with shoulders three feet across… If the Mountain that Rides wasn't eight and a half, I'd call him the tallest man I'd ever seen.

Spoiler: Big Bobby B.

Spoiler: Ignore Tattoos

Spoiler: Robert and Ned

"There she is!" he exclaims merrily, lifting his mug filled with ale, "the woman of the hour!"

I just smile. "Ah, I wouldn't say that…"

"Don't lie, man!" he says with a laugh, "they're practically cheering your name in there!"

I raise an eyebrow. "I thought you were aware I'm not a man, Robert. Or do I need to re-assess some rumors about you and Prince Oberyn?"

Robert gives me a glare. "Calling me a sword-swallower, eh? Is that how you speak to your Lord Paramount?"

Durran chokes, and I roll my eyes theatrically. "Well, unless I'm a Faceless Man, it certainly seems to be."

He stares me then, gaze intent, and I meet his eyes unflinchingly.

A second later, we both break, and burst out into laughter.

"Hah!" Robert says, slapping me on the back, "I knew you were the good sort, Lady Blackmoth."

"Please" I say with my most charming smile, "call me 'Ash'."

"Well then Ash!" he says with a smile, "I suppose you can call me Robert then!"

"I think I prefer 'Bobby'."

He lets out a loud, bellowing laugh at that, and I smile.

"Oh, right!" he says, slapping his forehead, "let me introduce you! Ash, this is Ned. Ned, Ash."

I look at the man standing next to Robert, quiet enough to pass beneath my notice if it wasn't for his shining Force presence.

I hum, and extend my hand in a traditionally masculine greeting.

"Greetings, Lord Ned. I am Lady Ashara of House Blackmoth, and this is my brother Durran."

Durran bows to the both of them. "It is a true pleasure, my lords."

'Ned' nods, and grasps my hand back. "It is also a pleasure, my lady" he says with a quiet tone. "Lord Eddard Stark, at your service."

I practically choke on my laughter as Durran turns white. Leave it to Robert Baratheon to introduce the second in line to a Kingdom with the same gravitas as some smallfolk at a tavern drinking companion.

"Robert," I say with a nod, "I believe you haven't met my brother yet?"

The giant of a man turns to look at Durran then. I have to hide a smirk. If Robert expected my brother to be intimidated by his size, he's in for a grave disappointment. He grew up with me as an older sister, and all my six feet and four inches.

Robert apparently finds whatever he's looking for, and smiles, slapping Durran on the back. "Well met, Master Durran!"

Durran smiles shakily, still nervous about pissing off a man who could probably draw a sword and execute him right now with no consequences.

"I saw you in the fifth melee," the Stag Lord says with a smile, "you're a good fighter, man! I can always appreciate a man who knows his way around a hammer!"

I grin. "Remember the rumors, Robert…"

He guffaws at that, and I can think I even see Lord Eddard crack a smile.

"Anyways" I say, slapping Robert on the shoulder, "I just wanted to introduce Durran here. He's the heir, after all, so it'll be good for him to know his liege Lord."

Robert chuckled. "Lord Othell's not attending, if I recall correctly."

I let out a theatrical groan. "Don't even make me start. Gods, you'd think that man would rather shove a whole gauntlet up his ass than acknowledge he's my cousin."

Robert laughs, even as Durran blanches. "Well," the large man says with what even I have to admit is a roguishly charming smile, "I, for one, am glad to recognize you as a kin, Lady Ash. Second Cousin, you said, through Laena the Wh- the Lewd?"

I roll my eyes. "You can call her 'whore', Robert, it's what she was."

He laughs again, and I say my goodbyes, leaving my brother to make a good impression on our liege.

"So, you said you're the heir? Doesn't Lady Ash have a twin brother?"

---

Unfortunately, my next encounter is far less pleasant that that.

"Lord Lannister!" I say through gritted teeth, "how excellent it is to see you this night!"

"Lady Blackmoth" he says coldly, eyes like flecks of matte jade, "I congratulate you on your victory over my son."

"Thank you" I say, and I can't help the pleased smirk that comes to my face.

Unfortunately, Durran's words ring in my ears, and I my smirk turns to a grimace.

"He… he was a noble fighter, a worthy testament to the greatness of your house."

If anything, his frown gets more severe at that.

"Speaking of that" I say with gritted teeth, "I'm afraid I must…"—and oh how it burns to spit this out—"apologize for my rash words."

His expression doesn't change.

"I'm afraid I was rather… overwrought by worry for my father, and so jumped to conclusions, slandering the name of a great and storied noble house."

"I see." he says flatly, eyes boring into mine.

"It was…" I choke back bile, "my womanly passions that spirited my sense away. You know how us ladies are, Lord Lannister."

His frown deepens. "No, I'm afraid I don't. My wife was an eminently rational person, not some simpering fool"

A crack rings out in the silence that surrounds us, and I realize that my fingers have snapped the stem of my steel fork in half.

"Indeed" I say, practically hissing the word. "Please accept my deepest regrets, and know that I hold your house in the deepest possible respect, and stare in awe every day at all the work you do to encourage the Seven Kingdoms to prosper."

Everyone knows he practically runs the seven kingdoms, and constantly feuds with the King, so not-quite-outright referencing that fact while skirting the limits of treason should help stroke his ego.

He stares me down at that, seeming to search my eyes for some unknowable quality.

He gives a brief scowl, apparently not liking what he's found, and I have to restrain the urge to throttle the pompous prick. "Very well" he says with a disdainful sniff, and he turns away.

Slowly, my hands unclench, and my breathing relaxes.

I sigh. Well… I suppose that's about the best I could hope for from the vengeful lion.

---

"My lady, may I have this dance?"

"Of c-…" I turn around to face the noble who's tapped my shoulder, only to stop.

"Course… Lord Euron."

Truthfully, my inability to pick up on him with my passive Force senses should have been a clue.

"Well?" he says, giving me a roguish grin. "Can't a man ask to dance with the woman who put him in the ground?"

If I wasn't more composed I'd be gaping in shock. There's absolutely no trace of the man of yesterday in his tone, no trace of his madness, his mysteriousness, or even his rage at losing. Only a calm, witty, charming second son, eager to prove himself in a world hostile to his people.

That alone would not be absurd—there are plenty of Lords far more skilled at mummery, after all—but the squid actually means it. I can feel him through the Force, his cloaking is not yet strong enough to hide from me… and he honestly feels no rage right now, no hatred, no ill will. It's as if yesterday's battle hadn't even happened.

Durran spoke to me of him not having true emotions, only facsimiles of them… but truly I don't think I understood until now. Here is a man that absolutely humiliated himself in front of me, a man who I beat completely and utterly… and his rage is nowhere to be found, nonexistent in the face of his overwhelming nature.

Does he imagine this is just some setback? That he will won day win, one day have me in whatever way he desires, that today was just some fluke?

No… no, I think this is more than that. No man so easily takes upset to their view of the world, especially not as drastically as he has… I would bet all the gold in Lovecraft's petty coffers that's he's rationalized away his own failure, his rage swept back up in the clockwork mechanisms of his greedy mind.

As the music starts up, the Crow's Eye sweeps me onto the floor.

"I must apologize" he says with a charming smile, "I'm afraid I rather lost my temper yesterday."

I raise a single eyebrow, giving him a flat look.

He chuckles. "Fair, fair. I must say, I was quite uncivilized there. Did you know my squire was the heir of House Saltcliffe? One of my father's chief vassals."

"I did not" I say flatly. I reach out in the Force to try to determine his intentions, but it's like I'm feeling out an iron wall.

"Oh yes" he says with a chuckle, "Lord Mervyn was quite upset when I cut off his heir's foot, I must say. He forced my father to exile me to Essos!"

"So what?" I say with a raised brow, "you're here to tell me you're some… what, some misunderstood Oberyn Martell?

"Heavens no. I doubt you'd be felled by poison, my Lady." He shoots me what even I can admit is a charming smile, which I can only tell is hollow through the Force.

I raise a brow. "I wasn't aware we were still competing."

He gives what seems like an honest laugh at that, and I feel the barest flicker of something that could be called amusement bloom in the depths of his blackened soul.

"Of course we are, my lady. Two such as us, two predators among these seas of fishes… well, could we ever not conflict? If you put two dogs in a cage with only one leg of lamb…"

"That's a rather… odd metaphor" I say. "'Two such as us'? Whatever could you mean?"

He just gives me a knowing smile. "Oh, don't play coy, little Ashmoth. You and I both know exactly what I speak of. We're the chosen ones, the ones that hear the song of the world."

He gives a vicious smile. "The ones who've peeled back the curtains of the world and see it as it truly is."

My hand tightens around his, and for a moment, I'm tempted to slit his throat right here.

"…you speak of the Force."

"Oh, 'the Force'? I suppose so. But Song, Force, whatever it is… you know it just as well as I. I hear the Song, you feel this 'Force'… it's the same, in the end."

I give him a hard look, hands tense even as he smirks. "…why do you speak of such things?"

His smile only widens. "Why, two sharks such as us, swimming in the same sea… well, I just wanted to avoid any misunderstandings."

I cock an eyebrow, voice flat. "…misunderstandings."

"Of course!" he says jovially. "I just wanted to assure you: I won't be seeking revenge against you, or anything of the sort! Won't be… I don't know, sailing to your keep and boiling your family alive in oil, or whatever fun things I'm sure you're thinking of."

My look gets even flatter. "What."

His look grows distant. "Well, before our final battle, at least. All bets are off then! But that's decades away, near the very end of our stories, and I wanted to make sure my rival didn't cripple herself out of some foolish sentiment!"

Somehow, I manage to find a new level of disbelief, eclipsing even the famed Red Wastes of Qarth in sheer dry flatness.

He gives a charming grin, "It wouldn't be sporting, you see!"

I snort, despite myself.

His smiles only grows wider at my lapse in composure, practically shark-like at this point. "We're opposites, you see. It wouldn't be fitting to fight you yet."

I raise an eyebrow, hands tight. "I didn't realize you had such honor, Lord Euron."

He cackles at that. "Oh no, we both know that's not true. No, we're both aware of what I want from you… and what use is shearing a sheep when its hair is only fuzz? What use is there to make a great sacrifice when the stars do not align?"

I hum in curiosity despite myself. Whatever else he may be, this is a man who's gazed more deeply into the esoteric faces of the Force than almost anyone on this continent. Perhaps deeper than even I.

"And was is it that you want from me?"

He smiles. "Why, the same thing you want from me! A legend! A grand sacrifice, on the altar of my own tale! My light mirror, forever stained dark!"

I give him an inscrutable look.

He smiles "We're the two main characters in a mummer's farce, you and I, and our conflict will be the final act. The crescendo in The Song, my darkness against your light."

I raise an eyebrow. Strangely enough, from everything I can feel through the Force he's telling the truth. "'Light mirror'? You have a rather high opinion of yourself, Lord Euron, to see yourself as my equal."

He just gives me a taunting smile. "Do I? There are plenty of tales to eat before yours, my lovely Ashmoth, plenty more indeed. Plenty of room to match your growth."

My brow arches further, and I lean in with the next swell in music. "I must say, I've read quite a bit about magic, and I've never heard of any sort of… essence absorption. Are you sure you weren't scammed by some Qartheen conman?"

I can't help the taunting tone in my voice, despite knowing what a foolish idea it is to poke the pride of another sorcerer.

He chuckles. "No ritual, little moth. Just… well, like I said. We're two characters in a mummer's farce, and I'm the villain. My legend grows with every hero I defeat. Yours as well, as you strike down monsters. For with every bear or shadowcat he cut down, did not Serwyn grow ever-closer to slaying his dragon?"

I raise both my brows. He's… he's not wrong. When two beings such as us clash… well, it only imprints our legends further onto the world. Although I doubt he thinks of it just like that.

"Perhaps" I eventually concede with a nod of my head, the most I'm willing to give him.

He smiles, obviously reading my conclusions from my face (and possibly my aura, if he knows spells similar to the ones Nadros taught me).

"So" I say, changing the subject, "am I just supposed to accept your good word then? Your sense of fairness?"

"Hm? What do you mean?"

I tighten my grip around his hand, voice turning chilly. "After all, it would be rather… ah, 'fitting', as you say… the villain to kill the hero's family, and the hero swearing eternal vengeance… I've heard that's a motif you Ironborn rather like, I've heard."

He laughs then, making my grip only tighten. "Heavens no! No, I think we both know each other too well for you to trust my generous nature."

He says the last words with an actual sneer, practically twisting his face with the sheer disdain he holds for the very concept of charity.

"I barely know you at all, Ser."

He just raises an eyebrow, mimicking me. "And yet here we stand, bantering like an old married couple. It's not what I meant when I said 'other half', but I suppose it fits well enough."

I scowl. "You never answered my question. How do I know you won't slaughter my whole family the minute you leave this place, content to have me for yourself as some salt-bride?"

He chuckles. "Oh, you wish my interest was something so mundane, so banal as sex. No, as I said, we both know what we are to each other."

And as strange as it sounds… Now that I look, truly look, I can understand what he's talking about with this "dark mirror" business. Two vortexes in the Force we are, fate swirling and coiling around us, and even now I can hear the echoes of our final battle, our monumental clash.

"Besides" he says, raising a brow to mimic me again, "we are reflections. Our images must match."

He gives me a serious look, the transition from smug self-satisfaction to coldness so rapid it would put King Aerys to shame. "The scales must be balanced."

He continues. "If I took your family from you, you would have to take something of equal worth than me. And I hold no love for my family, and have no true friends. You could shower me in their guts and offal and I'd just complain about the smell!"

He honestly chuckles as that, switching back to levity with nary a thought. Strangely enough, I find myself relaxing despite, or perhaps because of his supremely unbothered tone when discussing the brutal dismemberment of his family. I appreciate his candor: we both know he's an empty monster, so it doesn't do either of us any good to pretend otherwise.

"No", he says, "only by killing me could you even the scales, as Fate would demand, and that would just unbalance them anew! No, our story cannot end like that, will not. Not even the lowliest knight's lady would use a mirror that warped and twisted. The Song goes on, ever as it must."

Despite all sense… I believe him. I can feel how the Force swirls around us even now, twin vortexes, the echoes of our future clash ringing our even this far from it, steel and screams.

I can believe wholeheartedly that he would do nothing to jeopardize that, can do nothing. The symbolic and metaphysical power he would hold in that moment, standing over my broken body, the stainless mirror cracked… it would be beyond even the gods to imagine.

Despite my good sense telling me not to, I match Euron's vicious smile. I always have wanted to be Serwyn…

Heh. Perhaps he's right: we truly do mirror each other, if this type of ambition boils within him as well.

The song winds down then, and he separates from me with a nod. "Well, it's been interesting, Ashmoth. I'll be seeing you."

"Not for a while, I hope." I say with a raised brow.

"Who knows!" the Greyjoy says with a cheerful shrug. "How many times does the hero fight the villain before the final climax?! Mayhaps we'll clash between you skinning lions!"

I snort despite myself, shaking my head. I have to say, even after all the things he's said, I can't find it in to myself to truly despise Euron.

Perhaps it's because we're so similar? Two users of the Force, the most powerful in our generation, great figures and Heroes who the world swirls around…

As strange as it sounds, I actually do trust him to hold his word. Not because I imagine him to be honorable, the Force knows he isn't, but because… well, I can feel it, just as well as he can.

We truly are two sides of the same coin, his darkness to face my light. And one day we will meet, and our clash will be legendary.

A "battle to end all battles" indeed…

---

AN: Yes, Ashara is taking Euron far too lightly, and perceives him very differently than Durran does because of that. Durran's chapter is a far more accurate representation of him and his threat level. He is being honest though, he won't go after any of Ash's family or friends, she can tell that much at least.

Euron is a legitimate psychopath, and one of the scariest motherfuckers in Westeros, even as a teenager like he is here. Despite her reality check, Ash is still arrogant as sin, and not really ready to understand that there could be someone near to her in power. Notice how all her responses are some variation of "you're overestimating your own strength".

She assigns him a more "normal" psyche and motivations than Durran does, because she subconsciously identifies herself with him in some way.

 

[Qro]

Amazing chapter as always, although I can judge only as a person that has 0 ASOIAF knowledge.
Thank your for posting this, it was a pleasure to read!

 

[PrognosticHannya]

Amazing chapter as always, although I can judge only as a person that has 0 ASOIAF knowledge.
Thank your for posting this, it was a pleasure to read!

Click to shrink...

Thank you! I was worried people without the background knowledge wouldn't be able to follow it. Tell me, how much background research did you have to do to understand what was happening?

 

[Qro]

Thank you! I was worried people without the background knowledge wouldn't be able to follow it. Tell me, how much background research did you have to do to understand what was happening?

Click to shrink...

Eh... Just a bit. I think you can enjoy the fic even without background knowledge.

 

[PrognosticHannya]

The feast drags on for what seems like hours, forcing me to introduce myself to a thousand obsequious nobles who couldn't sense their way out of a silken purse, petty ambitions boiling at the fronts of their insignificant little minds.

Thankfully, a distraction soon comes, although not in the form I'd expect.

This is… why, this is positively charming! I can feel a presence behind me in the force, not seeking some alliance, but one practically vibrating with joy.

I raise my eyebrow as I turn around. Lyanna Stark? The daughter of a lord paramount? After I swear to Durran and Father to be more mindful of the political consequences of my actions?

Truly, I must be cursed.

Nevertheless, the girl's approaching me, and so I give her one of my most stunning smiles.

"Um… Lady Ashara?"

"Yes?" I ask, turning around and giving her them one of my most stunning smiles, "that's me."

"Um…" the Stark girl says, eyes wide as she tries to control her blush, "I, u-uh…"

"Yes?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow elegantly. She just flushes redder.

"U-Um" she says, "I just… I j-just wanted to say that I really lik- I-I mean I lov- n-no I mean I admire you… A lot…"

She trails off near the end of his statement, seemingly mortified at her own lack of eloquence.

"U-Um… I was wondering if you had any… tips?"

I give her another smile, wrapping arms around her shoulders. "Don't be nervous, now!" I say, with a dazzling smile, "I admire your courage to come up here and talk to me!"

"R-Really?" the Stark girl asks, eyes shining with hope.

"Yes…" I lean down, drawing my face close to hers, and tap her on the nose "really."

I straighten back up. "You're just too cute! C'mere, what advice did you want?"

"It, um… kind of…"

"Personal?" I say, an understanding look on my face.

She nods. "Um… well… a-are you betrothed, my lady?"

Oho, what's this? Durran told me to be more careful around the high nobles… but if they come to me?

I cock a brow, making my smirk something altogether more sultry.

"Well now" I say, leaning in to give the young brunette a view down my dress, "isn't that a question…"

She flushes, trying in vain to force her eyes away from my chest. "U-Um… W-Why?"

"Well", I smile, showing a hint of my teeth.

The young Stark girl gulps.

"It's rather… forward, isn't it? It might give a girl ideas." My mouth practically curls around the last word, and I run a thumb over the back of her hand.

The young Stark's eyes go wide, and she lets out an absolutely adorable squeak. "NOOHNIDIDN'TMEANLIKETHAT!"

…What.

I pull back, eyes furrowed. "…I'm sorry? Whatever did you mean then?"

Her face is brighter than an apple, her eyes wide as she waves her arms. "T-That's n-not to s-say u-um- I m-mean u-uh- t-that is-uh- I mean not that-you're very b-b-eautiful and northerners don't- I m-mean I d-don't p-"

As I listen to her adorable stuttering and blushing, I can't help but smile. "Woah there little wolf!"

Her mouth snaps shut, steam practically billowing out of her ears.

I chuckle. "Let's take a step back there for a minute."

She just nods, mute.

"So, since you obviously weren't trying to… proposition me"—and I give a sultry smirk with that, sending her into another blushing fit—"what exactly were you meaning to ask?"

"U-Um…" she says, eyes flicking between my face and the smooth, creamy skin of my exposed collarbone, "I w-was… u-um… Ishouldgothankyoubye"

I laugh, grabbing a hold of her hand. "Relax, little wolf! I'm not going to bite."

She meeps at that, and I break out laughing.

"Sorry, sorry, but you're just too easy to rile!"

After a minute or so, my laughing fit has ended, and I lean back with a sigh. "Alright… sorry about that. But truly, you must get a better hold of your emotions, if you're going to play the great game. But truly, calm yourself, I have no intentions other than conversation."

She nods, looking incredibly relieved. "Oh, thank… t-thank the old gods. I thought you were really… by the gods I must have looked so foolish!"

"Oh" I say, raising my brows, "I honestly did think you were trying to seduce me, I'd take you to bed in a heartbeat, cute little wolf"

"Regardless" I cut her off before her blushing and stuttering can start up again, "that turned out to be a miscommunication. So truly, what question did you want to ask. Hoping to secure my hand for one of your brothers?"

She actually growls at that, eyes narrowing into a glare. "You stay away from Bran and Ned!"

I laugh. "Peace, Lady Lyanna, I merely jest. Is it one of your bannermen then? I'm afraid I'll have to decline."

Her brow scrunches up, fire coming back to her voice. "No! I wanted to ask how you can just do that!"

I raise an eyebrow.

"I mean…" she huffs "how can just… not get betrothed! Go on being a knight!"

I sigh. "Oh, little wolf… I suppose you're being betrothed to a man you don't much like?"

She nods, after glancing around to see that no one's listening. "He's just… I'm six and ten, so I know it's time for me… but he's a whoremonger! And a brute! And he wants me to have a dozen kids!"

I lean back, face pensive. This… this is tricky.

After a minute or so of contemplation, Lady Lyanna makes to interrupt me, but I raise a hand.

"I would… I would be careful, my lady. Do not let your passions overtake you. "

She glowers at me, but I silence her again with a raised hand.

"I am not saying that you must love him, whoever he is, only that you must marry him."

"Well then why aren't you doing the same thing! Why do you get to be a knight!"

I laugh. "I am a mere knight's daughter, with nothing to my name. I have no prospects, a half-Dornish daughter of a bastard knight, ruling over a tiny village no one's ever heard of."

I laugh "Truthfully, my likely fate would be to wed some prosperous merchant, and work the rest of my days. A knight's son, if I'm lucky. But you… you're the daughter of a Lord Paramount. a Line of Kings"

I give her a significant look.

"You nobles live in luxury and security unimaginable to the rest of us, and in exchange, the gods ask that you protect your subjects, rule justly, and marry for political benefit."

I stare her in the eyes. "You may see only a cold bed and unloving relationship, but tell me: would you rather be working the fields? Would you rather be working the bar of an inn, groped by every passing hedge knight with a few coins to spare? Would you rather be starving in the winter you Northerners so fear?"

"I… No. No, I would not."

"Well the, you have to marry an unloving husband."

I shrug. "Truly, even then, it need not be so bad. If your Lord Husband is a good man, there need not be any love between you to have a happy household. You need merely be friends, and agree to keep lovers on the side."

She chokes at that, eyes going wide. "W-What! Are you… are you telling me to be unfaithful!"

I roll my eyes. "Your marriage is a political contract, why treat it as if it's some sort of heaven-blessed union? It's not openly trumpeted, but I'd bet you all the meager gold my family has that half the lords here tonight have favorites at their local brothel."

I shrug. "As long as no children come of the union, there should be no problem."

"How…" she looks at me tentatively "how would one assure that? That no… that no children come of such a union?"

"Moon tea." I say, "you've heard of it?"

She nods.

"Plan your childrens' conception with your husband, and sleep with none but him while you use it… and then on it, have your lover take you any way you wish."

"Also" I say with a smirk "even off moon tea, there are… other ways to get pleasure. Have you ever heard of the Lord's Kiss?"

She blushes brightly, but nods.

I lean forward, running a finger up her arm. "But truly, the easiest way to avoid any accidents…"

I'm practically purring in her ear at this point "…is to have a lover who can't give you them in the first place."

I breathe into the shell of her ear. "Tell me… have you ever been… tempted? I assure you, there's nothing sinful in seeking another woman's touch…"

She practically leaps up at that, banging her shin on the table. "UHHHHIHAVETOGOSORRYBYE"

I cackle as she runs off, face red.

~~~

As I move through the crowds, still chuckling to myself after the Stark girl ran off, I'm approached by a pair of dark-skinned figures.

Oh? What's this?

The woman, dressed in finest silks, smiles, extending a hand in greeting.

"Princess Elia, Prince Oberyn" I say, bowing over her hand, it is a true pleasure to meet you both.

She gives me a courtly smile, while Oberyn just tilts his head.

"Truly" I say, laying the charm on extra thick for the beautiful dusky-skinned woman, "Prince Rhaegar must be the luckiest man in the seven kingdoms, to have one such as you in his arms. Why, I doubt the maiden herself could compare!"

Her brother smirks, at that, and I feel a brief surge of embarrassment through the Force before she suppresses it.

"Thank you, my Lady," she says with a nod, "I must say, I was rather impressed with your showing in the tourney."

"Absolutely!" her brother cuts in exuberantly, "truly, I have never seen another spar as you do! I must ask, what style is it that you use?"

I give him a smile. "Oh, a little of this, a little of that. A few obscure Essosi styles from my mother's family."

He smirks, clearly not believing a word of what I'm saying, but nods to concede the point.

"Princess" I ask, turning to look at the stunning woman, "I must ask, how have you been finding this tourney?"

She blinks at that, her mask of bland interest broken by a moment of legitimate uncertainty.

Admirably though, she rallies herself quickly, and pastes a court smile back on her face. "I have enjoyed it greatly, My Lady Blackmoth" she says with a nod, "My Lord husband tells me that many brave knights have fought."

Hmm, so a little flirting isn't enough to break her mask, is it?

I have to suppress a smirk. You're not getting away that easily, Princess.

"Pish posh!" I say with a theatrical wave of my hand, "none of that now! I asked how you found the Tourney, not our esteemed Prince!"

Her face doesn't twitch even a fraction of an inch, and I curse in my head.

"So" I ask, raising an eyebrow and putting on what Erryn once termed by 'Ladykiller' smirk, "how have you found it? Thrilled? Entertained? …Excited?"

I let my voice drop low on that last word, the barest hint of a purr entering it.

I see her throat bob as she gulps. "I… yes, I found it quite gratifying."

I lean in with a toothy smile. "Oh, I'm sure you did."

Unfortunately, my seduction is interrupted by my target's irritatingly jovial brother, "Excuse me, ladies!" he says with a smirk, "but I must say, I feel neglected! Two beautiful women, and they'd rather focus on each other than me!"

That seems to be what finally gets the faintest hint of red to her cheeks, and I have to suppress a laugh.

I take everything back, I like this one.

"Why my prince!" I say with false modesty, "Perish the thought! I shall make sure to attend to your needs whenever you wish."

He matches my smirk.

"W-Well" the princess says, trying her best to break up our impromptu flirting session, "I have heard you have some blood from Dorne, my lady?"

I nod, and meet the Princess's face.

I smirk as she seems captivated, her embarrassment slowly rising in the Force.

"Indeed" I say, never breaking eye contact, "my mother, Lady Jynessa, was an Orphan of the Greenblood."

I feel them both startle at that, even if neither of them are inexperienced enough to show it.

"An Orphan?" Princess Elia says her practiced look of banal interest containing what seems like real curiosity the entire conversation. , "I… she was a commoner?"

I rear back, putting on my best impression of offense. "Why?" I say, voice turning cold, "is that some sort of problem."

Princess Elia rushes to reassure me it's not, while Oberyn, who sees right through me, just smirks.

I break then, smiling and calling her off with a wave. "Peace, my Princess. Truly, I take no offense, for a commoner is what she was. The best damn trader this side of the Narrow Sea, if you listen to her."

Prince Oberyn hums. "Is she where you get your… unique looks from? I must say, the Rhoynish blood runs quite short, and I've never known the Orphans to have such stunning golden eyes."

He turns to Princess Elia then, smirking. "Don't you agree, sister? Why, I imagine she's the envy of every woman in the Stormlands, with entrancing eyes like that."

A small bit of heat makes its way into the Princess's cheeks as she nods.

"Ah" I say, leaning back and stretching, not-so-coincidentally showing off my toned musculature, "that would be from her father. He was a sellsword, from Leng."

Prince Oberyn's eyes widen at that, and leans forward in interest. "Truly, a Lengii?! I thought them to be a myth, when I read of them in the Citadel."

"Pardon" the Princess says, her face back to a smooth, composed court mask, "I must say, I have never heard of such a place. Where would this 'Leng' be, then?"

The Prince leans back, gesturing for me to take the lead.

I acknowledge his concession with a nod, and he just smirks.

"It is an eastern place" I say, fixing my eyes on the Princess's once again, "far to the east, almost as far as East goes. It's an island, next to Yi Ti, but of an entirely different people."

Her eyes widen at that. "I… Y-Yi Ti!"

I nod, smirking. "Oh yes" I say, leaning in, "the folk there are said to tower over seven feet at the shortest, with nut-brown skin, and"—I point to my head—"golden eyes."

I meet her eyes, giving her an intense stare, full of unspoken promises and temptation. "Some have told me that the eyes of the Lengii are positivley enchanting. The most beautiful in the world, they say. Would you agree, my Princess?"

The Princess smiles blandly at that, court mask firmly in place, but I can feel embarrassment (and more than a little lust) radiating from her in the Force.

"Ah… I would say they are quite exotic, Lady Blackmoth."

"Well" the Prince says, cutting in, "I cannot speak for my sweet sister, but I, for one, agree absolutely."

Hm… I turn, looking the Dornishman up and down.

Well, I must admit, beauty truly seems to run in the line of Martell. I've seen seldom men more handsome than him, and he has the same sort of roguish charm about him that I rely on so often to seduce my conquests

Eh… you know what? Why not. I've never had a Prince before, and he would make a fine consolation prize for my inability to claim the crown Princess.

I mentally stutter then, realizing just what exactly I'd been doing.

Gods Ash, this is exactly what Durran and Erryn talked about! Trying to cuckold the Crown Prince?

I shake my head, internally thanking the Princess Elia for her restraint.

I smirk. But well… Prince Oberyn is unwed, and it will be a cold day in hell before I turn down an offer from an able and willing man as handsome and charming as him.

I turn to him then, brow raised, tone lowering to a purr. "Oh? How flattering, my Prince."

He waves me off theatrically. "Come now! It is no imposition to tell the truth!"

He looks me up and down, taking no effort to hide the obvious interest in his gaze. "After all, you are quite… singular."

I can feel embarrassment and exasperation practically burning off of the Princess now, for all her face hasn't changed a bit.

"You should take heed, my Prince I say, purposefully moving my body to expose the dip of my chest to the two Dornish nobles, "a young maiden could get the wrong idea from such compliments. You have a… reputation, you know."

He smirks, leaning back with an amused leer. "Oh, do I? What would that be, then?"

I bring up my hand to hide my face. "Oh, I couldn't possibly say! They're so… scandalous."

He smiles, resembling my own roguish smirk to a remarkable degree. "Oh, do tell. Those types of rumors are always the most fun."

"Well" I say, biting my lip in a show of fake scandal, "I… I have heard…"

He leans in then, holding back a laugh, and I can even feel amusement mixing in with the Princess's exasperation and embarrassment.

I lower my voice, causing him to lean closer. "I've hear… that you're celibate."

He stares at me for a moment, expression disbelieving, until he bursts out into laughter.

The Princess actually smirks, and I make a little mental fist-pump of success. "If only" she says drily, "I assure you, it would make all of our lives a great deal less complicated."

He waves his sister off, smile broad. "Nonsense! There'd be riots in two-thirds of Dorne!"

"Only two-thirds?" I say with a sniff, "you're less impressive than I thought."

He grins. "Oh? I assure you, Lady Ash, I am more than impressive enough. Would you like a demonstration?"

I tilt my head impishly. "Well, I have heard you handle a spear rather well…"

The Princess's face is an emotionless mask, but from her aura I can practically hear her cradling her head in her hands with a groan.

"But that's neither here nor there" I say with a nod in a wink, "I'm afraid we've been neglecting your dear sister, Prince Oberyn."

"So" I say, turning to face the Princess, "I have heard you've just birthed a new daughter?"

She nods, grateful for the change in topic away from my and her brother's heavy-handed flirting.

"Indeed" she says, and I have to hold in a breath as her face absolutely light up with joy. Gods, is this woman beautiful.

"My little Viserra…"

I give her a gentle smile. "An interesting name, my Princess."

She turns to me, raising an eyebrow. "Oh?"

I have to suppress a smile at how lovely she is when she's defensive. "Peace, peace my Princess. I merely meant it is not a common name among the royal family."

She leans back then, hackles calmed, and nods. "Indeed. I named him for my dearest childhood friend, Serra Jordayne, who passed a few months before her birth. My Lord Husband wished to name her 'Visenya', but well…"

"Ah" I say, holding back a snort. Well, I can certainly understand why a princess already-unpopular for her ethnicity would hesitate to name her daughter after the fearsome 'Witch Queen.'

"Indeed" she says flatly.

I hum in thought. "Pray tell, do you know what name he would have chosen if she was to have been a boy?"

"Aegon" she says with a flat look, clearly exasperated, and I have to hold back a chuckle.

My lips twitch. "Well" I say, "I can certainly see why you'd wish to avoid that then. Children deserve their own legacies, I say."

She tilts her head, gaze suddenly assessing.

My brows furrow. Was it something I said?

She hums, tilting her head. "Yes… I would agree, My Lady. None of us should be bound by the specters of the past."

I lean back, pensive. Now what could this possibly be about?

~~~

A few minutes later, I've left the Prince and Princess behind, and am standing in a secluded corner of the ballroom.

"It's awful, isn't it?"

I turn from where I'm looking out over the feast to see a tall, thin woman, brown of hair and eye.

I only barely manage to restrain myself from looking her over, and mentally thank myself a second later when I spy the sigil of House Hightower on her dress.

A moment later, I blanch for different reasons, as I feel her presence in the Force. Practically shining, she's stronger in the Force than anyone I've met save the Crow's Eye, Ser Barristan, or Arthur Dayne, but wrapped up entirely in the Force's more esoteric mysteries.

"What is, my lady?" I ask, too unnerved by her presence to bother with courtesy.

"This… this ruin. It's cursed, truly." she says with a shudder.

My brows shoot into my hairline, and I don't even bother to hide my inquisitive gaze as I lean forward. "Well, Lady…"

"Malora, Lady Blackmoth. Lady Malora Hightower."

"Well then, Lady Malora, what makes you say such a thing."

She gives me a secretive smile. "Don't play coy, my lady. I know you can feel it just as well as I."

"Feel what?"

"The power. The terrible, terrible power of all the blood that Harren shed."

I hold her gaze. "…You speak of queer things, my Lady."

She smirks. "As you say, Champion."

I tilt my head. "And use queer titles too, apparently."

"It's not" she says flatly, "do you deny you are one? I heard you speak of Daemon Blackfyre in your fight with the Crow's Eye, do you deny that like him history wraps around you?"

I rock back on my heels, interested. She must have used the same type of sense-enhancement spell as Durran in order to hear my fight, and that's no easy thing.

"…If what you say is true, why seek me out? Why speak of such things so openly?"

"Open?" she says with a mysterious smile, "tell me, where are those listening ears, then?"

I look around, and to my shock, she's right. The guests surrounding us are paying us little mind, as if we were the two least interesting guests here, instead of the tourney's most controversial figure speaking to one of the most eligible maids of the Seven Kingdoms.

I probe outwards with the Force, and find the thin filaments of a spell floating around us, shrouding us for notice.

It's not exactly a hiding, but more a dampening of one's presence, as if their soul was wrapped in a thick woolen blanket. Nadros had mentioned offhandely of some concealment techniques he'd heard of in other schools of magic, but to externalize it like this…

I shiver. What a powerful spell. Even I didn't notice her until she was right in front of me.

"Speak, then" I say, looking at her impassively. With a Lady of station I would normally put on my highest courtesies, but… well, I don't think that's what she's after here.

She begins bluntly. "It is a rare thing, to see a fellow practitioner of the higher mysteries, especially here in the Sunset Lands."

I hum. "And so… what? This is a professional courtesy? Like we're all in some guild together?"

She shrugs, giving me a sly smile. "Perhaps? It behooves one to know their peers, after all. Marwyn certainly appreciated the courtesy."

"So what?" I say, interested despite myself, "do you want to exchange knowledge? I must say, I expected something a bit more… grand."

She just smiles. "Well, I must apologize for disappointing you, then."

I chuckle. "I… think I would be amenable to that. I have heard the libraries of Oldtown are quite impressive, and exclusive as well. It would be a boon to have the eyes of one so familiar with them to act as a guide."

She raises an eyebrow at my unspoken question. Can she get me access to the tomes in the Citadel? I would normally guess no, but she's a Hightower, and the Citadel has been known to bend rules for them.

She smiles. "As long as you do not mean that literally, I suppose. I rather like my vision."

I snort. "I honestly don't know what I would do with a set of disembodied eyes. I'm no Crow's Eye."

Her face turns serious. "That man is no laughing matter, Lady Ash."

What? Is she… He's cunning certainly, and powerful, but to inspire this much dread? He's not a rabid beast as I saw tonight, despite what the ending of the tourney would have me believe.

"Don't worry my Lady," I say with my most charming smirk, "he is not so fierce that I can not protect you."

My smirk slowly dies as I see her face unmoved.

"…What?"

She gives me an inscrutable look. "…You truly take him as that light a threat? The Crow's Eye?"

Oh, I've been wanting to use this line for ages!

"No, he's deadly, very deadly." I give a predatory smirk. "I'm just deadlier."

Her face remains unchanged. "You are prideful, Ashmoth."

"It's not unwarranted" I say with a dazzling smile.

"…Valyria was prideful too."

I have to conceal my flash of irritation, but judging by how she tenses, she feels it anyways. "Who are you to say such things?"

She frowns, giving me a serious look. "I am one of the most powerful witches in Westeros, Lady Ash. And I am also someone who would fall before the Crow's Eye."

"Well" I say, unsettled at her blunt admission of weakness, "…I will not. That is the difference between us, I suppose."

She just gives me a pitying smile, and I have to contain my irritation.

After a moment, I finally give in and fill the void in the conversation. "…you think him that powerful? Enough to rival me?"

She bites her lip, and I'm taken off-guard by how genuinely unsettled she looks. "He… I believe he is a man who gazes into the void, searching for secrets… and one day, the void gazed back."

I feel a shiver run down my spine, and I shoot my gaze over to the Greyjoy. As if sensing my gaze on him, he turns, completely ignoring Malora's spell of concealment to give me a mocking wave.

Perhaps… perhaps her caution is not unwarranted.

"Is that why he's… the way he is? Empty?"

She just gives me a weary look, not knowing the answer any more than me.

I raise an eyebrow. "Are you normally this free with your emotions around strangers? I can't imagine any other lady so plainly discussing their fears."

She actually blushes at that, drawing back from me. "I… I apologize. It is just so nice to finally be around someone who understands."

I bit my lip, unable to repress my fond grin. "It is no problem, my Lady. I am the last woman to turn away the affections of a beautiful maiden."

She laughs at that, mood lightening. "It will take much more than that to get under my dress, even for a Champion."

I quirk an eyebrow, shooting her my most rakish, charming grin. I do so love a challenge.

I lean in. "Oh? I think it would be rather fitting: the beautiful maid seduced by the victorious, handsome knight…"

She flushes. "I… I'm afraid I'm quite uninterested in that sort of thing, Lady Ash"

"Come now" I say, giving her a view down my dress "Don't tell me you're not even the littles bit curious? I can't imagine sorcery is a hobby that lets one get out much…"

She just sighs, brushing my hand off her chest, even as I feel a small twinge of desire spike in her.

I have the good grace to suppress my smirk. Point to Ash!

She straightens, turning towards a man approaching. "I… My brother had mentioned wanting to see you. I think that's him there!"

I chuckle, but allow the abrupt subject change to pass, and the Lady Hightower drops her insignificance spell.

"Garth!"

"Sister!"

I turn to find Garth Greysteel, the very man I'd knocked down in the melee rounds, what feels like a lifetime ago.

"Ah!" he says, smile growing even wider as he sees me, "and look at this! It seems you've already met the woman I was planning to introduce you to!"

He bows, pressing a kiss to my hand. "My Lady Blackmoth! Why, I've been looking all over for you!"

I nod, giving him a smile. His enthusiasm really is infectious.

"I must admit" he says with a tip of an imaginary helm, "you truly did make good on the promise you made. Few dare mock me now for being beaten by you, with how far you've risen!"

I laugh at that. "Well" I say, "prepare to silence those last voices, because I'm going to win this tourney."

He gives me an assessing look at that, taking me much more seriously than when I made the same boast in the tourney.

He stares into mine, and for the first time I see the cunning mind hidden behind his boisterous exterior.

Apparently, he finds whatever he's looking for, because he brakes our staring match with a laugh. "You know, My Lady, I might just actually believe that."

I laugh, spotting a tall figure across the room.

"Unfortunately" I say with a frown, "I'm afraid I must depart. I see my Uncle across the room, and it would be terribly rude to not greet him."

The Hightower maid just nods, like she was expecting it all along.

"Bonifer Hasty is your uncle?" Garth asks, a considering look on his face.

Both Malora and I turn to him in surprise.

"What?" he says, raising his arms, "I've fought in him tourneys, several times! He even unhorsed me once, back when I was first starting out… He's the black-haired one, yes?"

It still shocks me, sometimes, how my Father's and Uncle's travels have made their names known in the strangest places.

"No, over there" I say with a laugh, pointing at the purple-clad knight. "He's technically not my uncle, but I consider him as such. My father is a bastard, and Bonifer is the younger brother of his father's wife."

I feel the Reacher raise an eyebrow. "I would expect a man like that to hate him, for dishonoring his sister so."

I just shrug. "He was sired before they married, and she's a remarkably lovely woman."

"How strange…" the Hightower says, shaking his head at the seeming absurdity.

"You Reachfolk" I say with a smile and a shake of my head, "ever so pious…"

The knight rolls his eyes at that, and his sister laughs.

"Truly though" I say with a chuckle, "it was a pleasure to meet you both. I will see you at further tourneys, Ser Garth."

"You won't get as lucky next time" he says with a smirk.

I just arch a brow, and turn to the other participant. "And Lady Malora…"

She tilts her head.

"It was a pleasure to speak to you."

She gives a small, gentle smile, and for a moment I'm enchanted by her beauty. "It is… it is nice to have one who understands me so, Lady Ash."

I give her my most roguish smirk, winking, and have to suppress an internal cheer as I see heat rise to her cheeks.

I chuckle to myself as I make my way over to my honorary Uncle. Hah! Still got it!

"Wait" she says, grabbing my hand, "before you go…"

I raise an eyebrow, glancing down to our joined hands.

She rolls her eyes with a snort. "As I said, you'll have to try better than that."

I make to give a flirtatious comment, but she cuts me off with a raised hand.

"I… I saw something, before this feast."

I raise an eyebrow, interested, and her gaze unfocuses as bit as if she's reciting some ancient tome.. "Find me then at the deepest well, where Gods beyond all number can peer down at the earth. Where corpses rise from pools of blood, trees of white and wight by men of green."

She stares at me, expression startlingly blank. "There I'll find you, there we'll pray, three of us, half-and-one of men and women both."

I tilt my head at her, but she starts, eyes clearing up, and gives me a mysterious smile. With nothing more to say, she turns back to conversation with a bemused Garth like nothing ever happened.

My brow furrows as I walk over to speak to my Great-Uncle. I'm not fool enough to brush off prophecy, but what on earth could this one mean?

"Where gods peer down upon the earth", she's obviously speaking of the God's Eye, which I'd been meaning to visit anyways. So there will be a third person there, a man, to form the "one" of the "half-and-one" men there.

But the corpses rising from pools of blood? Reanimated trees?

I hope it's not bad luck to say that I'm dying to figure out what she's talking about.

~~~

"Come on!" I tug at the elbow my my honorary uncle, "she's right there!"

I point across the room, a shaded little alcove invisible to most eyes, but where I can feel the powerful presences of both the Queen and her Kingsguard radiate from. Strangely enough, the Queen seems to be radiating hate and rage at the moment, so much so I almost reassess my decision to take my Uncle over. By the Force, she's practically a Sith!

Then again, if I had to marry Aerys, I'm sure I'd be drowning in the Dark Side of the Force. Comparatively, this is positively restrained!

"Ashara" Uncle Bonifer says, shaking his head, "that's the queen. And we don't even know if she's there"

"She's there" I say with a stare at him, "And c'mon! you said you and her were close, right? This is the only way you'll get to talk to her again!"

I don't even leave the purple-clad knight a minute to protest, taking full advantage of my force-enhanced strength to drag him over to where the queen is lurking.

"Ser Hightower" I say, walking up to the Kingsguard keeping watch over the queen, "how excellent to see you! I must say, I'm disappointed that we won't get to cross blades…"

I gradually draw him away from the ex-couple, giving them a modicum of privacy.

~~~

The return of Bonnie Ser Bonny, and three new characters that will be popping up later!
Remember, reviews make the writing come faster! I live for internet praise it is my only source of positive interaction in my life

 

[Qro]

Well, that was certainly fun.
Thanks for posting the chapter, it was a pleasure to read!
Looking forward to seeing more!

 

[PrognosticHannya]

Well, that was certainly fun.
Thanks for posting the chapter, it was a pleasure to read!
Looking forward to seeing more!

Click to shrink...

Thank you! As always, I appreciate the support and readership, every comment makes my day.

 

[PrognosticHannya]

For so long, my world has been grey.

Spoiler: Rhaella Targaryen

Grey walls in a keep that should be red, grey hair on a head that should be silver, grey thoughts in a head that should be vibrant and full of life…

I am tired.

Tired, yes, tired is the way to put it. Not sad, not weeping, not even rage… just tired.

I can no longer muster even sorrow, where sorrow once flowed like wine.

Aerys, my Aerys, the one of my childhood… he was a bold boy, but a kind one. A grand dreamer clever with his words,

Rhaegar may not acknowledge it, but his appreciation for music is all his father's. I could never quite understand what either of them see in it.

Our marriage was not happy at first, as for all we loved each other as brother and sister, we held no passionate fires in our souls. It was not that we did not love, but that we loved others, as siblings ought to do.

I had my dashing Bonifer, for all I knew I could not wed him, a secret love kept even from my brother… and Aerys had a dozen tittering maids around him every evening, until his heart was captured by Joanna.

Oh, Joanna! If only Aerys could have married you! So beautiful you were!

I feel a smile break out upon my face despite my best intentions.

By all the Gods, Joanna… I miss you so dearly. Your skin, soft as purest silk, and laugh like bells of purest silver tinkling out.

It was no shock when Aerys loved you, for who could not? You were like the sun, radiant, your light spilling forth from between those perfect lips, every word a sunbeam that would light out souls afire with your warmth!

I feel my smile turn sour. Gods, I miss her…

If only…

I grimace.

Curse you Tywin, curse you to the Seven Hells! You took her from me, snuffed out her brilliant light, and for what? Some petty feud with Aerys?

Oh, if only Aerys could have married her… Hey may still have fallen to madness, but at least a dragon's seed, unlike a lion's, would birth no twisted dwarf to rip her in twain!

I sigh.

And Bonifer, my sweet Bonifer! A nobler knight, a nobler man you'd never meet. He was everything my brother wasn't: steadfast, true loyal, a man who could love me to the end of time, and never want another!

Never would I face the judging eyes, the solemn stares, the looks of grief and pity! My purple knight would treasure me, love me, never even think to raise a hand in anger. Oh, how I wish my Bonifer could don a cloak of white, maybe then he would not stand aside and let his king besmirch me.

Oh, Bonifer would not shame me so, as Aerys does with all his poxy whores! Does he think I cannot see them, as he walks the halls, his pants undone? His seed spilled out upon his breeches, the stench of blood and sex heavy in the air?

I grit my teeth, and hear the table creak beneath me, as if it feels my rage as well. No, I think he simply doesn't care. I think his love for me has dried up long ago.

Gods, it feels like I am in mourning even as my lord still walks, like there is some dreadful ghost that's pulled up my brother's corpse and worn it like a suit.

But I know that to be a lie.

My brother is still there, not buried beneath darkness but twisted by it, warped and changed like some reflection in the melted stone towers of this castle.

He has always held both good and ill inside him, as is the nature of all mankind, but the Aerys that was dropped in my arms after Duskendale, the twitching, screeching corpse of a man I used to love (although only as a brother)… his light had been snuffed out, leaving only the shadows of his tormented soul.

All his virtues turned to vices, and all his vices magnified.

He was always prideful, but he also had good sense, if not humility. Now, he only has a maddened, grasping arrogance, convinced the world can, should, and will bow down in supplication to him, its rightful master.

He was petty and quick to anger, but also bold and just, and quick to forgive. He reminded me so much of poor, doomed Steffon then, as much as he'll now rant and rave upon hearing the mere mention of our cousin's name. Now all he has is petty vengeance, a seething resentment that must repay tenfold even the smallest of insults, real or imagined.

He used to have such grand visions, such bold ideas, despite how often they could run into the clouds. But now that lust for life is gone, and his imagination rots, bloated with dreaming up vast conspiracies, webs of plot and treason so complex they can make the Dance seem like a training yard rivalry.

He was always charming and charismatic, for all he liked to turn that charm towards lustful ends. But now, a keep full of maidens unable to deny him has turned him into a poxy whoremonger, his hands more often touching supple flesh than even air.

No, it would be so much simpler if there was nothing of my charming brother left. The bastard doesn't even have the decency to let me mourn him.

I feel my focus shift inward, my rage crystallizing as I think back upon the injustices perpetuated upon me, my mug and knife faintly buzzing as they tremble against the wooden table.

In a world more just than this, I would perhaps have wed a rose, or else a trout or even falcon. Another House, any house, a restitution for the shame my grandfather's children brought the realm when they broke all their betrothals.

But no. My father, so ever careful and deliberate, raised up whorish Jenny's maddened witch, a sign the past would once more bind the present, his son his namesake born anew!

I growl.

The fool. If mere tradition worked to make men loyal, then all the realms adored Unworthy Aegon, spouse of sisters, the greatest king since wise Jaehaerys flew!

I almost jump as Ser Jonothor taps my shoulder, only my long-trained instincts muting my reaction to a minor flinch. I feel my fork break in my hand, bending nearly in half, and I curse inwardly. Damnit, not again!

I move my hand underneath the table to hide the ruined utensil. That's the third time this month!

"My Queen" he says, eyes concerned, "Are you quite alright?"

"Of course!" I say, putting on my blandest court smile, "Why ever would I not be?"

He grunts, shuffling awkwardly. "Ah… My apologies, my Queen. Your eyes looked a bit jaundiced, and I thought you to be ill. It seems as if it was just a trick of the light, though."

"Indeed" I say with a pleasant nod, brushing off the odd comment. Still though, leaving this place is not the worst idea. I can feign illness, which should deliver me a short reprieve from this… this humiliation before the Lords of the realm.

I feel my fist clench again.

Gods, look what I have become. The battered wife of a mad King, looked at only with pity and disdain. Shunted off to a small corner while the true Lords and Ladies feast, like some… like I'm Jenny herself, some shameful secret!

I startle when I hear a snap, and grimace as my crystal goblet cracks in half, little spiderwebs shooting out from where my fingers have dug into it, along with two of the other glasses near me.

Seven be damned, you'd think these Westerlander Crystal was some common quartz, with how brittle they are always made!

Yet one more injustice to lay at Tywin's feet. I have no doubt he used his handship to secure some lucrative contract for the Red Keep, to supply only his crystal for the royal family, for I've never seen any other.

Before my rage can fill me up once more, I hear a call from nearby.

"Ser Jonothor! I have been meaning to speak with you!"

Of course. Ser Jonothor is a famous knight, who would want the broken, despised queen? Don't you know the King despises her?

My guard turns to face the intruder, only for his face to turn to confusion. "…my Lady Blackmoth?"

I have to repress a sigh. Of course, the woman would want to see me. She's most likely not ever seen even…

Standing next to her is something impossible. A knight clad in purple, blond-haired with eyes of bonnie blue, smiling at me like I was the sun that lit the world.

"…B-Bonifer?"

"…Princess."

I reach out, certain this is yet another dream, but stop myself before I break propriety.

Spoiler: Ser Bonifer Hasty

His face is weathered, struck by the ravages of age and time which have struck me as well, but he is no less handsome for it. I find myself wanting to inquire as to the source of each individual scar and crease, a thousand stories since we've parted.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I'm almost jerked back by the restraining hand of my Kingsguard. "My Queen…"

I wave him off absently, eyes still fixed on the impossible sight before me. "'Tis alright, Ser Darry, B- Ser Bonifer is an old friend. Could you give us some privacy while we speak?"

He gives me a troubled look, eyes flicking between the two of us, and I shoot him my most pleading gaze. "Please, Ser Jonothor… it has been ever so long since we have seen one another. The lady knight there seems quite keen to speak to you, would you not oblige her? I would not even have to leave your sight."

I can feel his resistance breaking down at my charms, and he reluctantly nods. "…Very well, Princess."

"But you"—he turns to Bonifer—"at the slightest hint of trouble, you are gone, do you understand?"

My knight, ever the gentle one, merely nods, a smile on his face. As if the mere thought of being in my presence was enough, even if it would only be for an instant.

I feel my mood brighten as I turn to my purple knight, Ser Jonothor walking a short distance away to speak with the enthusiastic lady warrior.

Once he's out of earshot, I turn to Bonifer, and abruptly find myself bereft of things to say.

What should one say, when reuniting with the object of their childhood infatuation, a man who they thought they would never again see?

"I… what are you doing here?"

My mouth practically snaps shut as I stammer that out, my face flushing in embarrassment at my lack of grace. Gods, where is the woman who can look Aerys in the eye and feel nothing?

My knight smiles though, as if I had not even humiliated myself. His grin is just as handsome as the day I met him, still tinged with the disbelief I can feel coloring my own.

"I… I am here attending with my niece and nephews, Princess."

I look over to the Blackmoth girl, raising an eyebrow. "I… I wasn't aware your sister had more children."

What? It's not odd at all that I'd keep an ear open for news from him! Just keeping an eye on an old friend…

He smiles again, and I find that one is mirrored on my own face. What on earth is happening to me? "Ah… no, Princess. Her father Brandyn was the natural son of my sister's husband, and raised alongside his trueborn siblings. Though we share no blood, I think of the lad as my own nephew."

I feel my heart thump, and I feel something soften within me. It seems in my time away from him, I've forgotten just how noble my knight can be. Gods, how could… I can't even imagine taking in the mother of one of Aerys's bastards, let alone acknowledging her kin as my blood!

And for him to do that on even the most spurious relations… he truly is the same loving, caring knight I met so long ago.

"That… that is quite noble, Ser."

He smiles shyly, and I feel a flutter in my stomach. "Nonsense, Princess. I did what any man would do. The sins of the father are not the sins of the son, after all."

I chuckle. "I think you'll find the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms most abnormal, in that case. Or else, you are much more than a normal man, my knight."

I bite my lip as the term of endearment slips out, and Bonifer reddens.

"I… I am no more chivalrous than any other man, Princess. Truly, you flatter me."

I give him a gentle smile. "It is all earned, I assure you."

He smiles then, a hesitant thing, and I feel a sense of earnest admiration shining out from his eyes,

Gods, those blue eyes of his are beautiful. "Bonnie blue eyes", he said his mother used to call them, if I remember rightly you know you do you've thought about them ever since he left. It's where she got his name from.

And truly, they are stunning. I once asked him if he had any Durrandon blood in him, with how brightly they shine, and he-

My train of thought is interrupted by a loud laugh from Ser Jonothor, and I step back, embarrassed. Gods, what am I doing! Just… just staring into his eyes like that, mooning over him like a maid of six and ten again!

I cough in embarrassment, looking at my feet to avoid his lovely, incredible gaze.

"H-How have you fared since we parted, m- Ser Bonifer?"

He gives me a dazzling smile, somehow managing to be both roguish and humble simultaneously.

"Well, Princess, quite well."

Gods his eyes are lovely. A true, lovely blue, like a sky on a cloudless day, like-

"…Oh! Oh, yes, that is excellent to hear."

He nods. "Indeed. I have won great acclaim at many tourneys, and my nieces and nephews are the light of my life, here in my old age."

I have to hold back a giggle. "Please, Ser Knight. Forty is not so ancient, merely distinguished. Or are you calling your queen infirm, at only two years younger than yourself?"

He smiles at that, and I feel a strange fluttering in my chest. "Perish the thought. You are just as lovely as the day I first saw you, all those years ago."

I feel my cheeks heat. "Ah… yes, well- thank you, Ser Bonifer. Truly."

He seems to realize what he said and startles, the tips of his ears turning red. "That is- I mean- Not to say that-"

I cut him off with a giggle, having to hold myself back from giving him a playful slap on the arm. "No! It is a great compliment, to have the esteem of a knight such as you."

He arches a brow at that, in a way he once told me he learned from his goodfather.

"I mean…" I say with an uncharacteristic stutter, "o-only that you are so handso- so distinguished, a-and well-known…"

He can't keep the joyous smile off his face at my praise, and I feel a ridiculous grin break out on my own. Father above, what is this man doing to me?

After a minute or so of staring at one another with foolish grins, until a particularity loud exclamation from Ser Jonothor's conversation with the Lady Ash both makes us startle out of our reverie.

"Ahem… Well…" He coughs nervously, smoothing his hair back, and I have to resist the urge to brush those beautiful blonde locks for him. "I have been well, yes. I could not be prouder of any of my nieces or nephews, blood or not."

He shoots a look of such fondness at the Moth Knight then that I nearly feel my heart melt.

"Yes…" I say, after realizing I've been staring at his face just a moment too long, "she is quite impressive. You helped train her?"

He shrugs, giving me a rueful grin. "That's what she says, I suppose. In truth, the girl practically learned it all herself, prodigy that she is. I have no doubt she could have been raised by wild wolves and emerge from the forest no lesser a fighter."

I smile at that, before a thought hits me. "And your nieces and nephews… they are the only children in your life? You have none of your own, is what I mean to say."

He shoots me an embarrassed grin. "No, none for me. My heart has al-… well, I've just never found the right woman, I suppose. I've never had to, truthfully, being a second son."

I feel something inside me unclench at that, some tension I did not know I was carrying.

"That's… that's good."

He raises an eyebrow, and I blanch. "I mean- it's not good! I'm just, I mean-"

He chuckles at that, and after a moment I join him, heedless of my own mortification.

This man…

We trail off into a companionable silence, until he coughs and looks breaks eye contact, for whatever reason.

"Ah, so… how have you fared since our parting, Princess?"

I'm unable to hide the slight grimace that crosses my face, and I inwardly smile at the purple knight's dark look when he sees it.

"I… I have been well, Ser Bonifer."

I trail off then, to the purple knight's obvious consternation. "Aerys is… he is my Lord Husband."

"He… he is, yes, I suppose."

I take in his obvious discomfort, a thousand platitudes come to the tip of my tongue to defend Aerys. But when the handsome knight looks at me with those beautiful blue eyes, I find them all slipping away.

"I… I am well. The thought of y-… the thought of better days sustains me amidst my brother's… eccentricities."

Bonifer grimaces, and I can't help but feel a small thrill shoot through me at his look of concern.

No, calm yourself Rhaella! Ser Bonifer is merely a pious man, and is so made uncomfortable by the reminder that your husband is also your brother. Nothing more.

Grimacing, I try to change the subject. "You fought well. I saw you lasted until the forth round of the brackets."

"Truthfully" I say, "I think you would have stayed longer if you'd faced anyone but Ser Barristan."

He laughs at that, a rich, melodic sound that sets my heart a-flutter. "Perhaps, Princess, perhaps. The Bold Knight was a challenging opponent indeed, and I am lucky to even have lasted as long as I did."

"You are modest, Ser." I say. "Lasting a whole minute? Thrust up against such a fearsome wall of steel, I cannot see even the mightiest man lasting longer with his sword in hand."

He coughs, and I suddenly turn scarlet as the implications of my last statement wash over me.

"T-That is… t- I mea- You don-"

He holds up a hand, chuckling. "I… I believe I understood your meaning, Princess."

Despite my mortification, I find myself relaxing at his easy smile. Damn him, the charming bastard. He won't even let me stay mad at myself.

"Regardless", I say, "I have scarce seen a knight as skilled a-"

"My Queen."

The deep voice of Ser Jonothor echoes out, and I spring back as I realise how close I've gotten to my knight.

The white knight nods, a small smile still on his face as a remnant of his conversation with Lady Blackmoth.

"S-Ser Jonothor!" I say, cursing my own stammer, "Have you met Ser Bonifer Hasty? He is an old friend from my youth!"

The Kingsguard nods at the purple-clad knight, "Well met, Ser Hasty. My Queen, we must go, the King desires you to be cloistered by the hour of the eel."

It takes all I can do to hold back my scowl at my brother's sheer gall ordering me around like some common servant, but the quiet tones of my old friend bring me back to reality.

"Well met, Ser Darry. I suppose I must take my leave then, Pr-… My Queen."

I grimace. I'm long used to the title, but it feels… wrong coming from him.

"…Ser Hasty, I bid you farewell."

I turn then, despite every fiber of my being urging me to stay with the blue-eyed protector of my youth, and follow my jailer Kingsguard back to the keep.

I chance a look back, to see him staring at me as I walk away, even as he upbraids his niece for her blatant ogling of Prince Oberyn Martell, and feel my heart thump.

Once again, I'm struck by the vivid blue of his eyes. They're like searchlights, painting the whole world in his gaze with riotous color. Lighting it up, where before it had been so pale and washed out.

Silently, I vow to see him at least once more before we leave. This may be my only chance to reconnect with my… my… with my Bonifer, and I will not have it stolen by my brother's madness, like I have had everything else.

~~~

AN: Fun fact, the French equivalent to "old flame" comes from the word "bonnet", but I just couldn't figured out a good way to make that into a pun for the title. Too many "bonn"s. I'm already pushing it with the Bonifer/Bonnie pun (e.g. as in Bonnie Prince Charlie). I mean c'mon, how can I resist "Bonifer the Bonnie Ser"?
​

But yes, Bonnie Ser Bonny will be a fairly prominent figure in this fic, and I'm just going to let you all speculate as to how

Also, sorry to all you Jenny fans out there, but Rhaella isn't a fan of best girl. No character is perfect, and I'm annoyed by writers who treat Rhaella like the perfect angel that can do no wrong: i inevitably gives you a flat character that reads more like a body pillow than a human being. She holds Jenny up (not without reason) as the single inciting incident of all the problems in her life, and has such developed a deep distaste for commoners marrying into the nobility, associating it with her. That's why some parts of her monologue can come off a bit snobbish.

I didn't intend for half the chapter to end up written partially in poetic meter, it just kinda happened that way. Since in this story, poetic meter is indicative of people drawing heavily on the force (see how Euron and Ash's banter in Durran III gets progressively more rhyme-y and rhythmic), I decided to ret-con Rhaella as a fairly powerful Force Senstivie to make it make sense in context.

And given how her life is… well, Rhaella would make a pretty excellent Sith.

Also yes, Rhaella had a mega crush on Joanna, and so was insanely jealous of both Aerys and Tywin, but didn't have a way to contextualize it beyond "these stupid boys are stealing away my bestest gal pal handmaiden!"

 

[Qro]

Well, that was certainly interesting!
Definitely looking forward to seeing more!