A Meeting of Kingdoms
AN: Well this is my attempt at a fic for SOIAF so I would really like some feedback on this and if you guys like it, I'll continue writing it. Any mistakes I made lore wise, let me know and I'll be sure to fix it. If the story is really terrible, let me know that too and I'll take it down. Other than that, I hope you enjoy it. Oh, and before I forget, I own nothing of Game of Thrones in any way shape or form, or the book series. I am making no money off of this and don't wish to. I only own my own characters.
Kings Landing was as great a city as any that Evelyn had ever seen, perhaps rivalling even her father's capital city of Elysium back in the Empire, as it was called. Supposedly Elysium was the place where an archangel had lent its strength to her father when he had been reuniting the Empire in the final battle against terrible pagan forces and false claimants to the throne. It had been called the Battle of the Gods, for the forces arrayed against he father had weapons of power at their own disposal. Demons, and undead, monsters beyond reckoning and weapons that relied on the minds of men to work. It was said that High King William had led the charge into the palace-fortress of Rubicon personally and slain the dark ruler Avdima in a one on one duel. It was also said that Avdima called great and dark powers to assist himself in the battle, and that her father received strength from the Archangel to defeat him. That was many years ago now though, and many believed the tales to be false. Her father never spoke of that day, the one battle he found neither glorious nor honourable.
She had been told that they discovered this new land a score of years ago, almost before she had even been born and her father, the High King of the Empire had even travelled there personally to meet their High King, called King Robert. He was a man of equal size to her father, so she had been told, but with black hair as opposed to her father's red which she shared and his storm coloured eyes which were also hers. It was also said that she had inherited her father's courage, but if so she had never seen it come to the fore.
Evelyn's father was a fierce man of gentle affection, but hid it all behind a mask of stern discipline. He always carried two swords about him, both finely made and his personal guard of Imperial Knights called the Angel Guard around him. They were men who not only pledged their life to his defence, but to that of his family and would follow any order of his without question and without hesitation. They would fall on their swords on a word for him or impale his enemies with it. It was a lifelong commitment to become and Angel Guard and to become a member, you had to be chosen by the rest of the Angel Guard unanimously and then receive the approval of the king. Their numbers were never above twenty and Evelyn had heard stories of them slaying foes ten times their number without a casualty. They were given the best armour and weapons that the Empire could give them, imbued with magic and wards to protect them, each of them resolute and steadfast in their devotion and martial prowess. A child of High King William, the Chosen of the One True God, was never seen without a score of their number at their side to defend him. So it was with some trepidation that Evelyn did not have a quartet of Angel Guard at her beck and call with silvery armour, lush purple cloaks, and famed rune mirror blades. Instead, she had a single knight of an order she had never heard of and frankly he terrified her.
Standing at an impossible seven feet tall, the knight was from an order said to be even more devoted and more skilled than that of even the Angel Guard. His order was so secret that Evelyn had only heard of it when she had been boarding the ship that would take her to the land of Westeros and away from her homeland of Eridus. The order was said to be outside even the control of the High King, yet it had gifted her father with a knight, a single knight to do with as he wished. Instead of the brilliant silver of the Angel Guard, his armour was black as night, with a blade to match. His cloak was also black, but the inside was blood red and on the whole of the voyage, Evelyn had never seen him without his bastard sword, or even not encased in his armour. His eyes seemed to glow with etheral light, a golden glow from inside his slit-visored helm and he never let Evelyn out of his sight. He was from an order called the Fallen Grace, but from who's grace he had fallen, Evelyn would never knew. What did perturb her though, was that if the Angel Guard had sworn their very existence to her father and by extension her, what had this man sworn to make his devotion so much higher than theirs?
There had been stories of knights clad all in black sweeping all before them away like leaves in an autumn storm without taking a scratch, but the same was said for the Angel Guard and as Evelyn had learned, they were all too mortal, despite their holy assistance. Yet even still, she had never even heard of one of the Fallen Grace falling.
The knight of the Fallen Grace chapter went by the name Ser Gudbrandr and never said a word unless spoken to or felt the need to calm any concerns that Evelyn might be feeling, especially since that at times her gift made her emotions rather...unpredictable and prone to change faster than an archer switches his arrow. He seemed to know if she was troubled and would always offer a few kind, deep rumbling words that seemed to always be calming, even if they were hard to hear. Whether they revealed hard truths, or whether they were just literally hard to hear. He had a real problem with speaking up that one.
At 14 years old, Evelyn understood that she would never rule, for her father had fathered many children, yet he doted on them all equally. He had seemed almost mournful and loathe to send her to stay with the King of Westeros, even though that Evelyn understood the political need to make friends in the new land and was more than willing to spend the year that her father had arranged for in the new land. The short amount of time that she was to spend in Westeros was strange in itself, as children of other lords had spent many years in her father's palace-fortress of Rubicon. The castle was named Rubicon for once you took your seat on its gilded throne, there was no other alternative, but to rule. For to sit on that throne, you either had to be a king, or kill the king to sit on it.
The ship swayed under her feet, and Evelyn gripped the wooden railing more tightly as she felt what meagre portion of food that she had managed to keep down eagerly trying to make its way back up. Evelyn had no doubt that her face was a sickly pallor of green and she felt at any moment she would once again feed the fishes, her rebellious body deciding that no matter how unladylike the action would be that it would do it anyway when it felt like it. So it was leaning over the railing and looking at the rolling waves that she hardly even noticed Ser Gudbandr walk nearly silently up to her despite his armour.
"Staying lower in a swaying ship reduces the effects of sea sickness, but I am afraid that you may catch other unpleasant things beside mere nausea in those dank holds. I would also recommend sleeping, but we are less than an hour from our destination. I wish that I could be of more help my lady," said Ser Gudbrandr sounding sincerely regretful that he could not simply just cut down nausea like an enemy, yet when he laid a sympathetic hand upon Evelyn's back, she felt the nausea dissipate to bearable levels.
"Thank you ser Gudbrandr, but I am more than capable of dealing with this slight discomfort," said Evelyn, sweat beading her brow from the intense effort of not throwing up, her fine under silks damp with perspiration and effort. She would need a bath at some point, but for now she would be content for the journey to end and the constant swaying to cease. "I am daughter of the High King and the blood of saints flows in my veins. I will conquer this simple malady like," Evelyn paused as she had to cover her mouth with her hand as her traitorous body tried to interrupt her. "A true Folkvarthyr," finished Evelyn lamely. "My father conquered the entire continent of Eridus in lest than a decade, I am sure that I can conquer my-my own body," said Evelyn once again bring her hand to her mouth as her stomach gurgled angrily. Her tall pointed hat, festooned with a delicate handmade streamer of the finest silks a world away in a precarious position and in danger of falling into the churning waters.
"Angels."
"I beg your pardon Ser Gudbrandr?" said Evelyn managing to lift her head enough to look at the immense night at her side with stormy, dark blue eyes.
"It is the blood of angels that flows through your veins, and no mere common faith guardian at that. God has blessed your father and his children and that is why I have pledged my soul to him, and you, my lady. I was drawn to your family like a moth to flame and now my sword will forever be yours." Ser Gudbrandr walked calmly away after that, giving no further insight onto what he had said and left Evelyn to her own personal titanic struggle that she was determined to win.
So with fire in her heart and determination singing in her veins, Evelyn promptly lost her struggle and fed the last contents of her stomach to the fish and sank down clutching the railing and wishing for all the world that the swaying would stop. She stayed like that until her Lady of the House, or madame Daigneau came and forced her to her feet and to stand like a proper lady befitting her status. The portly brunette dressed in a flaring blue dress and seeming as indomitable as ever, even in the face of the churning ship. Evelyn considered using her gift to cure her nausea, but that would be a gross misuse of her gift and her father would have disapproved. Not to mention that she could feel Ser Gudbrandr's eyes on her. So Evelyn suffered in silence as they neared the city of Kings Landing, aside from the unavoidable groan every so often of course.
With shouts of sailors and curses as men were bruised, cut, or strained themselves, the Imperial ship was brought into dock, a procession befitting royalty waiting on end of the pier and a red carpet rolled out the length of the wooden dock. Evelyn dimly wondered why all important carpets were red as madame Daigneau and a half-dozen handmaidens daubed her face with various powders and makeup, quickly transforming her into the picture of royalty, changing her pointed silken hat for a golden tiara with a large blue diamond in the centre, surrounded by white diamonds. Her hair was quickly braided and held in place with golden nets that were no doubt chased in actual gold, her fiery red hair that always refused to bow to anyone and puff out in odd strands was forced by skilled hands unwillingly into prim and proper designs.
They were preening her like a prize horse and Evelyn knew that first impressions were extremely important which was one of the reasons that she had studied the Westeros language so carefully and studiously. She could speak it fluently and practised often with Ser Gudbrandr, who although she had never seen him so much as look at one of the language's inelegant letters, he could speak it flawlessly.
The Imperial ship Arbitrator dwarfed the smaller galleys around her and there had even been some question if the work of architecture and engineering would even be able to hold itself to a dock, but they had been assured that it would and an entire dock had been cleared for the massive work of wood and sails. It was symbolic that such a vessel had been chosen. Look at our greatness, it said. We dwarf anything you have done and anything you can do. We are bigger than you. Massive sails that even a single one of which could have wrapped a galley like a present were current furled up and the cannon ports closed. The Empire wished to keep those weapons a secret for as long as possible and Arbitrator would only stay in port long enough to get resupplied before departing. No shore leave, no whoring, no talking. What the nobles said however, was inevitable, but as long as plans and designs were not given, or even a glimpse, there was hope that the edge would stay with the Empire.
A dozen handmaidens and madame Daigneau were to look after her every need, as well as a motley collection of tutors, merchants, minor lords, and even a small contingent of the Empire's famed Imperial Guard were along, the last meant to bolster her defence. They weren't knights, but all the same they were formidable warriors hidden behind star steel armour and armed with halberds in their hands and swords at their hips. They were the professional soldiery of the Empire and looked splendid on parade, and their discipline was to be feared on the battlefield. They would die to the last man before breaking, but for the next year they would merely be playing toy soldier. A reminder of the might of the Empire and the power that Evelyn came from.
Her father wanted a lasting alliance, or at the very least friendly relations with Westeros and King Robert, so Evelyn had to be sure to do everything perfect. The Imperial Guardsmen left first, and formed to two ranks of 20 for Evelyn to walk through. They were followed by the merchants, some of them merely representatives of their masters, others lords of great companies wishing to make business deals in this new land and make fiscal gains to fatten not only their pockets, but the pockets of the Empire as well. The lords and ladies that came after took position nearest the Westeros procession and their task in this land was to try and establish relations between the nobility of the Empire and Imperial court and that of their own. Creating ties that would hopefully bind the two great kingdoms together. Lastly, came the princess herself, preceded by her handmaidens and madame Daigneau, while ser Gudbrandr followed behind her like a faithful hound, golden eyes eternally watchful from within their shelter of black steel.
Her handmaidens took up position on either side of the dock, heads bowed in her direction giving Evelyn a clear view of the brightly dressed greeting party, not the king or queen of course, but representatives still high up the social ladder. For her part, Evelyne felt completely out of place and awkward, self-conscious of her freckles that spattered across her nose and cheeks, self-conscious of her clothes, and self-conscious of how she walked, because to her the world was still swaying as if she was on the ship. She was worried about a thousand different things and each worry added made her less refined in her movements and the less refined she became the more worried she became. What if her hair came undone? What if she tripped? What if she threw up on the Westerosi greeting party? What if she fainted?
Ser Gunbrandr at her back gave her confidence and helped calm her, he drawing nearly as many looks as Evelyn was in her purple dress, the colour of royalty, as she walked regally up to the greeting party. Her braid of fiery red hair making its way halfway down her back and it swayed gently as she walked, like the tail of an interested feline. The indomitable knight with the golden eyes seemed to give off an aura of calm and it leeched many of the minor fears and worries from Evelyn's mind. She could do this.
Evelyn stopped a short distance from the procession and inclined her head ever so slightly, but did not curtsy or bow. We bow to no one. Her family motto coming to the fore in her mind as she stood before the assembled lords and ladies of Westeros came to greet her. They almost seemed to be jostling for position to be the first to meet her, but the one they would not pass was the man at the head of the procession.
"May I be the first to welcome you to Kings Landing Princess Evelyn," said a man wrinkled with age, his eyes were blue and his eyes showed either much wisdom or knowledge. A long white beard flowed down the front of his richly embroidered robe the colour of grass. "My name is Pycelle, Grand Maester to King Robert Barethon. On behalf of all of Westeros and with most gracious sincerity, I welcome you to Kings Landing and King Robert hopes that this will mark the beginning of a great and lasting friendship between the Imperial Empire, and the Seven Kingdoms."
"You honour me greatly maester, and I am happy to know that I am so well received in Westeros. I would ask though, what business is of such great importance that the king does not come to receive the daughter of the High King of the Imperial Crown? Is there some sort of trouble in the land?"
"No my lady, nothing of the sort, merely important matters of state to attend to and a new hand to be shown his duties."
"Oh," said Evelyn genuinely surprised. "I had thought that Jon Arryn was the hand to the king. Has he disgraced himself?"
"No Princess, I am afraid that he has met an untimely end and has died."
"Was it foul play? Was he murdered in the middle of the night by a jealous lover? Or was it done by a son eager for power? Was it poison or blade? Or maybe even a poisoned blade?" Grand maeaster Pycelle blinked several times like a startled deer before recovering his composure.
"My lady, I do not mean to sound rude, but we do need to bring you to the castle and the docks is not entirely the best place to be discussing matters of state or making accusations like that. Jon Arryn died, but there was no murder. It would shame his memory to say things like that when those who cherished him and life and memory in death to think that he died of murder. But enough of this of such troubling talk. The King and Queen are most eager to make your acquaintance and it would be most rude to keep them waiting."
"Yes I suppose that you are right," said Evelyn feeling a fool for trying to have a conversation about a death when she was supposed to be the model of Royal prestige and manners. She was supposed to keep the mood light and pleasant, not grim and dour. "Please forgive my prodding questions, they were most ill advised attempts at conversation. My father High King William sends his regards and best wishes to both the people of Westeros and King Robert, and says to say that he will be coming for another visit in person in a years time."
"The High King will be coming in person?"
"Yes, and he plans to bring a great many ships and gifts for King Robert. I believe that King Robert was fond of the Tri Peaks Wine that my father brought over was he not? My father said to tell him that he would be bringing a great many casks of it with him."
"That is most excellent news indeed Princess, King Robert will be most thrilled to know that he will be receiving such a generous gift. You are too kind your grace, to trouble yourself with such a task." Evelyn couldn't help but smile girlishly at that.
"It's really no trouble at all. My father has great wealth and the monks of the Tri Peaks make some of the best wine in all of Eridus and they absolutely love to make it. It is simply a matter of moving it across the Shifting Sea. My father is also bringing a present for the Queen as well when he comes."
"Oh? And what might he be bringing for the Queen Cirsei when he and his flotilla arrive?"
"Oh, I have said too much, I believe that that was supposed to be a surprise for when he came over. Suffice to say though that it has something to do with her maiden house and that nothing of the like exists in Westeros or in the Free Cities, or even in the lands beyond. It is a great treasure from the Empire, rare beyond all measure."
"It does sound truly great your grace, but I fear that we have tarried too long here. I am supposed to bring you to the palace so that we may have a celebration to mark this union and drink to the lasting friendship between our two peoples. If you would please come this way, we have a palanquin ready to carry you to the Red Keep."
"Thank you Grand Maester Pycelle, your manners speak well of you and your people," said Evelyn amiably, trying not to crinkle her nose at his old man smell. He looked like he had been around when dirt had been invented and said that people were still perfectly good with rocks, that they didn't need dirt. She had to stifle a laugh at the thought and made a small snort.
"Your grace are you alright?"
"Oh, yes, it's just that...I have a slight cold from travelling for so long," lied Evelyn smoothly. A noble and well practised smile easily making its way to her face. The kind of smile that had always gotten extra doting from her father and had gotten her out of more than one sticky situation.
"Your grace, if you would like I could examine you. I have many treatments for the ailments of the flesh and for those to treat simple maladies such as these." A small crack appeared in the smile when he said that. If she was caught lying the first day that she was in Westeros, it would be terrible for their perception of her.
"Um, no thank you, you said yourself after all that we have to go right now," said Evelyn amiably, but quickly.
"It would only be a simple matter of-"
"We have to go right now," said Evelyn smiling so widely it felt like her face would split. I do not want to offend the king and I am terribly tired from the voyage. I'm sure you understand."
"Yes but-"
"No buts, let's depart immediately," said Evelyn still smiling, scooting quickly past Grand Maester Pycelle. He stared after her curiously for a moment and watched as Ser Gudbrandr followed her close on her heels, before he too followed.
The nobles said polite courtesies to Evelyn as she walked past them, Ser Gudbrandr at her side watching them closely with his gold coloured eyes that seemed to glow from within the confines of his helmet. He kept all comers and arms length away from her and seemed to be ushering her the most to the waiting palanquin. Even if she was all but running to it. Four eunuchs in green clothing stood at the different poles of the palanquin, ready to carry it. Golden stags and lions adorned the silken curtains on the outside and the base was made out of a deep, dark wood.
It was luxurious, nowhere near as luxurious as one from the Empire, but all the same it was decadently soft to sit upon and meant only for her. Maester Pycelle having his own, less richly appointed palanquin to sit in, which he was helped into by another eunuch. With the green silk curtains closed, Evelyn closed her eyes, determined to sleep until she reached the castle, the small talk of nobles eager to make alliances a comfortable and familiar background noise. Even since her earliest childhood memories, Evelyn had always been surrounded those gifted with wealth and noble blood. Their platitudes and chatter both educated and boring soon lulled her into a comfortable state and soon Evelyn drifted off to comfortable and easy sleep. Never waking nor stirring for the cheering throngs of people outside her palanquin.
Aoife walked behind her lady's palanquin, keeping her head low and bowed as was proper, her coppery red hair covered by her white bonnet. She wore white to signify her purity (more or less, but who really kept track of such things?) and was 19 years old. Aoife was most surprised by the amount of dark coloured hair amongst those of this land, as red hair was the most dominant hair colour back in the Empire and it was a sign of good luck to have red hair. That being the reason that every single one of the Princess's handmaidens had red hair.(Except that wench Blinne whom Aoife was sure dyed her hair and was actually only a strawberry blond.)
Aoife and her parents had never expected that she would receive such a position as handmaiden to a Princess of the High King Willliam, Protector of the faith, as he was sometimes known. She was a commoner, but more than that she was a bastard, or bitch depending on how you looked at it(though many called her latter anyways) and she had expected a life of drudgery working on the farm before popping out a few bastards of her own before she died. If anyone ever asked Aoife (and no one ever did) she would say that High King William was the best thing to ever happen to Eridus. Baoth who had only ever been a peasant farm boy with a knack for trouble had actually been accepted into the Imperial Guard, even though he had no prior training or nobility. His family was enjoying their new status, just as hers was enjoying theirs since that one of their daughters was entrusted to serve a member of the royal family and High King William was of the firm opinion that any who looked after his family would have theirs looked after in kind. Though Aoife wondered if the High King would mind having himself looked after in other ways. He was just a stud of a man. William the Conquerer, she had something he could conquer.
Aoife fought the urge to wipe the sweat away from her eyes as she walked, the climate of Westeros was far warmer than where she was from in the Empire and she saw men and women in very open and breezy clothes as compared to her handmaiden gown. She carried a purple rose between her hands, the thorns remaining meaning that she had to be careful how she held it. Not that she really liked holding it, she much preferred tulips. Though she wouldn't mind holding something that was currently encased in black.
Her exceptional libido had put her parents at their wits end, fearing that their bastard would have another bastard with even worse social standing than she would have had. Her stepfather was a good man, more so because he had married her mother even though that she had a child (a bastard no less) not of his own and had treated both Aoife's mother and her well. Though come to think of it, the fact that she was a bastard was indicative that she had received her...open personality from her dear, sweet mother.(Who had probably been sweet on half the men in the village so who's bastard she was was up for debate.)
Jokes and jibes aside however, Aoife did love her parents and did feel some regret for making them so worried about her behaviour. And though she had only ever spoken briefly to the princess on a few occasions, she found her to be a good sort, if a bit shifty with her moods.(Though that made her fun to be around.) She did feel a strange sense of loyalty to the girl though, that went beyond a simple role of subservience as a handmaiden. She felt as if she owed the princess more than she had to give and that she now only had her loyalty, but deserved Aoife's devotion.
Aoife was astounded though, by the sheer number of differences in this new land and that of the Empire. Rich, ripe fruit was everywhere and wine flowed like water. The heat was nearly suffocating and it seemed to choke everything, especially in comparison to the relatively cool and moderate Empire. Everyone it seemed was well-fed and in good spirits, but this was no doubt the better portion of the city that they were being led through and meant to make a good impression on the princess as well as impress her royal majesty. She saw men with whip thin blades that would do no good in a massed fight and were to slender to stop the blow of the blades of knights or the Imperial Guard. They were dressed in gaudy tight fitting clothing (that made it a lot like window shopping) and seemed to mostly have deep tanned skin and blonde or blue hair. The brown roots of one man was showing though, revealing to Aoife that many no doubt dyed their hair.
Aoife had tried to have a talk (which involved her putting her hand on the mans thigh) with one of the Imperial soldiers accompanying them, only for him to blow her off (Which was what she had rather intended to do to him in different terms.) stating that his one and only concern was the safety of the princess, Though Aiofe had seen that she had severely tempted the man. Pious and disciplined the Guard might be, but they were still human and still men. Enough time and it would be the matter of beckoning to entice him to her bed.
The smell of fresh cooked pastries and haggling merchants along with a panoply of other sights and sounds assaulted her senses, making for a dizzying intake of information. She only ever felt this way on the few times that she had walked through Elysium with her Lady while she rode in either a carriage or palanquin and had been as bewildered and out of depth there as she was here.
The sights and sounds of a city were fun and interesting, but if Aoife was being perfectly honest she much preferred the open country air and the quiet of the countryside.(Though she much preferred the palace, oh did she ever prefer the palace.) Even as a handmaiden and servant, Aoife lived far better than she would have otherwise, especially better than she would have on her family farm.(Technically they only worked the land, the lord owned it, but essentially it was still theirs.)
The steel marching cadence of the Imperial Guardsmen behind her was a sharp cracking sound like approaching thunder, Westerosi bands were playing unfamiliar songs on instruments that bore some resemblance to those back in the Empire. They were uplifting beats, but what they were about she had no clue. The Guardsmen had formed four files of ten, twenty in front of the princess and twenty behind, with her large (and no doubt handsome) knight clad in black walking by the palanquins side. The handmaidens including Aiofe were directly behind the princess, followed by the Imperial Guardsmen, whom in turn were followed by a rabble of merchants and lords with their own servants and vassals around them. It was a miniature parade and people in the street were stopping to watch the procession.
One man strayed too close and came in front of the most forward Guardsmen, too entranced to have the good sense to move. Aoife tilted her head to the side a little to get a better look and was just in time to see the Guardsmen push the man forcefully out of the way, sending him sprawling to the ground. Some around laughed at that, but Aoife mentally chided the fool for standing in the road like a dullard. No one stands in the way of the Princess, or the Imperial Guard.
Being a handmaiden wasn't that bad and it came with all sorts of perks. First and foremost being though, was that all Royal handmaidens were taught how to do far more than to simply serve food and clean clothes. Aoife wiped fought the urge to wipe the bead of sweat away from her face as she walked. There was indeed many things taught to those who served the High King. Aoife could not help but smile at the thought and turned her gaze up briefly to spy the Red Keep coming into view.
It was not as large as the palace-fortress of Rubicon, but it was still an immense structure, towering above the city. A marvel of engineering, architecture, wealth, and power all in equal measure.
In the endless seas of the Dothraki, where the grass grew as tall as a man and all the shades of the sky streamers, a single tall figure dressed all in black plate with a bastard sword and a red inlaid cape walked. As if with each step that the figure took it conquered the ground where its black plate boot touched the ground with only the barest whisper of sound. There was no clink, no rattle of heavy plate or mail, as if the armour had been perfectly grafted to the figure's form and there was no need to rattle, for there was no looseness for it to rattle. Glittering gold eyes peered out from the slit in the midnight black full helm, and they seemed to almost glow as if from an internal fire that no man could see.
The figure was tall, but by no means massive, standing at an even six feet and owning every inch of it. The road that the figure travelled was dirt, barely more than a horse trail and in all probability it probably was. In Dothraki, those who could not ride were considered less than human, but outcasts and pariah's, the useless and the lame. The figure had much gold, more than enough to suit its needs, but it purchased no horse, rode on no charger, hired no waggon, for it needed none. All it needed was to find the one who it had been told to find, one who was the figure had been sent to find. The figures task was as of yet unclear, though would become clear when it found the one it was searching for.
Many would say it foolhardy to walk around in full plate without an immediate battle pending, much less walk in it for a great journey for it would tire out the wearer to the point of exhaustion before they had gone but a league on foot, especially the amount of pitch black armour adorned the figure. But the figure doggedly put one foot in front of the other as if the armour it wore weighed no more than a simply travelling cloak and breeches and indeed the figure could run many leagues in its armour before it began to feel winded.
A knight of the Fallen Grace was not what the people of Eridus thought of when they thought of a knight. In Eridus, a knight served the people. Highborn, lowborn, and all those in between the two. They were the wardens, the law, the judges, and they were the arbitrators. Their oaths bid them to a code of chivalry that bound them to all the peoples of the land and if ever broken, or their knightly conduct called into question, they were stripped of their armour and their knighthood, cast out and shunned. They were to loot no homes, rape no women, and were to spare the blood of the innocent, even in times of war. This was enforced as much as by the High King as it was by their fellows. They had heard of the conduct of knights in the Seven Kingdoms and had been appalled by it. The Fallen Grace, as well as the Angel Guard though, were different.
A member of the Angel Guard was first and always loyal to the high king. The high king's will was there's, his orders their deepest desire, his word, like the voice of God himself. They were bound by no law, no code, no moral obligation, but the high king's. The members of the Fallen Grace were similar, but different at the same time.
They had a grandmaster that they followed, but who could not command them. No one knew how to join one of their number, but every year there were new and different members of the black who wandered the land looking for purpose, a reason to live, a reason to sacrifice themselves for another, or a reason to kill all those before them. They were peerless as warriors and no lord could command them, no law bind them. They spoke to none but members of their own order and to those they chose. Either to serve, respect, or to kill. To have a member of the Fallen Grace as your sworn vassal, was to have a servant who would defy death itself and spit in the grey man's face to carry out its duty. They were unwavering, unflinching, and completely devoted. Many had slept easy at night as the chosen lord of one of the silent knights. Those that they chased though, could find amnesty in neither heaven or hell, for neither would ever keep them safe from the gold eyes and black swords of the Fallen Grace. From who's grace they had fallen from though, no one knew.
There were riders in the distance, the Forsaken could see them, but did not shy away. Those who wore the midnight black of the Fallen Grace were those who had lost purpose, lost substance, and feared no mortal enemy and no mortal end. No more than a half-dozen riders were heading in the Forsaken's direction, wearing the oiled leathers favoured by the Dothraki, their bronzed skin dark under the watchful Dothraki sky and one had many bells that jingled as he rode, several of his lesser fellows rode with him, some with fewer bells, others with none. In Dothraki those who did not ride were thought to only be fit to be ridden down. The Forsaken had no quarrel with these men, these nomadic Dothraki, but if they would not let it pass in peace, it would pass them in pieces.
The Dothraki pulled up their horses around the lone knight, their horses nickering softly, the smell of oil, mixed with leather, and sweat from human and horse hung heavy it the air. They circled the Forsaken, but the black clad knight merely kept walking, ignoring their jibes, calling it such things as milkman and horseless as if the Forsaken cared any bit for what those it was not drawn to felt or said about it.
"Where is your horse milkman? Did it die from your crude care? Will no horse bear you out of shame? Have you no tongue with which to speak, or has the sun cooked it in your suit of tin?" Those without horses were below contempt in Dothraki, as well as were those who fought behind layers of armour and would not show their face to their enemies. The Forsaken ignored them and kept walking, uttering not a word. As if it simply did not see it's tormentors for it did not feel tormented, they were nothing to it. If anything the silence infuriated the Dothraki and the one with the most bells blocked the Forsaken's path. This the Forsaken took notice to, for now its duty was in jeopardy and that could not be allowed. Golden eyes focused on the rider above it, a man kissed by the sun and his hair black as old night. Bells tinkled softly in the breeze and there were many bells in its beard. It's horse was a brown stallion, fierce and wild, but completely subservient to the man riding it.
"Take off your armour and throw down your weapons milkman and we will allow you to live as a slave. If you do, we will not kill you, and what you have will be gifts for the Khal and his Khaleesi. If your refuse, we will kill you and take what you have anyways. What say you milkman?"
The Forsaken looked at the man with it's golden eyes and without saying a word, began trying to walk around the Dothraki. The Dothraki brought his mount around again and the stallion reared in front of the Forsaken, when it came back down, its hooves a mere inch from the Forsaken's armoured boots, a sword was in the Dothraki's hand. His riders all drew their own, ready to strip or kill the Forsaken on a word.
"You will surrender or die milkman," said the Dothraki still speaking in his native tongue. The Forsaken understood him perfectly.
"There will be death, but I fear it will not be my own," said the Forsaken in a soft feminine voice. The Dothraki had differing looks on their faces, scorn, amusement, outrage, surprise, but they all turned hard as the Forsaken drew her bastard sword before a man could blink and thrust it through the neck of the stallion and into the chest of The Dothraki. There was a choked whinny of pain and a gasp of disbelief as blood from both stallion and man soaked into the thirsty Dothraki soil. There was a soft tinkling of bells as man and horse fell. When they stopped, the only one left alive was the forsaken, five dead men and five dead horses surrounded her, blood quickly fleeing her blade and armour as if unwilling to stay on her. Gold eyes spared no second looks for the dead as the Forsaken began walking again. As she crested a hill, near the end of the day, the sun barely hanging in the sky, she saw a great camp with many thousands of horses and men. Women and children moved about and slaves tended to their needs as well as to the needs of the screamers or other warriors of their tribe. The Forsaken started down the hill after standing for a time and watching the camp. It was night by the time she reached the outskirts.
With her cloak done up to hide the red, the Forsaken walked right past the guards posted around the camp, her footsteps making no sound on the soft ground as she walked. Silent as a spectre she moved among the tents of the Khal, there but unseen and unnoticed. She didn't know where she was going, but at the same time knew exactly where she had to be. It was a compulsion among all those who joined the Order of the Fallen Grace. To seek out ones destiny and find those they were drawn to, whether to protect or kill, it was never certain. A great tent nearer the middle of the camp drew her attention and the forsaken headed straight for it, heedless of any obstacle and anyone in her path. So single minded was she in her purpose, that she no longer even attempted to be stealthy in her approach. The first to notice and try to detain her died from a single sword stroke.
There were soon cries and more and more Dothraki began trying to bar her way, but the Forsaken kept on moving like the hand of fate, her blade moving in a constant figure eight, parrying, blocking, and killing all who came before her. They fell as their great arakhs were swatted aside like a petulant child's hands and they fell in pools of their own blood. The pace of the Forsaken never changing, walking through the storm of Dothraki riders. Blood ran in rivulets down her midnight black armour, and none could stand before her. Skin, muscle, bone, leather, steel, all shattered and broke beneath the might of her black blade. She struck without mercy, turning away groups as large as six in half as many strokes. She was like a dancer with a blade, twisting just enough, moving her head at just the right angle, movements barely more than twitches and yet no steel ever marred her pristine armour. Nothing even came close to touching the Forsaken, as if she was a goddess of death let loose amongst mortals.
The riders of the Dothraki are brave men however, and even as they saw their fellows torn asunder by a single warrior with near effortless skill, they pressed on relentlessly against the Forsaken. Men bellowed their war cries, whips cracked the evening air, steel clashed with a thunderous might, bow strings snapped, and death cries sounded for every step the Forsaken took. As she fought, she never made a sound, never uttered a grunt, never bellowed in rage, only moved forward with her golden eyes flickering to each new threat as they came before her. Switching flawlessly and effortlessly between a one handed and two handed grip, blocking her back as easily as she did the front in a chorus of ringing steel and rending flesh. A trail of the dead and severed limbs marked her passage to the great tent, there were no wounded or dying, because she did not miss. There were only the dead.
As the last fell, the Forsaken could hear more coming and knew that she could not slay them all, but in a moment more it would not matter. She would have her answer, her purpose. Death was merely an inconvenience that delayed purpose. For too many years had she wandered with no reason to live. For too many years she had wandered without a lord to serve. For too many years she had been so...empty. Tonight she would fill herself completely, or shatter the cup entirely. No more wandering, no more existing without a purpose. She would find purpose tonight, or death would find her.
The silken folds of the tent were parted, and before the forsaken stood four women, girls really. Two with bronzed skin, black hair, and the almond eyes of the Dothraki. Another with blond hair and blue eyes. They stood in front of the fourth, the one dressed in the most detailed painted leather clothes, one with platinum hair and purple eyes. That was the one, and with a sense of elation so seldom felt, the Forsaken strode forward, blood running over the dark plates of her armour, golden eyes ablaze with renewed purpose and vigour, sword held at the ready in her hand.
The one with the platinum hair and purple eyes pushed the others aside despite their protests, and stood before the Forsaken.
"Who are you and why have you come here?" demanded the one with the platinum hair, the one whom the Forsaken had come all this way to meet, to see what her fate would have her do to this girl. She had fear in her, the Forsaken could sense it, but she was mastering it. There was something else there too, something in the blood rising to the fore. Something great. "Why have you killed so many to get to me, have you come to kill me as well? Have you come to claim the lordship placed upon my head?" The Forsaken raised her sword and the other girls quailed, but the one in front of her stood her ground. She knew what she had to do, the Forsaken could feel it like a fire raging inside of her that could only ever be sated with the act.
The Forsaken took her bastard sword in both hands and knelt before her lord, her master, offering up the blade, head bowed in total subservience.
"I have travelled far to find you my master. Long have I searched for one worthy of the service of my blade and one worthy for me to call lord. If you will take my sword, I will be yours from this moment on as your most loyal and dedicated vassal. I will live day and night to serve you, your will is mine, your desires my only thoughts. I will be your sword, your shield, your armour, your protector until the end of time. I bare before you my very soul to do with as you wish. Use me, wield me, and if you so ever choose, discard me. If you do not wish for my service, then take up my sword and strike me down, I will not resist. If you accept me though, my soul is yours and that of your family until no more remain or you discard me as unworthy. This contract is eternally binding, I will not act, not speak, not breathe without your consent. If you so choose to, you may have me take my own life, or do it yourself. You already have my soul." The Forsaken held her sword above her head towards Daenerys head bowed, willing to accept any judgement that she decided to deal out.
"You are a woman?" asked Daenerys in surprise. "How is a woman a knight? I thought that Sers' could only be men from noble houses anointed by the oils of the seven."
"A knight of the Fallen Grace can be any who choose to pick up the mantle. All that is required is the will and the skill to find one's destiny and place after being cast down from what we were. It matters little what hangs between my legs, only what dwells within my breast."
"What land are you from that this is allowed?"
"I have come from the land of Eridus across the Shifting Sea, where the ways of old and the ways of the new have conflicted amongst each other for centuries. Now, there is peace and peace is no place for a warrior my lady. I am meant to fight, to protect, to serve, yet I found none worthy there of my skill, or protection. In Eridus, a blade is still a blade, no matter who it is wielded by, no matter what some there would think."
"Khaleesi, send it away, I beg you," pleaded Doreah. "No good can come of such a thing, it isn't human."
"It will be alright," said Daernerys to quell the trembling woman's fears.
Daenerys took the sword from the Forsaken in a two-handed grip expecting it to be heavy, but finding it as light as a feather. The Forsaken's head did not rise in the slightest. Daenerys took the bastard blade and laid it upon the the Forsaken's shoulder pauldron. The Forsaken's head tilted ever so slightly to the side, revealing pale flesh in the gap between helm and armour should Daenerys not wish her service. Blood from the slain Dothraki still clung to her armour in angry red blotches. The sound of approaching warriors was loud now and any second they would be upon the tent.
"Rise and take up your sword my vassal," said Daenerys tapping first one shoulder, then the other with the black blade. As she touched the second shoulder, a golden light travelled from the Forsaken to Daenerys and back again, almost making Daenerys drop the sword in surprise. The Forsaken tenderly took back her blade and sheathed it, unfathomable gratitude and the beginnings of tears in her golden eyes.
"My master, you have made me whole again and I can not describe the joy you have brought me. Please, grace me with your name master so that I may sing praises of you until the oceans dry up and the sun extinguishes."
"You do not even know my name, yet you sought me ought to serve me?" asked Daenerys in disbelief.
"Yes master, you called to me."
"Called to you? How did I call to you?"
"There is greatness in you master, your very tread will cause the world to shake with your passing. I wish to be at your side and serve you in whatever way you deem. So grant me this small request master, please, tell me your name and complete the bond."
"What bond? What sort of deal am I making?"
"A deal in which you control every part of it. You will have my blade to use, or discard as you will. If you ever wish you may even break the contract, but I never can. Please master, allow me to serve you, I beg you," pleaded the Forsaken, sinking to her knees and pressing her helmeted head into the dirt by Daenerys feet. Her voice that of one seeking their last chance at redemption, full of desperate hope and fear of rejection.
"Khaleesi, this thing is a cursed thing, please send it away!" said Irri. "Beings like this bring only death with them, it is known. It is a an evil spirit!" Daernys looked down at the black clad armoured warrior woman grovelling at her feet.
"I am Daernys Targaryen, blood of the dragon and the Khaleesi of Khal Drogo. I am Stormborn and true queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Who exactly...are you?"
"I may now call myself Ser Brielle master. You have restored my purpose, given me a cause. My life is with meaning. With this I can...I will... My lady, I am found again," said Ser Brielle joyously, her golden eyes brimming with tears of joy. "I never thought to know this peace again, oh, I am blessed master," said Ser Brielle rising and embracing Daernys like a man dying of thirst reaches for water. Holding her tightly against herself and for once closing her golden eyes and a few sparkling tears came forth.
Ser Brielle slowly reached up and removed her helmet, her eyes only ever leaving Daenerys own when the black steel passed by them. The face that was revealed might as well have been carved from granite and sculpted by an artist. A woman with ash blonde shoulder length hair and large soulful golden eyes stared at Daernys. Every feature sharp, yet delicate. Her face was inviting, beautiful, and filled with complete adoration for the girl before her. Black armoured arms linked behind Daenerys head and pulled her close so that only a fingers width separated them.
"I am yours Khaleesi," whispered Ser Brielle as she leaned in and kissed Daenerys full on the lips, in a chaste, but intimate kiss. A shimmer of blue light appeared and trailed back to Ser Brielle's lips as she kissed Daenerys and pulled away. When she finished, she stroked a strand of platinum hair away from startled violet eyes. Armoured hands as tender as a lover's caress. "Eternaliter fidelis domino meo, angelus custos factus sum mihi lapsum erat," the strange words flowed like out of Ser Brielle's mouth like water over crystal. Lyrical and delicate, yet strong and hard. "Semper te amo ex amino, magistro meo, draco meum." Ser Brielle kissed Daenerys again, but this time on the forehead. "Tuis in perpetuum,usque ad consummaitonem temporis. Et ultra. Deus meus es tu nunc, Daenerys."
Irri, Doreah, and Jhiqui quailed at seeing what they thought was Ser Brielle taking Daenerys's soul, but quieted with a gesture from Daenerys. Her lilac eyes studying the woman before her intently.
"What are you?" asked Daenerys.
The tent flaps burst inwards and standing before them was none other than Khal Drogo himself, arakh in his hand, and fire blazing in his eyes. His many bells tinkled as he moved, his long mane of hair weighed down with victories unblemished by defeat. Even with his chest bare and only a pair of hastily donned riding pants, he dwarfed the Armoured Brielle in both height and girth, despite the heavy plate that she wore. Just as quickly as it had come, the joy left Ser Brielle's golden orbs and they became diamond hard as she whirled around and brought her sword around into a defensive stance, holding it in a two handed diagonal guard. The black blade ringing shrilly as it was drawn, as if eager for yet more blood.
"You will not draw your blade in the presence of my khal and husband. Sheathe your blade Ser Brielle," demanded Daenerys.
"As you wish, my Khaleesi," said Ser Brielle sheathing her blade and standing before Khal Drogo, her golden eyes never wavering from those of his. There was open contempt in the eyes of the Dothraki, but also a wariness. There was a woman bearing arms before them as no woman had any right to do so, but there was also a literal trail of dead leading to the tent and their blood decorated this woman's pitch armour.
One of Drogo's warriors went to relieve Ser Brielle of her blade at an order from Drogo, but was forced to the ground as his wrist was caught in a bone crushing grip by the golden-eyed knight. Her eyes never showing anger or violence in her actions, instead a near inhuman expression of judgement. Her soft features were no different holding down the man than when she had been staring down Drogo. Drogo started forwards, but Daenerys stepped in front of both Ser Brielle and Khal Drogo.
"My sun and stars, wait," said Daernerys holding up her hands to halt her Drogo. "This woman has pledged herself to my service and wishes nothing but do my every bidding."
"She is a liar," spat out Drogo angrily. "The blood of my khalasar still sticks to her, each drop demanding vengeance. Even now she brings pain to one of my warriors, how can she serve you when she does nothing but destroy what we have?" Drogo turned to Ser Brielle who still held the Dothraki warrior in her bone crushing grip, the warriors face white with pain.
"My Khaleesi says you serve her woman, but yet you are covered with the blood of those who died to protect her. Tell me why I should believe her, tell me why I should spare you." Golden eyes gave no answer as Ser Brielle stayed motionless, her muscles taught and her delicate lips in a firm line. A member of the Fallen Grace would only ever speak to those they served, and those they respected. And respect had to be won through valorous and great actions. Not threats. There was one other way that one of their order would speak to another though. That way was if they intended to kill you. Ser Brielle however, remained silent.
"You mock me milkwoman? You remain silent even as the blood of my warriors stains your armour? I will pry the words from your mouth even if I must cut it out." Drogo pushed Daenerys aside and advanced on Ser Brielle, the black armoured hands of the Fallen Grace Knight flexing, forming into formidable spiked fists as she did not but stare, releasing the Dothraki at her side to nurse his injured hand.
"You will kneel before my Khal!" commanded Daenerys, the whip-crack tone of authority in her voice. Silent as a statue, Ser Brielle fell to one knee before Drogo, head bowed in subservience, golden eyes downcast. "Lower," said Daenerys. Ser Brielle fell to two knees. "Lower!" barked out Daenerys and Ser Brielle sank down and leaned onto her forearms, head bowed in the dirt at Drogo's feet. The blood of the dead Dothraki, drying into crusty brown spots on her armour.
"She will do whatever I say and however I wish it," said Daenerys quietly. "She had bonded herself to me as no other knight ever could. I may use her or discard her as I wish. My sun and stars, allow her to pay for her crimes by serving me. I would consider it a great gift from you if you would allow it, my Khal." Drogo studied Daenerys with his dark, powerful eyes. Emotions warring clearly in them, neither side gaining ground to the other. On one hand his love for Daenerys wished for her every wish to come true, but on the other, a mere woman had taken up arms and killed men of his khal. There needed to be a punishment for the crime, but he still desired to make his Khaleesi happy in all matters.
"She will betray you moon of my life, and I will not have your blood on this riderless wench's armour," said Drogo raising his great arakh above Ser Brielle's head.
"Wait! What if I could prove that she was loyal beyond a doubt?"
"A test?" asked Drogo, considering the proposal.
"Yes, to prove that she is loyal," said Daenerys eagerly.
"How would you test this? Any task that you gave to this woman could be turned against you or done with trickery. I will see you give her no task," said Drogo adamantly.
"She said that I held her very soul in hands, that she would do anything that I commanded without hesitation and that if I ever so chose I could take her life and she would not resist. Let me show her devotion from that."
"She will draw no weapon with you present."
"Then I will take her blade for myself," said Daenerys reaching down and drawing Ser Brielle's bastard sword effortlessly, like it weighed no more than a willow wand. "Look at me," commanded Daenerys and the golden-eyed woman responded instantly and obeidently. "No matter what happens you will not move. Do you understand?"
"Your wish is my purpose, cui servio in amore in Dominium. Nunc et petpetuum. Your command will be obeyed, my khaleesi."
Daenerys took the black blade and rested the tip of it against Ser Brielle's throat. She did not do so much as blink. Daenerys pushed until the sword drew blood, then further still, yet Ser Brielle did not so much as flinch. Taking the sword back, Daenerys stuck it tip first into the ground.
"You see? Her life is in my hands my sun and stars. She would die just because I willed it. Do you see now?"
"She could just be tyring to save her life, death awaits her at either path," said Drogo watching Ser Brielle mistrustfully.
"But you will not kill her?"
"She will walk chained behind the khalasar in her armour and must keep pace with us as we move. She will stand in the sun all day and not allowed to bathe or remove her armour to relieve herself. If she survives a month on water and bread while running, she will be allowed to guard you, but under no other condition."
"But-"
"My Khaleesi, it is alright. I will survive and I will serve you regardless. I will wait one more month if it means that I can be your guardian for eternity," said Ser Brielle in her lyrically soft voice calm and assured, heedless of the blood dribbling down her neck. Daenerys wished to protest further, but the calm confidence that the woman displayed was humbling and made her believe that she could indeed survive the ordeal.
"Very well," said Daenerys. Drogo's bloodriders hauled Ser Brielle to her feet and took her out of the tent, but not before she ran a hand across the growing bulge of Daenery's pregnancy.
"He will be strong," said Ser Brielle, before Jhogo struck her for touching Daenerys to which she did not even flinch.
"One month," said Daenerys to Drogo. "One month and she will be mine to command."