Chapter One: The Ladyknight
The wind was cold atop the high hill, blowing through the mane of Freya's white mount. Beneath her thick layer of armor she could not feel it; she paid the weather no mind. Off in the distance was the enormous body of the king's party making their way north, towards Winterfell. High lords, king's guards and freeriders alike moved as one behind the giant wheelhouse that housed the queen and her children. Towards the front of the procession, Freya could make out the king from the standard bearers that surrounded him and another rider in gold she knew to be the Ser Jaime Lannister.
Winterfell lay just beyond them, only a few hours march, which was the reason she'd chosen to join them at this particular moment. It saved her having to travel nearly a month with the enormous assemblage; the obnoxious lords, shady merchants, drunken sellswords and grabby knights who couldn't seem to keep their cocks in their pants long enough to wait for the whorehouses, which weren't quite as readily available in the North as they were back in King's Landing.
She slipped the visor of her copper-colored helm down over her face and set off towards them, hoping to join unnoticed. But word had long spread across Westeros of the so called 'Ladyknight' and her deeds, both good and bad. Wishing only to lead a quiet life by her own principles, with the anonymity even whores could award their callers, Freya had been quick to learn that a woman wearing armor and brandishing a sword was deemed appropriate material for tavern rumors, and soon she had found herself recognized and under the scrutiny of men who thought themselves better fighters. Though the braver ones had been proven wrong on that account, Freya could not shake the nickname, and so held it close instead, using it where she could to gain favors that would otherwise have been denied to a woman of her standing.
It soon became apparent that this was to be one of those occasions.
As one of the last to enter beneath the raised portcullis, the rider in dark orange armour had yet to be noticed by any of the Starks. In fact, anyone who had entered after the king and his family might as well have been invisible for all the difference it made. Yet, as they dismounted their horse and denied the stableboy its reins, the king himself called them over.
Nearby, Queen Cersei rolled her eyes and ushered her youngest children inside the wheelhouse. Her husband had an unnatural fascination with all things ridiculous, which is exactly what the queen thought of this woman posing as a man. Watching the so called 'Ladyknight' approach her husband, she exchanged a disapproving look with her brother, Jaime.
"Is this really necessary, my love?" she asked the king, her voice kept low for courtesy's sake. But Robert believed in no such notion, and dismissed her with a loud and rude 'Quiet, woman!'
Cersei glanced at the Starks one last time before returning to the wheelhouse with what little dignity her husband left her.
King Robert clapped his old friend, Eddard, on the back with a jolly laugh as the orange armor knelt before him.
"Up, up," he said, the stink of wine on his breath. "Ned, I had nearly forgotten. This one joined us practically outside your gates. A gift for your oldest, perhaps?"
Ned gazed at the king, unsure of what to make of this, and saw his son Robb looking startled from his place among his siblings. When Ned glanced at the one in front of them he was certain they looked uncomfortable, even though he couldn't make out much of them beneath their armor. Catching the expression, Robert only laughed again.
"I am only joking, of course," he chuckled. "Surely you've heard of the dear Ladyknight?"
"I have," Ned admitted.
She removed her helm, then; tight, honey-colored waves spilling out from beneath it. Her face was one made for gentle looks; doe-eyed, soft-lipped and fair. Instead, she wore a somber expression, bordering on indifference. From the corner of his eye, Ned could see Arya whispering excitedly to her older brother.
The Ladyknight wore a sword at her hip and a dagger on her belt, and her helm was curiously shaped; that much Ned could see. As he tried to work out what animal it might have been, Robert made a brief introduction.
"Lord Stark, an honor," the Ladyknight told him, her voice deep and breathy; a surprise to him.
"Enough, enough, enough," King Robert said, quickly tiring of his own fancies, "We've come a bloody long way, and there'll be time for all this nonsense later, surely. Now we must eat 'til we burst, and drink 'til we're pissing beer. And perhaps tomorrow the lady can demonstrate how it is she got her title."
Ned noted the sword at the woman's side; Valyrian steel, he was certain. Its hilt was wrapped with leather dyed black and tipped with an orange and black dog-like head. The weapon had been a gift, no doubt, to match the rest of her armor.
Taking the king's words as her cue to leave, Freya led her horse back towards the stables, where she would see to its needs herself. She'd never allowed anyone else to do so, and neither had the horse.
Ferox had been given to her as a gift from her uncle, who had discovered the horse when he'd ventured past the Wall. As a member of the Night's Watch, Rowan Bainhart had been on a ranging mission with his fellow brothers, when they'd come across a herd of wild horses drinking from a stream. The way he told it, all the horses had fled at the sight of them, save for one daring little foal, who then spent the remainder of the journey following the men at a distance. Try as they might to get close enough to put a rope around its neck, the colt was too clever to be caught, and always shied away at the last moment, as if to mock them.
Eventually it followed them back to Castle Black, where it proceeded to trail after Rowan like a puppy with its master. Though it seemed funny to him for a while, Rowan soon grew weary of his brothers' jokes and made for Blessbind, home of House Bainhart in the Reach, with the foal in tow. It followed him all the way there without trouble.
The horse now followed Freya everywhere when she wasn't actually riding it, but there were times when it was only practical to keep him locked in a stable, much to Ferox's displeasure. Though he'd put up a fuss when it came to being housed, he had always been protective of her and he barely needed any instructions when mounted; it was as if their minds were one, and for that she could excuse him of any ill behavior.
Watching Freya leave with unconcealed interest (particularly in the lower portion of her body), the king turned back to Ned.
"I've heard strange things of that woman and her animal," he told him, "Though there are so many stories out there about women lying with horses, I'm surprised there aren't more centaurs running about the countryside."
He laughed merrily at his own jape, a deep belly laugh, and clapped Ned on the back once more. Glad as he might have been to see his old friend again, Ned couldn't help but wonder just how long he intended to stay.
At the feast that night, Freya found herself seated at a table with those not good enough to sit with the high lords, but not low enough to sit with the commoners. It was a middle ground she often seemed to find herself in, but not one she disliked. She'd shed her armor for a better suited doublet of dark grey with a her house sigil stitched on the front in a dark orange thread, a pair of grey trousers and worn leather boots. Her doublet was cinched in around the waist by a thin strip of leather, giving her a decidedly more feminine figure, despite the dagger she had kept with her – she had learnt a long time ago that it was unwise to go anywhere unarmed, even if it was the king's welcoming feast.
Among those present at her table were Theon Greyjoy and Jon Snow; a ward of Winterfell and Lord Eddard's bastard, respectively. Theon's eyes had graced her more than a few times that night, but she'd soon come to realize that he'd ogle anything with breasts if they got close enough. Jon, on the other hand, had glanced longingly up at his father's table and now stared blankly down at his meal without actually touching any of the food.
Freya found herself seated between a pair of particularly rowdy men, accustomed to their loud, impolite behavior. She enjoyed her meal in silence, observing those around her rather than actually interacting with them, but when the man to her left got into a shoving match with his buddy and spilled a horn full of ale onto her lap, she had no choice. Hearing the men's laughter grow louder, Jon glanced over and watched as Freya put a hand on the brute's shoulder and whispered something in his ear. The laughter died from the man's face and so did the color. He was quick to apologize.
Freya had never much been one for drinking, preferring to keep a clear head when she could, and she'd soon had enough food. She contented herself with watching all the drunken behavior, catching glimpses of men's hands disappearing down bodices, more drinks spilled, and even a couple of punches thrown. But one man's behavior in particular caught her attention: the king's. His face was red from all the wine and he was already making his way into the crowd. A couple of serving girls found themselves snatched up into his grasp, giggling coyly at his slurred, filthy language and roaming hands. As soon as she saw him looking in her direction, Freya knew it was time to leave. He was making an attempt to reach her when she passed silent as a shadow through the castle doors. The Northern weather was making itself know outside, and she found herself wishing she'd remembered to bring her cloak with her.
"Having an early night, my lady?" a voice said from behind her. Startled, she turned to find Tyrion Lannister seated on the stone steps with a cup of hot wine in one hand, and a thick woollen coat over his shoulders. "Or perhaps leaving before one of those drunkards can make their move."
He chuckled to himself and she found herself wondering if perhaps that wasn't his first cup of wine for the evening.
"One drunkard in particular, actually."
"Oh?"
"Your brother-in-law," she answered, before remembering herself. "Forgive me, my lord. I should not speak of the king in such a way."
"Of course you should. We're taught from a very young age to always tell the truth, are we not?"
He noticed the dagger at her side.
"Expecting trouble?"
She glanced down at her weapon and laid a hand on its hilt as if for reassurance.
"Always," she replied.
Tyrion smiled.
Freya was woken the following morning by one of the king's own squires, a girlish-looking young man with the hair and features common to the Lannisters. King Robert had not thought to send a handmaid, as most other men and women were like to do, since it was only proper for a young woman to be called upon by someone of the same sex. It was of little importance to Freya, however, modesty being the least of her concerns after the boy made his announcement.
"King Robert asks for your presence in the courtyard."
"Did he say for what purpose?"
The boy scowled, as if offended by her questioning.
"I do not question the king's orders. And nor should you. He only said you should dress for combat."
The orders needn't have been any clearer than that. The king appeared to have remembered his words from the previous day, though Freya had been hoping all that wine would have drowned them from his mind; and now he expected her to demonstrate the reason men called her 'the Ladyknight'.
By the time she reached the courtyard, in full armor as per the instructions, she found a small crowd waiting for her. The king was seated on a low balcony that overlooked the stone courtyard, with Ned Stark beside him looking uncertain. To Robert's right stood Jaime Lannister, dashing in his gold-plated armor.
He means to challenge me, Freya realized, her chest tightening. She'd witnessed Jaime Lannister in combat once or twice before. She did not want to be on the receiving end of his blade.
"Ah, Lady Freya!" the king boomed as soon as he saw her, getting to his feet with the grace of a three-legged donkey. He appeared to still be drunk from the previous night's celebrations, (or perhaps just hadn't stopped drinking at all), but he spoke well enough.
"I've a few men eager to test their skill against yours, if you're up to it. What say you?"
"It'd be an honor, Your Grace," she replied, realizing the irony of his title as she watched him chug down another horn of beer. He slammed the cup down on the ledge and gestured to the crowd.
"This lot came to see if there was any truth to the rumors. I expect you'll show them how it is."
"I'll certainly try."
"Alright, enough of this. Who's first?"
"That would be me, Your-"
"Yes, yes," the king said impatiently, "Come forward then, or do you expect her to fight you from all the way over there?"
A middle-aged man with graying hair stepped forward, one of the freeriders that had latched on to the king's party during the journey from King's Landing. His leather armor looked far lighter than Freya's, and he strolled into the middle of the court with his sword already drawn. She could see from his expression that in his mind he had already won the fight.
"And what do you call yourself?"
"Willem Hafter, if it pleases you, Your Grace."
"What would please me is if you got to the fighting already."
Freya placed her helm down over her head and stepped towards the freerider, drawing her sword. The king settled himself back down into his seat with a grin, and gestured for them to begin. It was over in seconds.
Confident that he was stronger than any woman, Willem swept his blade down on her, expecting that she would be unable to block it. Instead of meeting the attack, however, Freya stepped out of the way and used his own momentum to knock him to the ground with a well-placed kick. He had not taken speed into consideration, and had certainly not expected to be attacked with anything but a blade. Lying on the cold stone ground, he felt her press her foot between his shoulders, and then the cold steel tip of her blade on his neck.
She waited for the words.
"I yield," he finally mumbled, raising his hands as much as he could. Too ashamed to face the king, he bowed quickly out of respect and stalked off through the crowd looking downtrodden and bruised.
Robert looked utterly disappointed.
"I pray that was just a warm up. May the next man be worthy of wielding a blade!"
The next challenger was one of Ned Stark's own men, Jory Cassel. There was a touch of hesitation in his movement as he came forward. He gave a respectful little bow to the king before drawing his weapon and facing Freya. She had raised her visor after the last fight, and looked her new opponent up and down, judging him to be a decent challenge. He'd witnessed her speed and made sure not to give her the opportunity to use it, slashing and dodging this way and that so as not to leave an opening. She quickly grew tired of blocking his attacks, and jumped backwards to create some distance.
This incited some negative feedback from the crowd.
"Face him properly, coward!"
"She's retreating!"
"She's 'ad enough!"
"The bitch is beat!"
And then laughter.
Jory saw her hand clench around the hilt of her sword, and for a moment Freya was completely still, her sword held before her. Jory glanced up at Ned, who gave him a supportive nod before his expression changed. He turned to see what was wrong and was met with cold metal as Freya's gauntlet connected with his jaw. The blow caught him off guard and he stumbled back, losing his footing and biting his tongue as he landed. Spitting blood, he looked up at Freya, who was coming in for the finishing blow, but he raised his arm up in defense.
"I yield, my lady."
With her sword still pointed at him, Freya looked around at the crowd, who'd grown considerably quieter by then. Lowering her weapon, Freya held out a hand and helped him up as much as she could – she may have been fast, but it was a difficult thing to lift a man whilst in armor.
Jory ran his tongue over a cut on his lip and watched the Ladyknight raise her visor once more. Her expression, or what he could see of it, was apologetic.
"You'll be wanting to get something on that before it swells," she suggested. He was surprised by the softness in her voice, finding it odd when compared to the viciousness she'd just displayed.
"I'll have the maester see to it."
He had enough dignity left to bow to the king once more before departing, heading in the opposite direction to the freerider before him.
"Alright, which of you fools is next?" the king shouted above the din, laughter in his voice.
"Let my dog have a turn. She'll be no match for him."
Freya hadn't even noticed Joffrey join his father's side, let alone the enormous man who acted his personal guard. Sandor Clegane, known to most as 'the Hound' for both his unique helm and his family sigil, looked down at the courtyard without emotion. Tyrion had also arrived sometime between the first fight and the second, and was leaning against the balcony railing, observing with interest.
"Quiet, boy," King Robert told his son, gesturing to the court, "someone's already stepped forward."
Freya found Theon Greyjoy standing behind her. She hadn't heard him approach over the noise of the crowd. He addressed the king in much the same way Jory had, but appeared far more eager to use his blade, a condescending smile on his face.
"Dirty fighting's not going to work on me," he told her, as they began to circle around.
"If a man fights well, that's valor. But if a woman fights well, it's dirty?"
"Most men win with their swords, not their fists and feet."
Freya flipped her visor down and started forward.
He was fast, this one. As she swept her blade across, Theon blocked the attack, stepping to the left and making an attempt at her open side. She dodged just in time and caught the smirk on his face. He knew he had her by surprise. She went for his legs this time, but he caught the blow and swung it upwards, going for her stomach, but again she jumped back. Freya stood still for a moment, as she had with Jory, weighing up her next move. If she continued the way she was now, she knew they would keep up this dance for hours. She thought back to the night before; the way he'd been eyeing off every female in the room. Then she had it.
She pushed her visor up and matched the boy's smirk.
"You're not bad, I'll give you that," she purred, her eyes alluring.
"I'm better than that." He hadn't missed the look she'd given him. She came at him again, their swords meeting between them, drawing them closer.
Smiling, she said, "I've heard it said that men good on the battlefield are even better in bed."
His eyes flicked to her grip on the valyrian sword, watching as her fingers stroked and squeezed the hilt. He'd suddenly forgotten his next move.
Freya broke the standoff and stepped back again, her eyes glinting with mischief. When she finally stepped towards him, Theon found himself watching her hips, rather than her sword, so when she whacked his hand with the flat of her blade, he had no time to step away. Instinctively, he dropped his own weapon and focused on the pain coursing through his fingers, letting out a 'yelp' of surprise. From somewhere above them, Freya could hear laughter, but she did not look up. Instead she moved towards her opponent in careful strides, hoping he would yield before she reached him; but he had far too much pride for that.
He tripped backwards over a loose stone and landed heavily on his ass, continuing to scuttle away from the woman even after that.
"Yield," she told him, her voice back to its usual tone.
Theon flicked a pebble up at her, but she caught it on her sword, sending it into the crowd.
"Yield," she said again, this time with more force.
He glared up at her, a dark scowl on his face, and then glanced over at his lost blade. Deciding it was too far to make a dash for, he consented.
"Fine," he spat. "I yield."
Then he saw her eyes; all the mischief had gone from them, and he realized it had all been an act. Anger thrashed around inside of him like the kraken of his family sigil. She'd beaten him with empty promises and, even worse, he had let her.
Freya turned to look back at the king, who was in the middle of a conversation with Jaime as they watched her, but the sound was overpowered by laughter once more. Looking around, Freya spotted two young men standing in a window, observing the fight below. Between them stood a little girl who looked absolutely thrilled by the scene below. Theon's scowl deepened when he saw his friends laughing at his defeat.
"You two!" the king's voice sounded across the courtyard. The laughter faded from the boys' faces as they realized who was addressing them. "You think you can fair better than this one? Get out here."
It was a few moments later that Jon and Robb appeared through the crowd. They bowed respectively to their king and looked up at their father with worry on their faces.
"Forgive us, Your Grace," Robb began, but the king waved a hand to stop him. Jon glanced back at the Ladyknight and to the sharp edge of her blade.
"Do you know how to fight, lad?" the king asked.
"He does, Your Majesty. I can attest to that," said Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, stepping forward with two swords.
"Good. And you?" Robert said, this time addressing Jon, "What about you?"
"I…I can, Your Grace."
"Well, then. Prove it."
Robb and Jon exchanged looks and caught the swords that Ser Rodrik tossed to them.
"Which of you is to be first?" the king asked.
"I'll have them both, my king," Freya told him.
The king laughed jubilantly at that.
"Aye, that's more like it. Well, you heard her." He gestured for them to begin, spilling half the contents of his cup onto the ground in the process. A clear look of concern marked Ned's face. He knew the fighting was only for play, but he also knew just how sharp Valyrian steel could be. Had it not been for the king's insistence that they fight with real steel, he would have had Rodrik gather the blunted, practice kind from the armory. Should Lady Freya or one of his boys misplace one step, it could well be their last.
Jon and Robb raised their weapons and took up a defensive stance, glancing back and forth from their opponent to each other. They took careful steps towards her as she pushed down her visor once more, and waited for her to make the first move. But it soon became clear that she waiting for them.
Robb made a meaningful gesture to his brother and Jon nodded, moving up behind the woman. With one of them behind her and one in front, she had no chance. How was she to see them both with a helm on? This considered, Robb did find it slightly odd that she didn't turn sideways to solve this problem, but he gave Jon another nod anyway and they made their attacks. Jon moved to bring his sword down right on top of her head, and Robb thrust his forward, hoping to catch her off guard while she blocked his brother's attack, but she did neither. Instead, she stepped backwards, out of reach of Robb's blade, and elbowed Jon in the stomach, ducking to avoid his steel. Jon doubled over and only just managed to escape her counter-attack, jumping backwards, and ducking.
Freya's focus was soon back on Robb, who came to his brother's aid with a powerful strike. She knocked the blow aside, but he quickly came back with another, not letting up until Jon had regained his balance. Snow re-joined them with a shout of exertion, and three swords came together, their sound echoing through the courtyard. The small crowd gave shouts of encouragement to the boys and cries of frustration as the Ladyknight managed to evade yet another of their attacks.
Jon came at her again with a little too much confidence, Robb's presence giving him more courage than was reasonable. Freya swung his attack around, using his own weight against him, and kicked him in the back of his knees, sending him to the ground. His breath was knocked out of him as he landed, and his arm flew up automatically to protect himself from any further attacks, but as soon as he'd fallen, Freya had turned to Robb, knowing he would come at her again as he had before. Their swords rang together, but this time Freya spun out of the way and pushed Robb in the side, knocking him off balance. He only just managed to block her next attack, but the force of it threw him further back, and it wasn't long before he too was on the ground. He looked up the length of the woman's sword, his expression solemn. But he had enough honor to say the words, knowing when he was beaten. Jon looked just as miserable - after all that effort, his arms already aching, he had still been defeated. And by a woman, too! He'd thought better of himself, and he could tell just from looking at him that Robb's thoughts were much the same.
He could not bear to look up at his father, for fear of seeing the shame in his eyes, but as the Ladyknight raised her helm and he met her eyes, he saw not triumph or mocking, but a softness he could not quite understand. She held her hand out to him to help him to his feet, and he hesitated a moment before accepting. She was surprisingly strong, he thought. After she'd helped Robb up, too, the three stood before the king and the boys had no choice but to face their father. He looked down at them but with far less shame then they'd been expecting. Above the din of the crowd, which was halfway between cheering and yelling for the sake of noise, Freya heard clapping and then a whistle. Glancing up, she saw it was Tyrion, whose brother was watching him with amusement.
"Well fought, lads," the king announced. "Would have been better had you not lost, I suppose."
There was a titter from the crowd, and Freya saw Jon's cheeks redden. He looked like a pup that had just been kicked by his master. Robb, however, stood tall, taking the defeat in his stride. Or at least appearing to – Freya noticed the way his jaw was clenched, and the tight grip on his sword hilt.
"And you, Lady Freya. You've certainly lived up to your reputation. Perhaps those here today will think twice before ever crossing you."
"Thank-you, Your Grace," said Freya, bowing her head respectfully.
Though the king's words seemed to make for an end to the fighting, Freya looked up at the Ser Jaime, wondering if he might be the last man to challenge her. Last, she thought, That seems very final. It would seem a shame if I were to meet my end at the hands of Jaime Lannister.
Though Ser Jaime seemed to be thinking along the same lines as her, she was surprised to see that Queen Cersei had appeared by his side and was whispering something in his ear. He looked at his sister as if to question her words, but seemed only able to obey whatever it was she had asked of him. For a moment, Freya wondered if the queen hadn't just warned him against challenging her. It was no secret that the queen had a strong dislike of the Ladyknight, finding her an unnatural thing, but perhaps that hatred had served Freya well on this day.
When she looked up again, she found another pair of eyes boring into her. The Hound was a hard man to read, his expression generally unaffected, and this occasion was no different. Still, she couldn't help but feel something lurking behind those cold eyes; perhaps he had wanted his turn with her after all.
A/N: Just a quick word. I'm currently going through my folder of fanfiction that I've had saved on my laptop for years. I began this story quite a long time ago, and have just enough for maybe 4-5 more chapters, if I stretch it. I'm mainly posting to see what sort of interest I get, and to see if it will be worth writing new chapters once I run our of pre-written material. Thanks for reading xx