The next day, I decide to visit Yten's tent before anything else.
We had a rather… exciting night, and I want to make sure he's not coping with it poorly.
I rub the sleep from my eyes. I stayed up all night pouring over the incredible journals of Mad Danielle Lothston, but I have no regrets.
The secrets contained within… well, I'll just say that it's a worthy candidate for the first spellbook I've ever written.
I push the tent open and see him sitting there, bent over a table writing missives, the crown perched upon his head.
I have to suppress a laugh at the way he constantly glances at the mirror, admiring the piece of headwear.
"You know…" I say, startling him, "this crown is rather… interesting."
He jumps up from where he's writing, rapidly removing the crown from his head. "Lady Ashara! I was… I mean…"
"Feel like a proper King yet, Yten?" I ask with a smirk, and he sighs.
He rests his face in his hands, desperate to change the subject. "You… said it was 'interesting'. How so?"
I laugh, gracefully deciding to move past his embarrassing behavior. Let no one say I'm not the greatest of saints! "I may not know much about magic, but if I did…"
He has the tact not to snort at that.
"Well, then I would say that this could be an extremely powerful artifact, in the right hands."
He looks at me in interest.
"Can you not feel it?"
He shakes his head.
"The hatred, the suffering, the rage that billows of this iron circlet."
"What do you mean?"
"Magic… it is a thing of narrative, a thing of symbols, a thing of destiny."
He looks at me with more interest. "Sometimes, there will be a… let's call it a 'totem', that acts to represent all of an event. This crown is one."
"…'totem'?"
"It's like… a symbol. All the hate and rage, all the hundreds of thousands of innocents Black Harren tortured to death to build his palace, all the blood and tears that have been baked into the mortar… all of them center around this crown."
"How?"
"Because of what it represents. This crown is the symbol of Harren's kingship, his armies, his navies, his cruel might. If Harren was just a man, he would be no more than an town bully, kicking cats and dogs in alleys. But with a crown…"
"…with a crown, he's a tyrant like Westeros has never seen" Yten finishes grimly. "We Voares know that more than anyone, given how our house was founded."
"Indeed. And more than that, this is an iron crown, one literally made of the stuff of the Riverlands' oppressors."
"The Ironborn."
"Aye. Symbols have meaning they have power, and in the Riverlands there is no greater symbol of tyranny than cold iron. To this day only the lowliest of bandits will be caught using iron weapons, and only then out of desperation. The North is not the only place that remembers."
He pauses for a while in thought. "…am I cursed then, for entering here? The blood of Harren?"
I shake my head. "No, no, if you were truly of his line, perhaps. But you are the line of Aenys Voare, not Aenys Hoare, and that makes all the difference."
We continue in silence for a minute after that, until Ser Yten finally digests (heh) my words. "What… what could such an artifact do… in the right hands? Hypothetically, of course."
"Memories are powerful things, Ser Yten, and with magic the line between dream and reality is often much blurrier than we'd prefer. A memory of a curse can become a curse in truth, and be put to better use."
He gestures at me to go on.
"A ritualist, perhaps, could use it as the locus of some other grand working on a bloodline, or some water mage of the Rhoyne long-forgotten could make it so that that river's banks would swallow up all of Harren's blood who enter them."
"And… would you be a ritualist, then? Or a Rhoynish mage? Hypothetically, of course."
"No, unfortunately. All though I hope to one day learn… in theory, of course."
He glowers now, frustrated at my evasiveness. "What could you do, then?"
I just smile enigmatically. "Me? Nothing, I am just a warrior. But well… this crown is metal, is it not?"
Yten chuckles. "…and what is metal if not in want of a smith."
I nod. "Indeed, Ser Voare, indeed. A smith could make many things from such a storied object. Shackles to bind all those not of Harren's blood, an sword whose lightest scratch would bleed for hours… I could not say what shape would form from a work borne of curses, but I know it would be powerful indeed. A fitting relic, for a House as storied as yours."
"An ancestral sword of our own…"
He gives me a slow nod. "While it may not be Valyrian Steel, such a grand gift would leave House Voare in debt to whoever would give it… hypothetically, of course."
I smirk. "Of course. Hypothetically."
A few hours after I visit Yten, I'm standing in my tent, watching Sandor grumble as he fiddles with the fasteners of my armor.
I hide a chuckle. I understand that my impromptu… family bonding experience may have put us in a time crunch, but we still have almost a half-hour before the tourney starts! Does he think I can't hear all the insults he's muttering under his breath?
No, more likely than not he just doesn't care. He really is a treat! I think I finally understand what my Septa meant when she said "maternal instincts". He's like a big gruff dog that just needs someone to love him.
"How th'fuck you get armour this good anyways?" He grumbles out, seeming almost reluctant to even ask the question.
"My brother made it" I say with a smirk, lifting up my left arms as he fastens my gorget on me, "the one you met, remember?"
"Pull the other one" he says with a snort. "This is as good armour as any I've seen. How th'fuck did the daughter of some piss-poor knight in the Stormlands afford Qohorik work? Y'steal it?"
See, this is what I love about Sandor: never afraid to speak his mind! Most other people would at least be intimidated by me, either by my tall stature, strange behavior, or noble status, however minor it is. Not Sandor!
"Sandy—can I call you Sandy?"
"Fuck no."
"Right, well Sandy"—I have to suppress a smirk at his growl—"I can't say I've ever seen Qohorik work, but I'll take the comparison as a compliment. Truth is, the armour really is all Erryn's work. My twin brother really is that exceptional, I suppose. Just like me!"
I give him an irritatingly sunny grin, trying to stifle my laughter as he growls something about how all twins must be mad. He really is too much fun!
"Don't worry" I say, shooting Sandy a smirk, "you won't be too put out because of losing that bet. It's a knight's duty to teach their squire, isn't it?"
"Not a knight."
"What, me or you?"
"Both. Unless they're making knights with tits on 'em now."
"I mean, with all the stupid house sigils around…" I say "but regardless of what type of warrior they're on, these tits just beat you in a fight, so they have plenty they can teach you."
"What? Jigglin'?"
I just laugh at that, letting the conversation trail off. I don't think he even realizes the almost imperceptible grin he cracks.
"Hey" I ask after a few minutes, "you've met Cersei Lannister, right?"
He grunts.
"Bit of a bitch, isn't she?"
His hands pause for a second as they move over my breastplate's fasteners. "...suppose so. Why?"
"Nothing" I say, shrugging (and ruining Sandor's fastening job, much to his chagrin), "I just ran into her a while ago. She was calling my brother an unwashed peasant."
"Not surprised."
"She seems like a woman that's received 99% of everything she's ever wanted in life, and is has an eternal grudge against the world for not receiving the remaining 1%."
"Th'fuck's a percent?"
"One part out of a hundred. So ninety-nine percent would be ninety nine out of every hundred things she's asked for."
He looks at me, as if honestly confused that I'm not insulting him for his ignorance—so cute!—before shrugging and going back to fastening my armour.
"Anyways, it was just strange; I would expect the Hand's daughter to be a bit more clever and subtle than that, even if she's as proud as her father. I'm glad Lord Robert's betrothed to Lady Lyanna; I think it'd drive all us Stormlanders insane if sje became a notable figure in our lives. Her brother seems normal, at least."
Sandy just grunts, continuing to fasten my armour. "Daft fool's head's too far up his own arse to see straight. Thinks he's the fuckin' Dragonknight"
"And?" I say, arching a brow. "That describes half the young Lords of Westeros."
"Then half the young Lords a' Westeros are daft fools."
"The presence of squires in the melee didn't tell you that already?"
Sandor makes an amused snort, seemingly despite himself, and continues to fasten up my armour.
Soon enough, he's finished, and I'm decked out in my beautiful masterwork plate, and find myself standing before the gates of the arena. I look around, gazing at the dozens of other fighters here, themselves only a fraction of the hundreds that with fight in the other melee rounds, all seeking to qualify for the final tournament.
Seven melees each with eight champions, all of which will enter into a series of one-on-one duels, until a single champion stands above the rest.
I'm practically vibrating in my excitement as the Septon strides out to consecrate the melee, only barely manage to restrain my eye-roll at the overly long prayer to the Father and the Warrior, beseeching them to guide our hands so that "none should perish in this trial of skill."
A moment later though, my restlessness vanishes as I realize that to my shock, the blessing actually has an effect, and I feel a vast ripple through the force as magic spreads out across the melee grounds.
I reach out with my senses, examining it, marveling at the subtle bit of magic. It's an especially powerful luck enchantment… or "blessing", I suppose. It subtly guides our blades to ensure that our strikes are less fatal, and twists fate to make sure that any injures obtained should be fully recoverable with enough rest.
It makes sense, I suppose. I know already from our visit to Storm's End that some Septas can channel the force for healing, using their prayers to the Mother and Maiden as a focusing device similar to the Jedi's meditation. It would only make sense that the same holds true for the other faces of the Seven as well.
I have always wondered why so few knights die at Tourneys, with how popular a pastime they are. The fact that they only became popular when the Andals came over should have clued me in: the First Men tend to use the force in a bit more direct manner, I can't imagine that they'd be able to manage spells this delicate with their battle magics.
Suddenly, I have to hold back a laugh.
Oh, and wouldn't it make all these proud Knights and Septas burn, to know that the blessings of their Gods, a feat only achievable by the greatest and most holy followers of the Seven… are just the same as all those "heathen magicks" they burn people for!
After all, what else was a miracle but magic wielded by a God?
I can just imagine their faces, haughty smirks turning to confusion, then horror, as I grant them the ability to see into the Force, and they watch their precious septons and septas cast spells just like any hedge pyromancer from Volantis…
Alright, I may have a bit of a grudge thanks to Lovecraft's Septa.
Fuckin bitch, corrupting Bella, not letting me get a piece of that deliciously plump rear…
Before I can dwell on matters of the Force any further, I hear the announcer call the name of the knight next to through the bullhorn. I straighten myself, trying to tamp down my giddiness.
Finally, after all these years, it's happening…
"And competing as a mystery knight, we have the newcomer known as "The Knight of the Moth-Winged Blade!"
I stride on to the field. Enough contemplation, enough study…
Destiny awaits.
It's loud on the field, louder than I'd expected. Well, I suppose that there's a bit of a difference between fighting in the courtyard of your small family keep, and fighting before thousands of screaming watchers, noble and smallfolk alike.
I look around at my opponents to see a sea of panicking faces, squires and newly-knighted young men facing the true chaos of battle for the first time. Despite the situation though, I just feel ready, the Force flowing through me stronger than I've ever felt, guiding my path and showing me the victory ahead.
I have to say though, the bell that starts the melee is remarkably quiet for the signifier of such a momentous event; the marker of the beginnings of a legend forged.
My first opponent isn't anything special, just another newly-minted knight hoping to prove his mettle. I spy a thin strip of cloth tied around his arm, so it looks like he's trying to win the heart of a maiden as well.
Sorry, buddy. Not today.
A few quick slashes and parries is all it takes to down the squire of House Templeton, the Valeman's nine-starred shield clattering on the ground besides his unconscious form.
Another thing the Force is great for? Measuring the precise application of strength needed to knock someone out without permanent injury.
My second opponent, on the other hand, is a strange one.
He's a tall man, almost as tall as me, with black hair and tan skin darker than even the salty Dornish ,and a scar running down his brow over his eye. Strangely enough, he's carrying a trident of all things, and wearing only a thin coat of mail. Through it, I can see the definition left by years of hard labor in the muscles of his chest, scars littering his bare torso.
"Hail, stranger!" I say, voice cheerful despite the medley of clashing steel around me, "where would you hail from, then?"
The man shoots me a smile, readying his trident like a spear. "
"Tezqar the Lhazareen I am" he says with a heavy accent, "from Mereen, now fight for House Santagar."
"A Ghiscari!" I say, eyebrows raised. "How on earth did you find yourself in Westeros?"
"Is interesting story" he says, sending a few probing thrusts with his unusual weapon, "Horse man raid my village, take me from home, slave me. Sold to be slave in fighting pits, own of Mereen House Hazkar. Fight much, win much, win freedom."
"Ah" I say, dodging around a particularly graceful stab as we start to fight in earnest, "I don't suppose that you wanted to stay there, after that."
"Yes" he says, parrying my return thrust in between the second and third prongs of his weapon, sending a retaliatory stab which I duck, "go to Tyrosh, fight in sellsword. Captain try to slave again. I run to other Steps, run to Dorne, try find Lord. Find Lord Santagar, he of Seven, he no slave me. He swear on Sevenbook, he pay me honest."
I have to withhold a smile at that. For all of the faults I may have with it most of them springing from a petty grudge against Septa Marei, I have to admit the Faith of the Seven is truly one of the less barbarous religions on this planet. I have a deep and abiding respect for any man that would make it his life's work to eradicate the scourge of slavery, and Hugor is no exception.
"Well" I eventually say, sending a few lightning-quick slashes he only barely manages to parry, "you've certainly lived a rich and fascinating life, my friend."
He just grunts.
I aim another jab at him, a bit faster, although still much slower than my maximum. "Tell me, are you looking to travel?"
He raises his eyebrows, surprised.
"Maybe" he says, grunting as he dodges one of my probing slashes, "you have good armour. How much it cost?"
I smile at that. Looks like what they say about Essosi and money are true. "My brother made it" I say, suddenly doubling the speed of my slashes.
"He- *unhf* goat smith?" he says, barely managing to keep up with me, taking several dents in his spear for the trouble.
"No, not from Qohor, he just has a gift" I say, ducking under his frantic last stab to knock the trident out of his hands, "one he would freely share the bounty of with all in our employ. It's not the first time someone's accused him of being an Essosi in disguise, though. Yield?"
"I yield" he grunts out, nodding in respect as I step back. "You fight good, moth man. Go win much, so no I feel bad."
I chuckle as I hand him back his trident. "And as to my offer of employment?"
He snorts. "You good, you no that good. Lord Santagar pay well, can buy fancy armour."
"Yes… but Lord Santagar, generous as he is, does not offer the opportunity to be tutored by the victor of the greatest tourney in two decades."
The Ghiscari snorts at that, shaking his head. "Crazy moth man… Should know from name, swords no fly."
"Get back to me later!" I yell cheerfully, turning to search for my next opponent.
Hmm… Oh, he looks tough!
A scant dozen feet away from me stands a man about my age in an exquisite set of armour wearing the Hightower crest, tensed and ready for battle as he flicks his eyes over me.
Hmm… If I'm right about who this is, he's going to be a challenge, perhaps even as much as the Ghiscari. Garth Hightower, or "Garth Greysteel" as he's commonly known, is widely heralded as one of the greatest Knights in the Reach, a man that once faced down a dozen bandits and won.
Even more interestingly, he's known for being especially competent at swordfighting, earning his name for his distaste of lances and mounted charges.
This is going to be fun.
"Ser Garth of Hightower" I say, inclining my head. "It's an honor to meet one as skilled as you on the field of battle."
He nods, as gallant as I expected. "Ser Knight, of the Moth-Winged Blade. I wish you good fortune, and may the swifter sword win this bout."
I give him a nod of respect in return, and dash in quickly, not willing to risk anything less than my best for such an opponent.
He quickly proves the wisdom of that decision by catching my first slash with his shield, not budging an inch despite the massive force I put behind my blows.
"You fight well!" he says with a surprisingly jolly tone.
My sword bites deeply into his shield, and he tries to wrench it out of my hands with a twist of his arm. Unfortunately for him, my hands are strong as well, and he only succeed in freeing my blade for another swipe.
I smile inside my helm. "Thank you."
He decides to dodge this one, and uses the opening to make a swipe with his shorter sword.
It's a feint though, as he finds out when I use the Force to stop my blade, drawing it back towards me so quickly it would normally be impossible. He only barely manages to evade, taking my blade on his shield once more, but this time I use my momentum to wrench it out of his hands.
"Unh! Good Ser, I must say, you must come drink with me after this fight is through!"
If the loss of the tower-covered shield daunted him, his face doesn't show it, and he merely gives me a short nod of respect before he charges back in.
"It would be my honor" I say with a tilt of my head, and to my surprise I actually mean it.
His eyes narrow, and I can see his entire focus being dedicated to analyzing me.
When using purely a blade, his style is surprisingly similar to mine for a Reachman: relying on lighting-quick attacks and positioning to create an unstoppable offense.
He's good with it too, using a thousand different tricks and micro-movements picked up in different duels to speed up his movements, the Force surging and strengthening his arms as his blade practically flies against mine. Against almost anyone else, he'd be an overwhelming storm of steel, and I'd even give him a good chance at winning against a fighter the level of the White Bull or Jaime Lannister.
Unfortunately for him, I'm better.
If his blade is a storm, mine is a hurricane, whipping out to slash at him from a thousand different angles so quickly it becomes a silver blur. I hear shocked exclamations from around us as we furiously clash, and a space of a good few feet has cleared around us from people avoiding our stray blows.
I smile as I parry and thrust, feeling the Force singing through my veins like never before. This, this is what I live for! The rush of combat, the dance of steel where even one flinch will gut you like a fish!
He's good, exceptionally good, leveraging his high technical skill to counter the advantage of my greater speed and strength. He even manages to match me for a short time, calling on the Force to grant him strength in what I'm sure he perceives to be the "Warrior's hand guiding his blade" or some such nonsense.
I laugh in glee, and I can see a wide smile on his expressive face.
However, as the fight drags on he dodges and parries by closer and closer margins, even his force-enhanced strength beginning to fail against my relentless assault. I can see in his eyes that he's realized this fight is lost. His will falters for just a moment, and I seize the opening it leaves in his guard to thrust towards his shoulder.
It seems he still has one trick left though, and as I move in for the deciding blow he manages to use the hilt of his sword to strike up at my helm. The feint takes me off guard, and I only barely manage to dodge the ringing blow of his pommel, retreating after striking his legs out from under him.
His last-ditch attack is not in vain, however, and his long cross-guard manages to catch the top of my helm, ripping it off my head.
I scowl, twirling my sword to level with his neck, inwardly cursing myself for letting my guard down. "Yield!"
He just stares at me.
I push the blade closer.
That seems to jolt him out of whatever spell he'd been under, and he drops his blade. "I yield, my lady."
I feel the euphoria of victory rush through me, and my face breaks out into a grin as I offer a hand to help him up.
My hair falls free as I turn my head, cascading off my shoulders like a onyx wave. I think I hear some gasps from the crowd.
"You know" I say with a rueful smirk, throwing his arm over my shoulder to support him, "You've really thrown a spade into my plans."
He just stares at me incredulously.
"What?" I say with a grin, "I was originally planning to reveal myself before the semifinal. Now all the mummery I had prepared leading up to it is completely useless!"
To my surprise, he gives out a chuckle at that.
Wait, does he think I'm joking? I've made extensive plans on how to best time my reveal for maximum dramatic effect.
"Beaten by a woman" he says as we near the edge of the field, giving a disbelieving chuckle, "By the Gods, I'm never going to live this one down."
"Don't worry" I say drily, hoisting him off to a waiting maester, "your reputation remains intact."
He stares at me.
"Or rather" I say, raising an eyebrow, "everyone else's reputation will be lowered to the same degree as yours. If the first Kingsguard could manage to maintain their honor after being regularly beaten by Visenya, I don't think you have anything to worry about."
I turn around before respond, heading back into the melee. Getting the last word in a conversation is always the more dramatic option.
I turn to look for my next opponent, but before I can find him, he finds me.
A young man accosts me, his shield blazoned with the blue-and-white wheels of House Wayn quartered with the yellow and black bats of house Whent.
His armour is all black, with the exception of a black-on-yellow bat of Whent surrounded by a circular wheel of Wayn emblazoned on the chest, and the two ridiculous-looking tiny spikes that top his helmet.
"My Lady, I must protest!"
I have to hold back a sigh. Force save me from foolish boys…
I don't even try to hold back my eye roll. "And who are you, then?"
"I am Ser Brus, son of Lord Tommas Wayn! My lady mother was a Whent, and I will not stand to see her House to be degraded as such!"
I just roll my eyes at the trace of drunken slur in his voice. "You're in my way, bat-boy."
"By the name of my mother, Lady Mertha Wayn, I tell you to stop this-"
Before he can even finish his sentence I spring forward, moving towards the obvious openings that the green boy has left in his-
I only barely manage to dodge his retaliatory head-swipe, exploiting my lunge like he already kne… son of a bitch, he was faking!
I step back, looking over him with an assessing eye. Now that I'm paying attention, Ser Wayn's mind is far too keen to be the type of empty-headed fool he came off as. Luring your opponent in by deliberately masking your skill may be an unorthodox tactic, but I must admit it's effective in his hands.
I cock my head, smiling at his now-stern expression. Damn, if I couldn't sense him through the Force, I really couldn't get anything off him. Even now I can only feel an assessing intensity.
"...you know, Lord Brus, if I was anyone else, that might have actually worked. I can think of a scant few dozen knights here who could avoid a blow to the head with their guard left so open."
His face is absent of any former traces of foolishness, and his eyes run over my form, assessing me for weaknesses. "Indeed."
I'm about to lunge forward when he holds his hand up, surprising me. "You have beaten me, I yield."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Deception was the only tactic by which I could have negated your formidable advantage in skill, and that option is now closed. Thus, I yield."
…you know what? Sure, whatever.
I give him a nod as he briskly walks off the field. What a fascinating man.
Unfortunately, thanks to my diversion with Ser Brus, there aren't many combatants left.
Before I can examine the field further, I dodge a blow coming at my back with almost painful slowness, not even bothering to look.
The squire clad in the ever-so-creative livery of House Redfort sails past me, and a barely even need to move to snap out a blow at his head, knocking him onto the ground.
I return my eyes to the field after barely ten seconds pause, only to parry another attack, this time from two knights that have teamed up. I have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes as I dance around their blows, slapping my hand against the knight in the unicorn livery of House Brax, while lazily sweeping out my sword to knock out the knight wearing the scythe of House Harlaw.
Hm, a Westerman teaming up with an Ironborn? It seems my skill can drive even the most unlikely of alliances.
I will give them credit though, their blows were surprisingly well-coordinated for two who had undoubtedly never met. They'll go far with some training and experience.
Unfortunately, my next opponent is another greenhorn, a Lannett of Lannisport according to his shield.
The knight approaches me with a theatrical flicking of his sword, his face contorted into a sneer.
"This is no place for a woman, girl. Go back to your sewing and crafts, like y-"
Oh, lovely. Now I don't even have to imagine another blonde-haired, green-eyed face in place of his as I knock him out.
I lunge out with a slash, which, to his credit, he managed to dodge (if barely).
"You whore! I'm going to show you just wh-"
I never hear the end of what I'm sure is a riveting list of carnal acts he'd like to perform on me, as I twirl to his left and smack the flat of my blade against his head, sending him dropping to the ground.
I look around for another opponent, and… there are none.
A great bell sounds out to signal the end of the match, and look around me to see a sea of unconscious and groaning bodies. The only other competitors left are a knight in the snake-covered livery of House Lynderly, standing on the opposite side of the field from me, and a set of knights roughly in between us that are disengaging from their duel, one in the livery of an unknown knightly house, and the other in the forked lightning of House Dondarrion.
Oh hey, Berric! My Cousin Luke introduced me at one of Lord Lyonel's feasts, he seemed pretty cool. Didn't act like a prick despite the vast gulf between us.
I'm sure he'll be a good sport about me usurping what was surely planned to be a moment of triumph for him.
Probably.
Maybe
…eh, fuck it.
All at once, the post-battle euphoria seems to hit, the rush of combat wearing off. "Adren"-something, Nadros called it.
I take a few deep breaths, having to pinch myself to confirm that this isn't a dream!
I… did it! I did it!
I hear a rich, full laugh ringing out over the field, overflowing with joy, and I look arou- oh wait that's me.
I wait for a reply, but seeing none forthcoming, I turn to the royal box to give the customary bow.
I actually did it!
The first step to building my legend, and I did it!
Quickly, I regain my wits, and decide to seize the moment.
"Lord Berric!" I should across the field, the acoustics of the stadium making it so that even the audience can hear my words. "Strange place to meet again, my friend!"
"I'm sorry, se-... A Lady?!"
I let out another jolly laugh. "Indeed!"
I turn to the crowd. "Lady Ashara Blackmoth, at your service, my good folk! Sorry for the guise!"
"My Lady, wha-… who-… what on earth…"
I give a dramatic sigh, audible even to the stands. "Ah, you men. Always so eager to write us ladies off. As if my breasts were somehow so large they'd prevent me from swinging a sword. I'm fortunate, my lord, but not that fortunate."
The joke seems to break some sort of spell, and a rush of cheers and laughter sweep through the crowd.
"What, Lord Beric?" I say with a grin, "Why so shocked? I did tell you I was a rather skilled swordswoman, did I not?"
"…"
I shoot him a flat look. "…We met at Storm's End? Lord Lucerys introduced us?"
I can almost feel his embarrassed flush from here. "Ah, I a-apologize my lady, but I, ah meet many-"
I grimace. Oh gods, he's not going to make me bring it up, is he?
"Your second cousin Lucerys is my first cousin, the daughter of my father's sister. Luke introduced us…"
He just stares at me, dumbfounded.
I sigh. Gods damnit. "…I told you that if you kept trying to slip underneath my dress, I'd tie you to the top of the tallest tree in the Rainwood to make you experience your House's sigil firsthand."
I can hear the other knights snicker at that.
"Ah…" he says with a flush, "yes, I remember… that was…"
I decide to give the poor boy a break, and cut him off. "So how have you been, man? It's been ages!"
Thankfully, that seems to shock him out of his stupor. "I've… I've been doing well, my lady. My deepest apologies for not recognizing you."
I wave him off. "Eh, not that big a deal. My father's a landed knight from County Horpe, literally the only thing tying us together is a distant, spurious relation."
"So…" he says, trying to change the subject, "if I may ask, my lady, how did you come to take to the sword?"
I shrug. "The way anyone else does, I suppose. Picked it up one day, and started sticking bales of hay with the pointy end."
He laughs at that, joined by the Lynderly knight who's walked up to us.
I smile. "Speaking of Counsin Luke…he told me you were a deft hand with a blade, but by the Seven! I'd give you even odds against any knight on the field!"
The snake-clad knight chuckles at that. "Including you, my lady?"
I waggle my eyebrows. "Don't you know, Ser Lynderly? Women can't be knights."
We all break out in laughter at that, only interrupted by a maester shooing us out of the field to take care of the bodies.
I give a satisfied sigh as I watch the other two knights walk off, before turning to walk back towards my own tent.
As I walk through the crowds, I can feel a thousand eyes watching my every move, and I smile.
Thus begins the legend of Ashara Blackmoth.
NOTE: I want to give my true, deep, and heartfelt thanks to everyone and anyone commenting. I'm going through a bit of a difficult time right now, and so reading your thoughts and support (and even criticism) is the highlight of my week.
Also, anyone have any tips on writing the actual rebellion? I'm having a bit of a difficult time. Ashara will be on the ground, fighting with the rebels. I don't know what types of scenes to include.
"Brus" and "Wayn" are both canonical names in ASOIAF. The latter is a House in the Riverlands, and the former is a rather common name (i.e. Lord Brus Buckler). Since Wayn and Whent/Lothston are both major Riverlander houses, a marriage between them is highly likely. That means that a bat-wearing knight named "Wayn" has almost certainly existed in Westerosi history, since it's common for Lords to use their mother's house crest in their personal coat of arms (e.g. Queen Rhaenyra, Harrold Hardyng, Cleos Frey)
Also yes, I know that by book canon Beric Dondarrion is in his early twenties during the Wot5K, but I decided to go with show canon of him being in his forties instead. I think it fits his character better, making him more of a replacement Eddard for Arya, and a father figure for Ned Dayne. Especially bc of thes Lady Stoneheart thing: the whole "I've lived enough, time to die a worthy death giving life to someone else" thing works much better with an older man instead of a young one.
Also, moving to post on a Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday schedule