AN: Heeeeeeeeeeeeeey, guys! I'm back once again and feel reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeely bad about the almost month long hiatus from the last update. I was at the seaside for a week and the week before that I spent in London. It was awesome!
But, anyhow... Like I said in the last chapter, Ryssa receives a letter from her father, Lord Rafario Manalis, who, to me, is a somewhat of a confusing character since his mind has the tendency to be all over the place, so a lot of inconsistencies can be found in his letter.
Hope you like it and please review.
And, in case you were wondering, Ryssa's name is pronounced [Re-Sah].
Chapter 9The heat of the day was unbearable. Ryssa could feel the sweat on her skin trickle down her back beneath her dress. The sun burned her skin worse than fire of Forgehammer's forges ever did. For the first time in her entire life she thought that she might melt in its unwavering rays, as if she were made of the ice of the cold North. Now, more than ever, she missed home. The heat she felt day after day in this city was something completely foreign to the girl who grew up surrounded by ice, snow and cold. The clouds that almost always hid the pale glow of the northern sun were always something she loved to spend her afternoons gazing at. In King's Landing she was yet to see a cloud appear on the perpetually blue sky.
Ryssa enjoyed the feel of the cool stone floors of the Red Keep under her bare feet that peeked from beneath the skirt of her light dress with every step she took. The almost transparent material of her dress was the only thing making a sound in the warm summer breeze that occasionally passed through the maze of halls that was the Red Keep. Ryssa's every step was thought through, purposeful, analysed before even set to motion. It was not how a lady walked, but how a killer strode. Even with all the grace of the world behind her movements, she was no lady. No. She was a trained assassin; it was what she had worked for her entire life. She was a warrior. A hunter. A killer. She was no lady.
...
Lord Stark had once more been arguing with the council. It was plainly written on his face and in the way he walked into the Small Hall during supper. The first course had already been served by the time he had arrived. Yet again, he was late.
"My Lord", Jory said getting up from his seat as Lord Stark entered. The rest of the guards also got to their feet with him, all wearing new cloaks, heavy grey wool with a white satin border and a hand of beaten silver holding each piece the garment, showing these were the Hand's personal household guard. There were only fifty or so of them so most of the benches in the Small Hall were empty. The Small Hall usually, could host about two hundred people.
"Be seated," Eddard Stark said. "I see you have started without me. I am pleased to know there are still some men of sense in this city." He signalled for the meal to resume. The servants began bringing out platters of ribs, roasted in a crust of garlic and herbs.
"The talk in the yard is we shall have a tourney, my lord," Jory said as he resumed his seat. "They say that knights will come from all over the realm to joust and feast in honour of your appointment as Hand of the King."
Lord Stark did not seem leased at this, Ryssa noted. She had heard how the Crown is almost six million in debt to the Lannisters and gods only know how much more to the Iron Bank. She could barely understand the need to spend so much money the people of the capitol seemed to have. But then again, she was just a simple girl from the North where survival is more important than lavish lifestyle.
"Do they also say this is the last thing in the world I would have wished?" Lord Stark said.
Sansa's eyes had grown wide as the plates. "A tourney," she breathed. She was seated between Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, as far from Arya as she could get without drawing a reproach from her father. "Will we be permitted to go, Father?"
"You know my feelings, Sansa. It seems I must arrange Robert's games and pretend to be honoured for his sake. That does not mean I must subject my daughters to this folly."
"Oh, please," Sansa said. "I want to see."
Septa Mordane spoke up. "Princess Myrcella will be there, my lord, and her younger than Lady Sansa. All the ladies of the court will be expected at a grand event like this, and as the tourney is in your honour, it would look queer if your family did not attend."
Ryssa raised her eyebrow at the two Stark sisters from her seat next to Arya. They had been on edge around one another ever since Lady was killed on the road to King's Landing. Sansa blamed Arya for the death of her wolf even though it was her own arrogance and foolishness that got the gentle she wolf killed. Ryssa may not have been present when Joffrey was attacked by Nymeria but she knew both girls well enough to know that Sansa had lied when asked about the circumstances of the attack. Not only that her blindness had gotten Arya lost in the woods, Nymeria being sent away by her owner in order to save her and Lady killed, but it had also gotten an innocent boy butchered to pieces by the Hound. She had seen him when he had presented the boy's remains to his father and the poor man thought it was a pig at first. Ryssa felt revolted at what the Lannisters were willing to stoop down to and she felt like giving the Queen a piece of her mind when, during the questioning, Joffrey just kept smirking at her in all his arrogant glory. One day, that same arrogance and cruelty would get him killed, she thought in that moment. All she could do was hope that King Robert was smart enough not to let Joffrey anywhere near the Iron Throne. All that boy could bring to the realm as a ruler was misery.
Ryssa listened to the rest of the conversation with only half attention. She was more interested in going back to the Godswood they had here. The Heart tree here was an ancient oak, rather than a weirwood but she felt completely safe and at home there. There, she was in the sight of her own gods.
She heard Lord Stark consent to letting Sansa go to the tourney and Sansa talking down on Arya when the younger girl exclaimed that she would not go to the tourney. For a moment she fought the urge to slap the auburn haired girl for her insolence and stupidity. You never talk down on your family for they are the only thing you have when all you 'friends' have abandoned you. It was something her parents had drilled into her skull for as long as she could remember.
Anger flashed across Lord Stark's face. "Enough, Sansa. More of that and you will change my mind. I am weary unto death of this endless war you two are fighting. You are sisters. I expect you to behave like sisters, is that understood?"
Sansa bit her lip and nodded. Arya lowered her face to stare sullenly at her plate and Ryssa felt sorry for the young girl. She was only twelve and it seemed like almost no female member of her family accepted her for who she was. Ryssa and her sisters were completely different by character but they never fought or were mad at each other for long. They were certainly never reprimanded for not acting like ladies or not wearing dresses. They were accepted for who they were and Ryssa wanted Arya to have that kind of relationship with her mother and sister.
"Ryssa," Lord Stark spoke suddenly. "Will you be going to the tourney?"
"I am not yet certain and will have to think about it but if I will then I shall tell you beforehand, my lord," she said after a moment.
Lord Stark nodded at her and returned to his meal. For a while, all that could be heard was the clatter of forks against the plates. "Pray, excuse me," Lord Stark announced to the table. "I find I have small appetite tonight." He walked from the hall.
After he was gone, Sansa exchanged excited whispers with Jeyne Poole. Down the table Jory laughed at a joke, and Hullen started in about horseflesh. "Your warhorse, now, he may not be the best one for the joust. Not the same thing, oh, no, not the same at all." The men had heard it all before; Desmond, Jacks, and Hullen's son Harwin shouted him down together, and Porther called for more wine.
Ryssa good-naturedly rolled her black eyes at the men. She glanced at the small dark haired girl sitting next to her. Arya had her head bent down. Ryssa heard her whisper something beneath her voice but she couldn't hear the words before pushing away her plate and leaving the table. Ryssa sighed as she watched the girl stomp to her room.
After she was done with her food, Ryssa also excused herself before desert, he was in no mood for sweets, and went up to her room.
Sitting at her vanity, Ryssa took off the daily amount of kohl she put around her eyes with a wet rag. Unbraiding her scarlet waist length hair she brushed out any daily tangles. Taking off her dress, she put on her knee length form fitting nightdress and sat down at her desk where two letters lay. Both of the letters were brought into her room that morning by a large grey messanger hawk her family used. The said bird was now peacefully resting on her trunk after it went to hunt.
One of the letters was from Forgehammer, sealed in pale blue wax and with the Phoenix stamp of the Manalis family, while the other was from Winterfell, sealed in white wax with the stamp of a direwolf on it. Both were addressed at her and brought by the same bird. Ryssa guessed that the Winterfell letter was sent along with the one she got from home when the hawk could not find her there. It saved time, birds and ensured that only she would read those letters.
Giving the hawk one more glance, Ryssa reached for her dagger that was still strapped to her thigh and used it to open the first letter, the one from Forgehammer. She almost shed a tear when she recognised her father's hand on the paper. Reading the words, she could practically pitcure him sitting at his desk, a set of candles lighting the dark of his study, a sawn feather in his hand as it glides on the paper leaving the words. She could hear his voice reading the words in her ear, like when he read to her before sleep when she was just a child or told stories next to the roaring fireplace in his and Mother's chambers.
My dearest Little Flame,
I hope this letter has arrived safely to you. I gave high hopes when I sent Stormwing to Winterfell.
It seemed in order to tell you that your brothers and sisters arrived safely back home this evening. No worse for wear as usual, though Therenger did disappear to the local brothel almost the moment he dismounted his horse. I swear to the gods, that boy is like a rabbit sometimes. They told us all about the royal family arriving to Winterfell. I should hope you are on your way to King's Landing now, or packing to go at the very least.
I am so proud of you Little Flame. It seems to me that only yesterday you were that little girl who wanted to become a knight and swore to never marry or love a man. The little girl that ran through the forges with a large smile on her face while her brother chased her with a wooden sword for setting his boots on fire. And now, you are a beautiful grown woman treading the world on your own, a ward to the Stark's and going to the capitol with them. We are all so very proud of you.
Tryshyon misses you dearly and every day he asks where you are. He truly misses the rides through the Godswood you used to take him on and playing with the pack. The pack misses you too. Argento comes to the gates on every break of dawn and howls beneath your window waiting for you to greet him. He leaves only hours later with his head and tail down. I have never known such a proud animal looking so broken and sad and so we hope that you shall return to us soon.
Tryshyon has finally started hi official training, much to Mienthy and Yiehdel's amusement. He is still a little clumsy in his movements but I am certain that with time he would grow to be a skilled warrior as all of you have become or are still growing to become.
From what your siblings tell me, you have grown quite fond of Lord Stark's eldest sons. Is that true? I shall not reprimand you for that for I am certain you only think of them as friends. Even if there is more to your feelings for them I shall advise you against it. You know fully well that there is small chance of you marrying them what with Lady Stark not being the greatest fan of your mother what with the fact that one of those boys is a bastard child and it would be very frowned upon for us to make a match with him. You know how I feel about bastards but there is nothing I can do about it here. I still only wish for you to be happy.
How are your lessons progressing? I surely hope you are not making the lives of those people miserable. I know you are laughing to my attempt at a joke!
I also wanted to tell you that soon, your mother and I shall be taking Tryshyon, Mienthya and Yiehdel to Braavos to complete their training, get their marks and their weapons. The girls are very excited about this but it seems that Tryshyon is more interested in hacking away at practice dummies than anything else. It is only a phase, though. Both you and Therenger went through that and look at you both now.
I need to leave now. I can hear your mother calling me from the Hall and you and I both know very well how much of a temper that woman has. You got that from her, by the way!
Still, we all send you our love and send my hellos to Lord Stark and his family.
I love you, my Little Flame,
Father
By the end of the letter Ryssa had the beginnings of tears in her eyes but she had to laugh still. Her father was notorious for writing very long letters. Even when he wanted to send someone a simple hello, he would end up writing a ten page letter that served more to confuse the reader than show the real message. She only thought herself lucky that this letter was extremely short by her father's standards and thanked the gods that her mother managed to pull him away from his study or she would now be facing a whole book.
The letter she had received from Winterfell piqued her interest but she felt too exhausted from today to read it. Not after her father's letter.
Folding the letter in her hands she lit it on fire using the candle on her desk and let the paper burn before throwing the ashes to her unlit hearth. She forbid her handmaiden from ever lighting it, she did not need any extra heat in her chambers.
Ryssa turned back to her desk. She took the Winterfell letter and hid it in her boots that stood at the foot of her bed. She had not worn them since she had come here. It was simply too hot for her to walk around in thick leather boots. She hoped that no one would find it there. Ryssa knew that in the capitol, even the walls had eyes and ears so she was always on alert, practically sleeping with one eye open. She wished that Aidan was still with her, the Phoenix would certainly make sure no one uninvited entered her room. Alas, Ryssa had sent Aidan to the Wall with Jon as a means of communication since she didn't believe the ravens to get their messages straight to their receiver.
When she read the part of her father's letter about her youngest siblings getting their mark, she immediately remembered when she had received her own. She was only seven when she was taken to Braavos with her parents. Ryssa still remembered the man who etched the mark onto her pale skin, the way every inch of visible skin was covered with tattoos. The feel of the needle as it keeps piercing he skin in order to let the red ink leave its mark. The end result was a large image of a flying Phoenix that stretched across her entire back and was only visible when she wore more open dresses and outfits.
Some of the members of her family had their marks visible no matter what they wore. Her father had his on the left side of his neck and you could see parts of it when he wore clothing that revealed his neck. Therenger's was on the back of his right palm. Niantine's was on her left hipbone. The Twins had it across their upper arms with Rafaem's being on his left and Ranald's being on his right. Baessrad's was etched on the back of his neck and only the top was visible beneath the hairline of his short scarlet hair. Ryssa's aunt's, Raehella's was behind her right ear while all of her four children had theirs on the backs of their left palms. Ryssa even wondered where her youngest siblings would put their marks when they came to the tattoo artist in Braavos.
With those thoughts she went to sleep that night, a dagger still firmly strapped to her thigh beneath her nightdress. Her dreams were filled with images of the Wall and the Godswood at Forgehammer. That night, she was a part of Argento's pack.
...
The next morning, she came down to the Small Hall to break her fast dressed in a sleeveless light silk dress that went to her ankles with slits that ran up to her hips on both sides of her skirt and had a high neckline, short cotton breeches that blended in with her skin and small black slippers in her feet. Her hair was braided down her back and tied at the end with a white ribbon.
After breaking her fast on some bread and jam and some water, Ryssa was summoned to Lord Stark's office by his steward, Vayon Poole.
"You asked to see me, Lord Stark?" Ryssa asked when she entered his office.
Lord Stark peered at her over the papers he was reading. "I did. Please, take seat Ryssa." He gestured to a chair that stood at the other side of his desk. Ryssa nodded and sat. "I am looking for someone to teach Arya swordfighting," he said after a pause. Ryssa nodded for him to continue. "I usually would ask one of my men to do it, but they are all preoccupied. I, also, cannot ask you due to your daily lessons and duties so I was wondering if you knew of someone who would be willing to teach my daughter."
Smiling, she said: "I believe I know just the man for the job. He was, after all, my mentor."
...
Three days later, at midday, Ryssa brought Arya to the Small Hall. The trestle tables had been dismantled and the benches shoved against the walls. The hall seemed empty, until a voice said, "You are late, boy." A slight man with curly black hair came out of the shadows holding two slender wooden swords, a man Ryssa knew well. "Tomorrow you will be here at midday," he said. His voice laced with a Braavosi accent. Ryssa smiled at the man and he gave her a slight nod of his head in greeting.
"Who are you?" Arya asked.
"I am your dancing master." He tossed her one of the swords. Arya made a grab for it but she missed and it clattered to the floor. "Tomorrow you will catch it. Now pick it up."
Ryssa looked at the familiar sword. It was not just a stick, but a true wooden sword complete with grip and guard and pommel. She remembered the times she spent practising with those swords. They were heavier than they seemed, they had a lead inside as to prepare the user for the wieght of a real blade.
Arya picked up her sword and clutched it nervously with both hands, holding it in front of her. Behind her, Ryssa shook her head at the girl. That was no way to hold a braavosi blade. She knew all about Needle from Jon. Ryssa was the one to make the designs of the blade and show Mikken how to make it to be light and durable at the same time. She would have made the blade herself but it would have been suspicious of how much time she would be spending in the forge and the blade needed to be kept a secret, lest Lord Stark take it away before it got the chance to be held by its intended owner.
The Braavosi clicked his teeth at Arya. "That is not the way, boy. This is not a greatsword that is needing two hands to swing it. You will take the blade in one hand."
"It's too heavy," Arya said.
"It's heavy as it needs to be to make you strong, and for the balancing. A hollow inside is filled with lead, just so. One hand now is all that is needing."
Ryssa watched Arya take her right hand off the grip and wipe her palm on her trousers. She held the sword in her left hand and the Braavosi seemed to approve. "The left is good. All is reversed, it will make your enemies more awkward. Now you are standing wrong. Turn your body sideface, yes, so. You are skinny as the shaft of a spear, do you know. That is good too, the target is smaller. Now the grip. Let me see." He moved closer and peered at her hand, prying her fingers apart, rearranging them. "Just so, yes. Do not squeeze it so tight, no, the grip must be deft, delicate."
"What if I drop it?" Arya said.
"The steel must be part of your arm," the Braavosi said. "Can you drop part of your arm? No. Nine years Syrio Forel was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos, he knows these things. Listen to him, boy."
"I am a girl," Arya objected. Ryssa smiled at the memory of all the times Syrio had called her a boy.
"Boy, girl," Syrio Forel said. "You are a sword, that is all." He clicked his teeth together. "Just so, that is the grip. You are not holding a battle-axe, you are holding a—"
"—needle," Arya finished for him, fiercely.
"Just so. Now we will begin the dance. Remember, child, this is not the iron dance of Westeros we are learning, the knight's dance, hacking and hammering, no. This is the bravo's dance, the water dance, swift and sudden. All men are made of water, do you know this? When you pierce them, the water leaks out and they die." He took a step backward, raised his own wooden blade. "Now you will try to strike me."
Arya tried to strike him. Ryssa let a grin make its way on her face before she left the Small Hal and went by her business. It seemed that Arya would like her new dancing master. Ryssa felt good about telling Lord Stark to seek Syrio out and she knew that he was the best to teach Arya how to weild a braavosi blade. After all, he was Ryssa's mentor once upon a time.