Gyselle
Five times in as many days did Gyselle return to the old mines beneath Ironhill, looking for Hulla. Whether it was some madness or some guilt, she felt compelled to see her again. She expected nothing but further ill upon herself, of course, but Hulla haunted her thoughts. She remembered her cruel words, but she also remembered that first day, when she had emerged from a brothel in the slums of Oldtown to take a starving girl inside and feed her the first proper meal she'd eaten in almost a week. She remembered the lessons which Hulla had tried to teach her, the laughter which they'd shared together, and those brief moments in her life when she had felt safe.
She could not abandon Hulla, whether she was alive or dead. But there was no sign of her in either condition. None could recall when she'd left or where she'd gone. Gyselle recalled the signs of pox which Hulla had shown her, as well as her words on the matter, and she was filled with dreadful foreboding.
It was on the fifth day, as she walked dejectedly across Ironhill's grounds, that she first sensed that there was trouble for the Blackfyre cause.
Men atop Ironhill's walls shouted for the gates to be opened, even as horns sounded across the warm summer air.
No sooner had the large gates swung inward than a rush of horsemen spilled into the grounds. Gyselle sprang away in terror from several huge destriers which snorted and roared, foam spraying from their ugly mouths. One of them was a light grey colour, but its hide was stained with some dark red splotches. Blood.
There seemed to be hundreds of horsemen returned to the castle. Gyselle could only see so much, but she did not fail to note bloodstains, crude bandages, and scratched armour. She went halfway up a stone stairway to get a better view of what was happening.
Quentyn Ball was not a tall man, but he towered like a god atop his steed. Other men might sit just as high, or higher, but they deferred to his will. The whole of the grounds were crowded with horses and men, but Quentyn rode through the mess as if they were stalls of wheat.
Other men followed in Quentyn's wake, regardless of any injury. Ennis Dudley was unmistakable, for his helm was gone, replaced with a strip of bloody cloth tied over his forehead. Eustace Osgrey's surcoat was stained, but he appeared to be unhurt. Lord Cockshaw, Culver Tork, and Buford Bulwer were all missing pieces of armour. Agramore Jayn seemed to be grievously injured
A sudden noise caused Gyselle to turn around in shock. The stairway led to the great doors of Ironhill's great hall. Those doors had burst open as Lord Myros Ball walked out, along with several knights. The castle maester hurried in their wake, chain jangling with every step.
Quentyn did not dismount from his horse, nor did his nephew have the nerve to demand it. Myros tried to spare his dignity by standing on the sixth stair so that he and his uncle could stand face to face. That meant they needed to raise their voices even more to be heard over the clamour around them. Gyselle was able to keep her distance whilst following the conversation.
"What news?"
"Victory," Quentyn answered. "Our northern border is secured. Payne, Serrett, Bettley, all of them left their blood to water our soil. We also took a brace of prisoners, including two of Lord Payne's sons."
"Good," Myros replied enthusiastically. "With this victory, we can enter the Westerlands at our leisure!"
Even from her vantage point, Gyselle could see Quentyn's impassive face turn into a frown. At first, Gyselle thought that he resented Myros claiming a share of his glory, but then he spoke again in a suspicious tone.
"Why should we have to enter the Westerlands at all?"
Myros did not answer for a moment, faltering before the Fireball's glare.
"Nephew?" There was no affection in Quentyn's voice.
This was what compelled Myros to break his silence. "We must discuss this matter privately."
There was a silence between lord and knight, but Quentyn settled the matter by lowering himself from his horse and landing heavily on the ground. It was then that Gyselle realised that Quentyn's squire, Heward Strickland, was nowhere to be seen.
Rather than ponder that mystery, however, she hurried up the stairs into the hall. She knew it was a dangerous game she was playing, but she was too curious. Besides, nobody heeds a whore when they don't want her around. She flinched while recalling Hulla's words.
Making sure that none saw her, Gyselle slipped beneath one of the long tables before the lords and knights entered the hall. None would see her beneath that long shadow, and Gyselle had long ago learned how to stay quiet. I learn my lessons well, Hulla. Except when I don't learn them at all.
She watched silently as mailed and steelshod boots plodded past her hiding place. When the men had seated themselves at the main table nearby, Fireball's voice rang out first.
"Out with it, then. You have stalled us long enough. What news from the Westerlands?"
Myros' voice was nervous, quivering, and lower than his uncle's. "It appears that our allies are faltering."
The truth came out haltingly after that. Several houses in the west had risen up in support of Daemon Blackfyre. Although they had scored a few early victories, the greater part of westermen remained loyal to House Lannister, whilst other houses remained on the sidelines and sent paltry aid to both causes.
Lord Lannister - who was named Damon, much to Gyselle's bemusement - was leading his loyal levies across his domain, subduing whatever enemies came for him.
"Robb Reyne is on the run, it seems," Myros concluded, "Lord Westerling does not know where he has gone, and he is pleading for aid."
"What is the meaning of this?" Quentyn sounded utterly confused and incensed. "By all rights, they should have united to besiege Casterly Rock! What of the Ironborn fleet?"
When Myros finally answered his uncle, his voice had lowered even further. "There is no mention of the Ironborn. It seems that Torwyn Greyjoy broke his blood oath to Bittersteel."
A long, rasping sigh left Quentyn. Gyselle did not see his face, but she could well imagine how he must be fuming. She almost squealed when a fist crashed onto the table. A chair shrieked as it was scraped along the floor, presumably because the Fireball had risen up to give full vent to his wroth.
"Must I win this war single-handedly? Everywhere I turn, we are surrounded by traitors! Greyjoy, Tarbeck, Oakheart, damn them all to the seven hells!"
"Not all is lost," Lord Cockshaw replied cautiously, "there are many honourable men fighting for us in the Westerlands yet."
"Robb Reyne, for one," Ser Eustace added.
"Spare me the lecture, sers," Quentyn snarled. "All that remains is our campaign. We can win this war only on the battlefield, and that is where I mean to ride!"
Gyselle had heard Fireball say something to that effect a hundred times, in private and public alike. But this time, she sensed something in his voice which made it different. With a thrill, she realised what it was. He is beginning to doubt himself.
Somehow, she felt shaken by this discovery, sitting quietly on the floor whilst Quentyn and the others discussed their next plan.
Finally, their council was concluded after much quibbling and display of temper on Quentyn's part. The men took their leave in silence, except for the loud thumps of their boots upon the floor.
Gyselle waited until the last footsteps had faded away, silently counted to ten four times, then crawled out from beneath the table.
"So, this is how you learn his secrets?"
Gyselle stifled her cry with her hands and turned to the main table.
Ser Ennis was sitting alone, leaning heavily on his forearms, looking wearier than he'd ever done before.
Gyselle stood still, staring at him apprehensively. "How did you know?"
"I saw you at the top of the stairs," Ennis replied. He tilted his head thoughtfully. "I suppose you did not see me."
"I did." It was the truth, much to her relief. She was a bad liar, and she did not wish to anger Ennis.
"Do you often eavesdrop on Ser Quentyn?"
"Aye," Gyselle admitted. "It was always easy to do."
"Not easy enough."
Gods, is he mocking me? She felt angry that he was toying with her like this, but she knew better than to give her temper a voice.
There was a strange look on Ennis' face as he looked at her. It seemed almost rueful, truth be told.
"What will he do if he found out?"
Gyselle found herself struggling to breathe as she imagined Fireball's reaction to her spying on him.
"Jenny?"
Lie to him. Lie to him, damn you. He could tell Quentyn. "Do I need to tell you how Fireball will answer that?"
"I thought so." Ennis sighed as he scratched his scarred cheek.
Will you tell him? What will your silence cost? What will happen if Fireball finds out about us? He surely will. How can you do this to me?
"Please…" Gyselle had no other words.
Ennis' countenance changed. "You are terrified of him."
Gyselle was stung, and it broke through the cloud of her trepidations. "Are you not afraid of him, ser?"
Ennis shook his head. "That matters not. But does he force you to stay with him, then?"
"Is that so surprising?"
"Nay," Ennis replied, "but I was not sure of it until now."
He sounds relieved. "Is that all you care about, ser? That I did not reject you for him?"
Ennis frowned. "I meant no offense…"
"Of course not," Gyselle interrupted angrily. She could not stop herself now. "You think you are so much better than Quentyn because you never struck me?"
"I would never think of myself as better than Quentyn Ball," Ennis answered earnestly.
Gyselle had no retort for that, and she was already regretting her outburst.
Ennis leaned back as far as he could in his chair. His eyes were sad, but his mouth was curling into a small smile. "I must say, I find myself growing fond of your frank truths."
She had no wish to further indulge Ennis, so she gave him a curtsy. "Milord."
Even before she turned her back to walk away, she knew that she had overreached herself, for she could see the smile vanish from Ennis' face.
"Who are you spying for, Jenny?"
Gyselle halted as the question echoed in the large room. If anyone else had entered the room and overheard it, she would likely have burst into panicked tears.
She shifted her body to look at Ennis again. "For no man, ser, I promise you that. And no woman neither. Just a whore."
As she turned back, she saw a frown forming on his face, but Ennis said nothing else as Gyselle departed the hall.
"*"* "* "*"*"* "*"""*****"*" *"*"*"* "*"*"*
Twelve hundred cavalry left Ironhill. Quentyn led them as always; whatever might be happening elsewhere in the war, his men worshipped him and none of the nobles dared to question Fireball's authority. Lords Ball and Cockshaw were left behind with the rest of the Blackfyre forces.
For every man in Quentyn's army, there were some five horses. Destriers and coursers, rounseys and chargers, stots and mules, all were assembled for war or else to serve as pack animals.
Much to Gyselle's surprise, she was ordered to remain at Ironhill. Quentyn was adamant that he and his cavalry go as lightly as possible. He did not even take carts with him.
"You will stay here," Quentyn insisted before he left. "If you try to leave, my nephew will have you locked in a cell until I return."
Thus did she become a hostage in all but name. She was careful to avoid the mines, sensing that the guards would take that as an excuse to imprison her. The first day, she could feel eyes upon her, noting her. She had never thought she would miss being disregarded, but now she felt utterly exposed and on display.
Much to her surprise, Ennis remained behind. He and his followers placed themselves under Myros' command, who regularly sent them out as scouts.
Gyselle tried to ask for Hulla, even inquiring of her to a number of guardsmen. None of them knew, or else they did not wish to tell her. She has abandoned me. She left me behind.
Never before had she ever fathomed the notion that Hulla could do that to her. Even after Hulla had struck her, a part of Gyselle was adamant that they would reconcile and reunite somehow.
One day, Gyselle was summoned to House Ball's steward, a hunchbacked man named Raff. His yellow hair was lank and thinning out.
"You must work, if you must stay here," he began in an irritated tone. "Is there anything you can do besides fuck?"
Gyselle bit back her bitter feelings over Raff's contempt and answered his question. "I know something about making food."
"To the kitchen with you, then," Raff answered curtly. "I will pass the word on." He gave her instructions on how to reach the kitchens and left her without another word.
She was in for a nasty shock when she made her way to the kitchen. She spoke in vain of Lunz's lessons on how to make food. She was barely able to say anything at all on the subject before the cook declared her to be his latest scullery maid.
The days passed as she lost count of the pots and pans that she scoured, the number of fish that she scaled, the birds that she plucked, and the number of times that she cleaned the floors. If she thought her working might have earned her some respect, she was mistaken. She quickly came to realise that the others took great pleasure in ordering her around. "Penny Jenny" had never been spoken aloud in her presence since she'd arrived at the castle, but now that Quentyn was gone, she was derided with that cruel name once again. The only boon afforded to her was that men still feared to lay hands on her, lest Quentyn punish them when he returned.
Gyselle was kept very busy, so that she barely had any time to brood on her fate. What time she did not spend working was given over to eating, sleeping, or walking in the open air.
As the days passed, gossip and rumour trickled into the castle on what was occurring elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms. Stories often contradicted each other. Men and women claimed that Storm's End was under siege, others that it had been liberated by loyalist reinforcements. Prince Baelor was dead one day, alive the next. Daemon Blackfyre had broken the riverlords' power; Lord Tully was said to have knelt before him and betrothed his daughters to Daemon's twin heirs.
Gyselle did not know which stories to trust, until a troop of cavalry returned from the west, over a month after they'd left. They hailed Quentyn Ball and the victories which he'd achieved. Their full accounts were given to the Blackfyre lords alone, much to Gyselle's frustration.
One night, she was ordered by the cook to stay behind and make preparations for the morning meal. Everyone was made to do it on different days: they would awake at the hour of the nightingale and prepare the food which would be served.
Gyselle had been assigned this early task more times than anyone else. "You'd have been awake at that hour anyway," one of the cooks jeered. "Least now it's an honest trade."
Honest trade. Gyselle despised those words. Men and women alike loved to claim that their work was honest compared to hers. But she knew full well that they were deceitful. She knew plenty of merchants who cheated their way to higher payment. She knew of cooks who had cooked horseflesh and called it beef. She lied to protect men from their own inadequacy, and was that so much worse?
It wasn't that, though. Hulla would have told her as much. Folk used "honest" in the same way they spoke of "holy" things. The Seven could not abide that fucking would be a trade. She had never been fond of her life, but never before had Gyselle so despised the hypocrisy which was constantly leveled at one such as her. I thought I fled that hell in Oldtown, but it finds me everywhere I go.
This simmering anger helped her forget the banality of her tasks, ignoring the others who were also awake. She might have gone on until sunrise, fuming and cleaning, were it not for a familiar voice.
"Jenny?"
It was Ennis again. This time, he was dressed in some sort of night gown which was made of a light material.
Jenny was too tired and surprised to remember her manners. "What are you doing here?"
"I came down for something to eat," Ennis replied. "Sleeping has not been so easy of late."
Gyselle looked around at the other workers in the kitchen, but none of them paid Ennis any heed.
She turned back and nodded. "Help yourself, then, milord."
Ennis grinned awkwardly as he plucked an apple from one of the cupboards and bit into it. "I never thought I'd see you down here."
"Do you often come down here?"
Ennis paused, then nodded his head slowly. "I did earn that."
If that was his idea of an apology, Gyselle had no wish to indulge him. She resumed her work as Ennis stood by, eating his apple.
Eventually, she heard him speak again.
"What would you have of me?"
Gyselle was tempted to repeat the question back to him. She could not understand his intentions beyond that simple puppy longing which he had displayed before. Does he even know what he wants from this? Does he not fear Quentyn's wroth?
It was that last thought which sparked an idea in her mind. She looked up at him again. "What news of the Westerlands? What did those riders say?"
Ennis blinked in surprise. "Why do you wish to know?"
"I wish to know what is happening in this war," Gyselle replied.
Ennis paused, then stepped forward so that he could speak more quietly.
"It seems that Quentyn Ball is turning the tide in the west. Three of Damon Lannister's bannermen combined their forces to attack him, but they were betrayed by men loyal to our cause. Quentyn rode them into ruin. After that, he rallied the Reynes, Ruttigers, Hawthornes, Algoods, Falwells… we don't know how large his army is now, but Lord Lannister's raised a larger one at Lannisport."
"So there will be another battle?"
"A big one, aye," Ennis answered. "From what they said, Damon Lannister vowed to send Quentyn's head to King's Landing."
May the gods guide Damon's sword arm, Gyselle thought. Then she remembered her position in Ironhill. What happens if Quentyn does not return? Will they imprison me here indefinitely?
"Do you think he will win?"
"Fireball?" Ennis gave a crooked grin. "He has not lost a battle yet."
Gyselle felt her stomach twisting in disgust. "You really do admire him."
Ennis paused; he was mindful enough to sense a trap, but he was unsure of what to do about it. "I grew up hearing of his reputation. My brother Glendon served alongside him for two years in the Red Keep. I always envied him, but he never seemed to care for Fireball, truth be told."
"And did your brother ever see Fireball knock a whore's tooth out?"
Ennis stared at her in surprise and dismay. "How did you fall into his hands?"
"Stupidity," Gyselle replied angrily, "and a mix of bad luck. But not by choice, ser."
Ennis pondered that, and shook his head. "Glendon told me he forced his wife to join the silent sisters. I thought he was mistaken."
Gyselle shuddered. "Does battle excuse all that for you?"
A sulky expression crossed Ennis' face. "We are at war, and Quentyn Ball is King Daemon's best commander. He is also my commander until Lord Strickland returns."
Of course. Gyselle resumed her work, feeling utterly finished with this conversation.
Ennis was not finished, however. "If the Black Dragon is to succeed, we must put aside any grudges…"
"I don't give a fig who succeeds in this war!" Gyselle could not stop herself from interrupting him, giving full vent to her rage. "This bloody war is the worst thing that's ever happened to me!"
Ennis paused, staring at her with a half-open mouth.
"By your leave, ser," Gyselle continued in a quieter voice, "I must work."
She did not look up again, not even after she heard him depart the kitchen. She had no wish to see if anyone else had heard her sentiments on Quentyn or the war.
""*"* ""*" *"*"* "*"* "*"* "*
Days went on listlessly, bleeding into one another until Gyselle no longer remembered how long she had been at Ironhill. Time seemed to have stood still, as the mood of those within the castle grew darker.
Ennis did not attempt to speak with Gyselle after that early morning in the kitchen. She saw glimpses of him when he was about to leave the castle, or else when he was returning from another ride. Rumours were that an army was approaching the castle from the south.
"Led by Leo Tyrell, so it is," one maid murmured fearfully in the kitchen.
"Longthorn, they're calling him now," a cook added.
It seemed that the rumours were true, for there was a day when Lord Cockshaw and Lord Myros Ball summoned their forces on the castle grounds and led them out. Ennis Dudley was among them, but this time, he gave no indication that he saw Gyselle before he rode out.
Ironhill began to remind Gyselle of an empty tortoise shell. The few guards left continued to patrol the grounds and the walls. The smallfolk were diminished and subdued, whispering fearfully as they pondered what to do if the castle was besieged again.
"The mines go far," one of the cooks insisted in earshot of Gyselle one night. "There's been dozens of folk fleeing already."
That's where Hulla must have gone. Gyselle kept her head down as she rubbed lye into one of the pots, cursing the strong layer of grease.
"Nonsense," another cook rasped. "Them folk is dead if they went down there. They sealed off all the holes for fifty years now."
"Fifty years, eh? And all that time, nobody's made another hole, then?"
They might have continued their stupid argument all day if it weren't for a man bursting into the kitchen with the news that the army was returning.
There had been a battle between the Tyrells and the Blackfyres at Florys' Hill, or so the man explained. Cockshaw and Ball had taken the high ground and sent cavalry sorties to lure Leo Tyrell into attacking them. Instead, Leo had surrounded the hill, intending to starve them out. The Blackfyres had eventually descended from the hill and broken through, but at great cost. Both Cockshaw and Ball were dead, along with a third of their army. Lord Tyrell had pulled back to lick his own wounds whilst the Blackfyre survivors were streaming back into the castle.
By the time Gyselle had slipped out of the kitchen and run to the castle grounds, they were covered with wounded men. They lay beneath the clear blue sky, too many for the infirmary to hold. Men and women hurried amongst them, administering water, bandages, or prayers.
Gyselle was aghast, staring out at the thousands of men who stood, sat, or lay about on the grass and dirt. She wandered down amongst them, unable to think of what to do. Men of all ages wept and whimpered, writhing woefully as they bled from injuries light and heavy alike.
It was then that she beheld Ennis Dudley.
His lower body had been stripped of armour, revealing breeches that were stained dark with blood. A broken arrow shaft was stuck in his side. His breathing was ragged and rattling; Gyselle knelt beside him in mute horror.
It was some time before he noticed her presence. Grunting from the effort of turning his head, he looked upon her with such misery that she forgot why he had irritated her so thoroughly.
"Jenny… I-" A sudden coughing fit interrupted his words, and he spat gobs of congealed blood onto his own shoulder. Whatever he meant to say, she would never know.
She leaned forward so that her lips were hovering over his ear.
"Gyselle," she whispered. "My name is Gyselle."
Ennis' eyes widened, and for one glorious second it seemed as though he might recover himself and speak again. But he did not draw another breath, and Gyselle realised that his wide eyes saw nothing.
Much to her own shock, Gyselle burst into tears. She clung to Ennis' hands and sobbed aloud. His hands became wet. Her nose was full of death's stench, and she sensed unfriendly eyes all around her, but she could not stop. She scarcely understood why she wept so thoroughly, but she couldn't think anymore. All she could do was bend over the broken body of Ennis Dudley and wail until she lost her voice.