Gyselle
The town square was decorated for Maiden's Day. Garlands of parchment hung in midair, swaying in the sweet summer breeze. A crude wooden statue of the Maiden had been pulled into the centre, where it was already covered in the droppings of birds.
Merchants continued to ply their trade as they had always done, but the square now bore witness to various women of various ages dancing together. A small group of musicians played instruments whilst a stout woman with grey hair roared out songs in a full voice.
Across the Seven Kingdoms, the nobility and royalty would cloister their maidens into septs after they'd fasted and been cleansed. They would murmur prayers to the Maiden and sing songs of virtue. No doubt half those 'maidens' are as soiled as that statue.
Truthfully, it was a modest affair before her. Tumbleton had once been a large and prosperous market town, but the Dance of the Dragons had seen the town razed and sacked not once but twice, by both sides in the war. Battle and dragonfire had destroyed most of the buildings, and the greater part of the townspeople had either been slain or fled far away. Even now, more than sixty years later, the town was a shadow of its former self. House Footly had tried to rebuild the town, and they still charged visitors to see the skulls of two dragons which had fallen there, but it did little good. The ground was cursed by so many dead, and most dared not live there.
Still, the townspeople did their best to make a joyful day of it. There was something to be said for their determination to put the past behind them and live in the moment.
"Do they have Maiden's Day on the Iron Islands?"
Hulla turned and gave Gyselle a smirk, "Only a few of them follow the Seven, and there isn't enough of their ilk to fill the sept of Tumbleton."
Gyselle reflexively glanced at the sept. Apart from House Footly's castle, the sept was the biggest building in Tumbleton, but that was akin to saying a cockroach was a giant among ants.
They stood in the shadow of the Bloody Caltrops. It was one of the few buildings which had endured the devastation wrought upon Tumbleton during the Dance of the Dragons. It was also a place of great infamy, for it was here that the leaders of the Greens had plotted and schemed with the Two Betrayers, the dragonriders who had deserted the Blacks to slake their own greed and ambition. The establishment endured, preserved by House Footly for more tourism opportunities, but it had changed owners several times since the Dance. The latest was a gnarled woman named Widow Daise. Her husband had managed the inn before his death, but it was hers alone now.
All the women who worked in the Bloody Caltrops were expected to take Maiden's Day off, much to their frustration. Gyselle was no less furious than the others. The gods don't have to eat, or find shelter for the night, or live as we do. Why should they deny us our trade?
A number of spectators were standing by to observe the dancing. Gyselle did not fail to note that a few faces turned to give her and Hulla glances of disdain. She saw those glances wherever she went, and they never failed to fill her with wroth.
Hulla, older than her by some fifteen or twenty years, pretended not to notice them as she took a sip from the flask which she always wore at her hip. Somehow it was always full, even though Gyselle had never seen her refill it. Neither had any of the barmen or innkeepers whose liquors were liberally stolen by the Ironborn woman.
"Asha! Where are you?"
It was Daise.
"Over here, Madam," Hulla called out lazily. She had given a false name to Daise when they'd first arrived. They used different names whenever they travelled, for one never knew when it would be best to disappear without a trace.
Daise emerged from around the corner, glaring fiercely through her one eye. Something terrible had happened to her at some point in her life, for instead of two eyes, one was missing, replaced by a mess of scars. Gyselle had always been half-terrified of her.
"You owe me rent," Daise remarked gruffly, "And you'll not put it off any longer."
"Now now, Widow," Hulla answered in a cool voice, "Don't you know what day it is?"
"I'm not having any of that!" Daise wagged a finger in Hulla's face. "Seven groats, or I'll send for the town watch!"
"Seven groats?" Hulla repeated. "When last I looked, the other women paid four groats per room. What makes us so special?"
"There's two of you in the room," Daise retorted, speaking as if Hulla was a child, "and you're a godless kraken at that, so I'll get extra coin from you!" Daise had ever been a pious and judgmental bitch.
Hulla did not flinch, but her eyes were hardening. They were steel-gray, with flecks of blue, betraying nothing or everything, depending on Hulla's will. Gyselle had seen grown men cowed by that stare. Daise, however, was unaffected.
After a moment, Hulla's will yielded to that of the older woman. She turned to Gyselle, "You heard her. Get the money from my purse."
"Where is it?" Daise asked suspiciously.
"Up your arse," Hulla snapped. "I'll stay here till she returns."
Gyselle hurried off, making for the place where she and Hulla hid their earnings. Hulla had taught her a long time ago to never leave one's money where a landlord or innkeep could find it. And if one had their money on their person, it was just a matter of time before some robber or unruly customer took it for themselves.
Besides lowborn whores, one of the most ill-regarded jobs in the Seven Kingdoms was that of the gong farmer. It was their duty to clean out the privies and cesspits of highborn and lowborn alike. It was an important job, truth be told, but it was not one which anyone admired. Gong farmers were banished from society, forced to work at night so as not to disturb anyone with the smell and uncleanliness of their profession.
Hulla made it a point to find out where the gong farmer lived, for no thief would ever wish to get too close to the reek of human waste. Determinedly breathing through her mouth instead of her nose, Gyselle went to the back of the sleeping gong farmer's shack, lifted a loose panel from the low-hanging roof, and withdrew Hulla's purse. She counted out seven groats, put the purse back, and returned to the Bloody Caltrops.
"Took you long enough," Daise grumbled as she pocketed the coins.
"A fine Maiden's Day to you too," Hulla replied sarcastically, but Daise was already walking to the town square to join the revelers.
"Time to leave, methinks," Hulla murmured to Gyselle. "This town won't earn us much, and Daise will look for any excuse to get rid of us."
"Shall I collect our things from upstairs?" Gyselle asked nervously.
"Be quick about it," Hulla replied, "I'll get my purse. Meet me at Dragon Field." She was referring to a large field which lay south of the town, marked as the place where three dragons fought and died during the Second Battle of Tumbleton. "We'll go to the Roseroad from there."
Gyselle slipped back into the Bloody Caltrops, hurrying up to the third floor, where the prostitutes had their rooms. They were travelling light, with only those things which were essential for their survival. There was little surety in their wellbeing, so it was best to prepare for abrupt departures such as this.
Luckily, Daise had not learned the same lesson that Hulla had learned; it had taken her several days, but she'd found one of the old woman's hiding spots in the inn. Gyselle took the small bag of coins from it and carried it up to their room, where she packed it amongst their belongings.
As she did so, a voice rang out behind her. "Leaving us?"
It was Ruggan. He was one of the men hired by Daise to act as security within the Bloody Caltrops. He was a hulking, unkempt man who took liberties with any woman that he could bully.
Gyselle knew that she had to be careful; challenging him would put her life in danger, but nor did she want to be demure, for that would only encourage him.
She looked at him over her shoulder as she finished packing, "Daise wants us in another room. There's a new arrival coming."
"New arrival?" Ruggan frowned, "I heard no such thing."
"She just got into town," Gyselle improvised, "I think she's Dornish, from the look of her."
As she expected, Ruggan's eyes lit up. His fancy for Dornishwomen was stronger than his suspicion that Daise would ever allow a Dornishwoman to ply her trade beneath her roof. "Is that so? Where is she, then?"
"She's watching the maidens' dance. But she'll be wanting help with her belongings."
Ruggan pondered this, doubtless remembering all the stories he'd heard of licentious Dornishwomen. Without another word to Gyselle, he turned and walked back downstairs.
She only had a few minutes' respite, for he would soon see through her deception. With great haste, Gyselle packed the rest of her and Hulla's belongings into the pack they shared. Slinging it over her shoulder, she hurried out through the back, praying that Ruggan would not see them.
As she said, Hulla was waiting for her in the field. Gyselle nodded to her. "Let's be on our way." She set out southwards at once, still carrying their pack.
"What's your hurry?" Hulla asked her after a short while.
"Ruggan accosted me," Gyselle answered, hoping that a half-truth would placate Hulla, "I distracted him, but he will see through it quickly. I don't want to be close at hand when he figures it out."
Hulla asked no more questions, and the two of them walked on across the open plain, past small farms and copses. They were spared from the summer sun's strength by thick white clouds which slowly ambled across the sky. They walked mostly in silence, for Gyselle did not instigate any conversation, and Hulla rarely did so of her own volition.
According to Hulla, she had been born on Orkmont, to a line of fishermen which went back to the days when House Hoare had ruled the Iron Islands. Besides that, she rarely spoke of her family; Gyselle had known her for seven years now, and she still did not know the names of Hulla's parents, or even how many sisters and brothers she had. Once, when Hulla was drunk enough, she had claimed that she had been aboard her father's fishing boat when a storm had knocked her into the sea. She had clung to a spar and drifted to the mainland of Westeros, wherupon she'd begun her wanderings. When Gyselle had met her, she had been working in an Oldtown brothel.
Gyselle had spent her entire life in Oldtown, far as she could remember. She had been brought to the Starry Sept as a babe still in swaddling clothes. She had no memory of her mother or father, but she knew that she was a bastard. The swaddling clothes which she had worn were of a poor quality, and none of her kin ever claimed her. The septas of the Starry Sept were content to take the child, and thus Gyselle had grown up amongst the other girls training to be septas.
She had always known that she was different; she was swarthy in appearance, with curly black hair and skin that did not belong to any one culture, or so it seemed. Truthfully, she could not be sure what her ancestry was; a thousand people from a thousand different places passed through Oldtown yearly. As a result, one of the crueler girls in the Sept had called her "Mongrel" and the name had stuck.
The septas themselves had always been prepared to see the worst in her, and since they could not decide what her background was, she bore the weight of any that they disliked. There was nobody who could disprove their assumptions, Gyselle herself least of all.
Gyselle's temper had frequently caused her to lash out against her tormenters, until she had been forced to flee from severe punishment. She had disappeared into the undercity, convinced that no authority would find her there. She had been just twelve years old then, and she would never have lived to see her thirteenth year if it weren't for Hulla.
Eventually, as the sun made its own journey across the sky, the two women came upon a large road made entirely of cobblestones, carefully laid out and well-kept. This was the Roseroad, an ancient pathway which stretched across the entire width of the Reach in a great curve. Although it predated the Targaryen dynasty, it was Jaehaerys the Wise who had arranged for it to become a proper road. The lords of the Reach had quickly seen the sense of it, and those along the Roseroad were careful to maintain it for those wishing to travel upon it. In order to keep it safe - and to pay for its maintenance - various guards and toll collectors were stationed at various points, carrying the king's authority wherever they went.
Luckily for Gyselle and Hulla, they had found a quiet stretch of the road, between the toll stations. But a problem arose as they stood along the road.
"Whither will we go?" Gyselle asked Hulla.
Hulla turned one way, then the other, looking thoughtfully at each horizon as if she could foretell what awaited them. After a pause, she asked for her map.
Gingerly, Gyselle extracted the map from their pack and handed it to Hulla, looking over her shoulder as she opened and pored over it.
"If we want to go to King's Landing, we walk east. If we want to go to Oldtown, we go west."
Gyselle had little interest in returning to Oldtown. It was a long way, and she did not doubt that some of the septas had long memories. But there were plenty of other destinations along the way to Oldtown, and they might prove less dangerous. She did not say as much to Hulla; she still felt guilty over the concealed coins hidden in their pack. No doubt Daise will have found out by now, and word will travel faster than we can walk.
"What else is there for us in the Reach?" Gyselle asked in a tone which she hoped was lighthearted. "I have a mind to see our capital." She pointed to King's Landing, which lay beyond the great mass of the Kingswood, where the Roseroad met the Kingsroad.
Hulla pondered over Gyselle's words, never looking up from the map, and then shrugged, "So be it, then."
Together, they walked westward down the road; it ran straight for as far as they could see, across the fertile countryside of the Reach. Occasionally, folk passed them by on horseback or carried by litter, whereupon the women needed to skirt out of the way to avoid being trampled.
Eventually, they came upon a group of men-at-arms lounging by the Roseroad. They were dressed in mail, carrying weapons, and wore green surcoats with some sort of ox woven in silver thread. A guardhouse of stone and wood was erected on either side of the road, standing before a prosperous village of considerable size which spread out on either side of the road before giving way to ripe fields. A castle there was too, formidable and flying the same sigil which was emblazoned on the guards' surcoats, and beyond all that was a mass of dark green on the far horizon.
"Halt!"
The man spoke loudly, as if he were speaking to a great company or a massive litter drawn by destriers. Men are always so pompous when they have a taste of power. All the same, Gyselle bit her tongue and obeyed, waiting for Hulla to take charge.
The man who had spoken stepped forward, away from his companions, eyeing the women with beady eyes. He was of average height, with dirty blonde hair and unshaven cheeks. "Who are you, and what business do you have in Lord Strickland's territory?"
"Is this Strickland's territory?" Hulla asked, as if she hadn't seen the marking on the map just an hour before. She always pretended to be stupider than she was when it came to braggarts in armour.
"It is," came the arrogant answer, "I am Ser Mortimer Oldflowers, and I speak with Lord Hugo Strickland's authority!"
"Well, I am Margaret, and this is Hilda," Hulla replied, pointing first to herself and then to Gyselle.
One of the guards who stood with Ser Mortimer whispered something to his companion. They laughed until Ser Mortimer silenced them with a glance.
"Is there a place where we can ply our trade?" Hulla asked.
Ser Mortimer turned back to her, "There might be accommodations for your kind, but first you must pay the toll."
Hulla took out her purse, "What is the charge?"
"Four groats," Ser Mortimer answered, "two for each of you."
Hulla duly took out the coins and handed them to the knight. Gyselle noticed three of the guards eyeing her and she forced herself to smile at them. Mayhaps they will be customers later.
"Welcome to Penmore," Ser Mortimer declared, nodding to the others to let the women pass.
As Gyselle walked past them, one reached out and slapped her rump as casually as if he were swatting a fly. She bit her tongue and gave the man a suggestive wink. He sneered in response, showing a mouthful of crooked and discoloured teeth, until Ser Mortimer ordered him back to his duty.
Gyselle turned and followed Hulla again, committing the man's face to her memory. It had always been a struggle for her to keep her temper, but Hulla had taught her from an early age that if one must light a fire, it had best be done cautiously, to make sure the kindling would catch properly and burn as one wished. No doubt I will see you again, Brownsmile.