Gyselle

After his victory at the Mander and Blue Byrn, Quentyn had received word that loyalists in the Reach had attacked Ironhill. While Lomas Tarly had ridden for the marches and Lord Strickland had gone to help Daemon Blackfyre, Fireball had taken his third of the army, as well as Gyselle and the other camp followers, for his family's lands.

It had been a slow march across the northern Reach. Twice they had been shadowed by bands of loyalists, until they were chased off by Ser Eustace and his outriders. Barely one in four of Quentyn's men were mounted, however, for Strickland had been granted the bulk of the cavalry to better reach Daemon's side. Among those knights who remained with Fireball's forces were Eustace Osgrey, Culver Tork, Agramore Jayn, and Ennis Dudley.

As they'd marched across the Reach, others had joined them. Lord Abelar Cockshaw had joined them with over fifteen hundred fighting men. Several other small groups of scattered companies had fallen in with Fireball, maybe a hundred or two hundred more in total. On a rare occasion during the march to Ironhill, Gyselle heard some whisper that they were few in number, and even after their victories in battle, they were vulnerable to their enemies.

It was difficult for Gyselle to hear any gossip, for men did not speak freely in her presence. After the way Fireball had dealt with Eadric, all seemed under the impression that she was Fireball's spy as well as his whore. Gyselle loathed the notion that she would ever willingly assist Fireball in anything beyond that which kept her alive and safe. She certainly made no pretence of enjoying Fireball when he fucked her on her knees. Desperate for him to finish sooner, she would channel her rage and insult him. She tried to mock his ability, calling him puny and pathetic. All of it only served to feed the fire of Ser Quentyn's lust which never seemed to be quenched for long.

Quentyn was equally unperturbed by the lack of support for his cause in the northern Reach. On the third day, he sat round a small fire with Lord Cockshaw, Ser Ennis, Ser Agramore, Ser Culver Tork, and Ser Eustace Osgrey. Gyselle managed to keep herself hidden so she could spy on the council.

Cockshaw was quick to voice his concern for their predicament. "We have fewer than five thousand men between us, Fireball. Was this all you expected to raise from the Reach?

"This is not all the Reach, this is the worst part of it. These men never bordered Dorne," Quentyn barked dismissively after taking a sip of wine. "They long ago forgot what war was like, and they will be afraid of the reminders. No matter. Lomas will raise the south for us, where men remember how to fight for their lives."

Lord Cockshaw was not reassured by this promise. "And pray, what will we do?"

"We are going to the Ironhill," Quentyn reminded him. "My family will give us further strength and supplies. We will decide what to do from there."

It was then that the knight called Ser Eustace raised his hand. "If I may, Ser, we could bring down the bannermen of Lord Rowan. Surely that is one of the Tyrells' strongest houses, and they might attack us if we leave them undisturbed."

"If we provoke them, they will surely attack," Quentyn retorted.

"The reward is worth the risk," Ser Eustace insisted. "I know of a stronghold we can make our own…"

"We all know the name of this stronghold," Fireball interrupted. "We do not have the strength to besiege a castle. We would easily be overwhelmed before we seized the place. Resign yourself, Ser. You will have Coldmoat when Daemon rewards you with it. Be content with that."

Ser Eustace's mood fell, but he did not argue the matter further as Quentyn continued.

"In any case, it is Ironhill we must take for ourselves. It is there that we will regroup and raise a larger force. Between Lomas and us, the Reach will fall!"

Gyselle had never heard any man speak so confidently as Quentyn; he acted as though he would personally tear the Iron Throne to pieces with his bare hands and reforge it twice as large for Daemon.

And yet, by some queer notion of the gods, Quentyn's assurance was rewarded. Word came to them from eager outriders just a day from their destination. The besiegers had abandoned their camp when Quentyn's army was seen approaching. Ironhill was liberated without a fight, and when the relief force did arrive at the castle, they were welcomed as heroes for winning a battle they hadn't fought.

Gyselle was kept far from the nobles in the castle, but that suited her fine; she much preferred to go wandering. Exploring the castle for herself came easier with other privileges. Those smallfolk in Ironhill had no reason to fear her; indeed, they seemed devoted to their house's most famous member. Quentyn Ball's whore was one who could command some measure of respect amongst those who idolised him.

It was through these that Gyselle was able to learn about the lore and history of House Ball. It was one of the oldest houses in the Reach, descended from a man who'd shared his wife with the founders of House Peak and House Florent. Moreover, she learned a great deal of Quentyn himself, such as his well-known defeat at the King's Landing tourney of six years past. It certainly explained those moments where he loudly denounced Willem Wylde in his sleep.

From what Gyselle could see, Ironhill was well-named. House Ball's lands lay along the northwestern border of the Reach. This close proximity with the Westerlands was reflected in the land itself. The rugged ore-rich hills and fertile forested valleys spilled down into the northern Reach, and House Ball had always reaped the benefits of both. Their castle was built on top of a broad hill, ready to defend itself from any direction. Although Ironhill had once supported a thriving mine beneath the castle, the mine had finally run dry during the rein of King Viserys I.

Since then, House Ball had taken pains to fortify the entire hill, either by sealing the old mine's entrances or guarding them ruthlessly. The tunnels were preserved, as were the narrow air-shafts which always ensured a supply of fresh air. Small wonder men whispered that Ironhill sat atop a giant labyrinth in which House Ball hid their treasures, supplies, and who knows what else.

Lord Myros Ball was Quentyn's nephew. It was clear to Gyselle from just a few short observations that Lord Myros half-admired and half-feared his famous uncle. He looked no older than nineteen. Though he was broadly built and seemed handy with weapons, Gyselle could sense that the lordling had spent his life living in Quentyn's shadow. Quentyn had clearly loomed over his entire life, a shadow from under which he would never escape.

They remained at Ironhill for several days. Gyselle was not sure whether this long stay was because they were debating what to do next, because they expected another siege, or some other reason. What she did perceive was that there was growing discontentment among the men and those who had come along with the army.

The reinforcements which Quentyn had predicted did eventually come, but far fewer in number than he'd hoped. They were led by a stocky man who wore red armour and black horns on his helm.

Gyselle was rarely permitted to be on hand when important matters occurred, but that never stopped her from trying to overhear whatever she could. She was lucky enough to witness Fireball approach this horned knight after he'd passed through the castle gates.

"Ser Buford," Quentyn declared when the man removed his helm. "A welcome sight to any leal king's man. But what of your brother? Why have you come with so few men?" There were barely fifty horsemen present, and all of their mounts were exhausted from long travel.

"My brother has bent the knee," Ser Buford remarked scathingly. He spat to show his opinion of such an action. "Lord Leo Tyrell came upon us with thrice our strength. I gathered what men I could and left to seek your aid."

Quentyn offered little sympathy for such a setback. "What aid can I give your brother when he has already yielded? His war has ended. At least you may still win glory to your house, Buford. Ride with me and take it for yourself."

A frown crossed Buford's face, but he soon recovered and clasped Quentyn's proffered hand. "I will bring Longthorn's head back to Blackcrown!"

Despite these bold words, they did not leave Ironhill that day, or the next.

Gyselle wandered the castle, making use of her association with Quentyn. His name was a key to many doors, and a safe word against any who might have trifled or meddled with her.

Several times, she'd sought out Hulla. The older woman had been made to perform several menial tasks with the other common women who had attached themselves to the army, by choice or by force. Since their arrival at Ironhill, however, Hulla had seemingly vanished. Nobody had seen her leave, but Gyselle could not locate her amongst the servants.

Gyselle finally found her in the elaborate cave systems beneath Ironhill. Men and women, noble and common alike, had made much use of the old tunnels, such as turning one spacious hole into a brothel that many of the knights frequented regularly.

It was with great hesitation that she made her descent to the brothel one day. She knew that she had to be on her guard in such a place. Quentyn would be very suspicious if he discovered her presence in such a place. Thankfully, he had gone riding for the day, taking many horsemen with him.

When she found Hulla, the iron woman was already drunk. She sat on an empty barrel with a pewter cup in her hand, loudly singing scraps of a sailor's song.

"Hulla?"

The older woman turned, but her eyes hardened at the sight of Gyselle.

"You! What are you doing here?"

Gyselle was risking a great deal to be there, and though she had expected an unfriendly response, it galled her nonetheless. She folded her arms. "Is that truly the first thing you wish to say? After all this time?"

Hulla frowned, but she did not answer Gyselle, nor did she avert her eyes from Gyselle's glare.

"I miss you." Gyselle had meant to be more gentle, more conciliatory, but if this was what was going to happen, she had no wish to drag it out.

"Spare me this wounded animal performance," Hulla declared in a slurred voice. "You have no idea what I did for you all those years. I looked after you like you were mine own. And all you did in response was make trouble. Stealing from folk, resenting me, spying, cheating, driving us onto the road. All of it led to these bloody Blackfyres!"

"Bollocks!" Gyselle was shouting now. Hulla's words were a poison which made her stomach churn. The only antidote was to fight fire with fire.

"I was a help to you! I only stole from them who deserved it, and you took the money quick enough! You took all the money I ever earned! And my spying helped us plenty enough times too! You never had no problem with any of that either!"

Hulla rolled her eyes. "What else could I expect from you? If you're going to run from the truth, then you ought to become a good liar. But you never had the sense to do even that!"

"What happened to you?" Gyselle was almost ready to weep, or else she might slap Hulla instead. "Them Blackfyres did nothing that others haven't done to you! What makes all this any different? Is it because you were too old and too ugly to catch the Fireball's eye?"

Hulla lunged forward without warning. Whether it was from drunkenness or rage, her hand was wildly flung, and struck Gyselle's face like a club.

"You stupid bitch," Hulla shrieked, louder than Gyselle's cry of pain. "You want to know what you did to me?"

She clumsily yanked up her skirt to reveal her lower half. Gyselle looked with horror upon the pustules which were already formed around Hulla's groin.

She had seen many men and women die of the pox. It was a slow disease, but as cruel as greyscale. Skin became disfigured, and noses fell away to leave a ghastly mess. Gyselle had suffered nightmares for years that she would end her days misshapen by the pox.

"How long?" She could not bear to be more specific.

"It won't come to that, I promise you," Hulla snarled as she took another swig of cheap whiskey. "This won't be the end of me. I'll not wait that long. Let that hang over your half-breed head."

Tears flowed down Gyselle's cheeks. Hulla had been the first woman whom she had told of her plight in the Starry Sept. Gyselle had told Hulla about the other girls naming her Mongrel, and the iron woman never used it against her. That she was drunk and dying meant nothing to Gyselle.

"I've already forgotten your name," Gyselle declared as scathingly as she could manage.

With that, she turned her back on Hulla and stormed off, half blind by the tears which continued to flow.

Several men and women managed to stand in her way as she tried to leave the tunnels. She ignored their curses when she bumped into them; blood was pounding so thickly inside of her that she was almost deaf to any noises around her.

As she emerged from the tunnels and back out into the courtyard of the castle, her rage slowly yielded ground to a growing sense of shame. She recalled her own cruel words, and she could not shake the notion that they had been unworthy, no matter what Hulla had done. She tried desperately to hold on to her righteous anger, but Hulla's words pierced her heart as she reflected on her guilt. It only made her more miserable and provoked more tears to course down her cheeks.

"Jenny?"

She recognised the voice, but she did not heed it until a hand grabbed her shoulder. Wheeling to the right, she beheld Ser Ennis Dudley. His eyes were wide as he stared at her.

"What happened?"

Gyselle shook her head. "It doesn't matter, Ser."

"Doesn't matter?" Incredulity replaced Ennis' look of alarm. "Half your face is blackened!"

Hulla hit me harder than I thought. She turned away, burning with shame. "It was an accident, Ser. Thank you for your concern." She tried to hurry off, but Ennis grabbed her wrist and gripped it.

"Jenny, please. Let me take you to a maester."

Take Hulla instead. "Quentyn Ball is expecting me, I must go."

"Ser Quentyn? Is he back already?"

Gyselle did not deign him a reply, nor did Ennis go after her as she hurried away.

Quentyn had arranged for her to have a tiny room in the same tower where he made his abode. It was little better than a cell, but now she was grateful for the privacy. The door was fitted with a lock, and the only keys were in Gyselle and Quentyn's possession.

She lay on her bed of fresh straw and sobbed to herself until she succumbed to a miserable weariness.

When she awoke, the room was dark. The only light came her window, which was really more of an arrow slit.

For a mad moment, she wondered whether she could flee before Quentyn returned. Who would notice one lowly whore fleeing Ironhill. But where can I go that the war will not touch?

She thought of Ser Rickard Merzer and Lunz. She had often wondered where they had gone and what had become of them. For the first time, she pondered what might have happened to her if she'd left with them instead of Hulla. They would have taken me in. Lunz was teaching me how to cook, and Rick was a good man. A kind man. I might have escaped this war completely.

She was still dwelling on these fancies when she was startled a loud clanking of metal. She gave a cry of fear, until she realised that it was the sound of a key being thrust into the lock. The door swung open, revealing the torch-lit figure of Quentyn Ball.

Gyselle shuddered as the burly knight stepped through the doorway; he seemed to fill the entire room. He also swayed as if he were drunk.

"Did you think it was somebody else?"

Gyselle did not answer. His question was given as a jape, but she could sense that it was a challenge.

"Come along, then." One of his big hands easily pulled her to her feet. He did a double take when she walked into the hallway. "What happened?"

"Nothing you need concern yourself with, Ser," Gyselle answered. "It was a woman who struck me."

Fireball shook his head. "You have too many enemies."

On that much, we agree. She allowed herself to be led up the tower to Quentyn's chamber.

"Another battle today," Quentyn declared. "Lord Rowan made common cause with the Morelands and Serretts. It made no matter. They thought to attack, but we fell upon them at Little Dosk." He missed a step on the stairs and stumbled with a curse.

Despite her misery and bitterness, Gyselle could not help but find something intriguing about Fireball. He bragged about his proficiency at war, especially when he was drunk, but there were several times - such as this one - when he did so in a flat voice, bereft of pride or malice towards his foes.

"Was it a terrible battle?"

Quentyn turned and gave her a look of contempt. "All battles are terrible. But it was terrible for them. Six of theirs dead for every one of ours. Lord Rowan lost an arm, too. His hand was still grasping his sword when they picked it up off the ground."

Gyselle shuddered again, appalled that any man could speak so casually about such a ghastly image.

He was not finished, either. "I slew Ascrod Stackhouse. His sons will curse me for that, no doubt. One of Serrett's ilk is dead too, but no man could recognise him."

By then, they had reached Quentyn's door, and the brawny knight ceased his account so that he could fumble with the key. Gyselle followed him mutely, undressing at his command and getting onto his large bed. Unlike other beds, Quentyn preferred a hard mattress, which he claimed was better for his back. That might be a boon for him, but it did Gyselle no favours as she rested her weight upon her hands and knees.

Time lost all meaning to her as Quentyn got onto the bed behind her and took her. Her body, already weary and hungry, was soon sore. Her hands and knees, her anus, her back… it made no difference to him. He continued on, grunting and gasping like some monstrous ox, thrusting inside her with a vigour that made her gasp.

Her thoughts wandered back to Ennis. His manner was courteous, to be sure, and he was a considerate man despite his ignorance. Sex had never been his appeal, but she did not find any sex appealing.

Quentyn's breathing was ragged, but his thrusts did not diminish. Gods, make an end of it already!

"Daemon Blackfyre is going to die," she snarled.

That alone was enough to halt Quentyn's rhythm.

"He will end his life with his feet off the ground and his head in a noose! His wife will end her life in silence alongside yours! Their children will be orphans at the Wall!"

She felt him slip out of her. That alone was enough to warn her that she had gone too far, but it was too late to react. With his frightening strength, he pulled her around and slapped her with the back of his hand.

Gyselle shrieked in pain. He'd struck the same part of her face which was already bruised. Now it felt as though it were on fire. Her mouth was filling up with that iron taste of blood, and she felt a loose tooth sliding against her tongue.

"Bitch!" Quentyn was not articulate in his wine-sodden state. He repeated the word as he picked her up an threw her bodily away from him. She felt badly, causing a sharp pain to flare up in her hip and one leg. She tried to scream, causing a puddle of blood to form on the floor.

"I'll not have such treasonous talk. I will not!" Quentyn stood over her, eyes blazing as his hands were balled into fists.

"I was speaking as I always do!" Gyselle was terrified that he might kill her right here. Hulla had always warned her that men could easily get away with it, but she had grown careless again. "I thought it might help you finish!"

Fireball hesitated, his frown deepening as he looked upon her. Then he suddenly burst into a loud and cruel laughter.

"Even you do not believe that," he jeered.

Gyselle was crying; her body trembled uncontrollably, which only aggravated her pains and aches. She spat out more mouthfuls of blood as she picked up her loose tooth and held it in her hand.

The brawny knight gave a loud sigh as he eased himself back down and sat heavily on the ground. One hand gripped his head, as though he might squeeze out his sense of drunkenness.

I don't know if you're too clever or too stupid," he grunted as he fixed her with a beady glance. "You know enough to play the fool, but you can't do it. What does that make you, Jenny?"

Gyselle said nothing as she collected her garments from the ground. She suspected that Quentyn would give in to a drunken sleep soon enough.

Instead, he arose shakily to his feet and grabbed her by her curly brown hair.

"Do you know why we all fight for Daemon Blackfyre?"

"No, Ser," Gyselle replied, wincing from the pain.

Quentyn smirked at her false politeness, but he released her all the same.

"Daemon Blackfyre is the best of us. That's why. The best of us, and the best of them too, while we're keeping score." Quentyn seized a discarded wineskin and emptied more wine down his gullet. "Eustace Osgrey's a good man, and a good knight. Ser Lomas, well, he's more of an old woman than my aunts, but he's made for war, always was. I don't even like Bittersteel all that much, truth be told, but he fights better than almost any other man I've seen. And where Daemon is concerned, Bittersteel is the most loyal man I ever met. I could name them all. You wouldn't know them, but they're all sorts of men. Good, bad, whatever you want to call them. Nothing could ever unite us all, or so you would think. But Daemon does."

Quentyn sighed and shook his head, as if he could not comprehend his own words. Nay, he is trying to shake his headache loose.

"Daeron always understood it. He understands a lot about the world, I'll grant him that much. He knows his limitations, too. He can't command men's love like Daemon. Baelor could, but Daeron can't."

Gyselle listened dully, getting dressed as the burly knight slowly talked himself into another drunken stupour.

"I trained them all, I did. Daemon's the man for that bloody throne. Baelor comes close, but he's not there yet. Gods will it that he never makes it that far. I beat him once, I'll do it again for Daemon. Spare him the need to become a kinslayer."

He'd spoken of this often. Some six years ago now, Fireball had ridden against Baelor in a grand tourney at King's Landing. He had triumphed against Baelor, and against his precious Daemon too.

Gyselle knew the routine. She prepared to leave Quentyn for the night, for he did not trust her enough to fall asleep beside her. He needn't have bothered, of course, for Gyselle could not bring herself to kill the knight, much as she fantasized about it. He is also the one who keeps all the other brutes at bay.

Quentyn groaned as he crawled onto his bed whilst Gyselle got dressed again.

"I shouldn't have struck you," he murmured in a slurred voice. "A knight is sworn to protect women. Your pardon, Jenny."

Gyselle did not know whether to laugh or cry as she turned her back on Fireball and slipped out of his chamber. He was already falling asleep.

Never before had Gyselle felt so trapped in her life. She had often felt smothered and suppressed beneath Hulla's wing, but this was far crueller than she could have imagined. She was weeping again as she descended the tower, still clutching the tooth which Quentyn had knocked loose.