Crossover. AU. Desmera-centric. Not epilogue compliant when it comes to HP.
Huge thanks to teaplayer over on AO3 for betaing this fic and helping make it much better than it was.
Expect regular updates. I hope you enjoy the journey for as long as we ride together.
The Seafarer
I
The first time she heard of him, it was just a silly moniker.
"-and Ceryse sent me a letter by raven. She said she'll come here next week, that Lord Rhysling and you have business together."
"Yes, Jon and I wish to go over some trade figures from the past few months, aside from other matters. I will make sure Herryk gives you a lighter workload in his lessons when Ceryse arrives."
"Thank you, father!" Desmera said, beaming.
"Hey, why does she get less work than us?" her brother Hobber exclaimed. Horas gave him a commiserating look, but he knew better than to argue.
"Because your sister is more advanced and better at them than you are – she can afford it and she knows better than to slack off."
Desmera heard the warning loud and clear. "I won't, I promise!"
"Good. And get your elbows off the table, boy. You're a Redwyne scion, not some peasant urchin from the Stormlands. Now get back to your food."
"I'm already finished, anyway," Hobber replied, a bit of a grumble to his voice.
They were all in Ivyhall's Great Hall, eating breakfast together. The sounds of a bustling day wrapped around them, as below them there were dozens of landed knights and members of the household sharing their first meal of the day. With a quick glance below, Desmera spotted Horsemaster Alester in a lively conversation with his wife and one of the servants. Not far from there, a group of landed knights were laughing from something one of her father's guards had said, probably a jape.
She saw her own chambermaid, Lily, eating with some of the other servants further down the hall. Their eyes crossed for a moment and when the dark-haired girl sent a smile her way, Desmera returned it, offering her a small wave.
"Desmera, child, don't get distracted and finish your food," her mother Mina reminded her. "Have you done your lessons for the day?"
"Oh, sorry mother. Yes, I finished them just before I came down to the hall for breakfast! We're going over the first Blackfyre Rebellion now – we just discussed the reasons for Daemon's claim to the throne," she explained, turning to her food. Grabbing the half-eaten slice of flatbread with cheese, she finished it before attacking her plate of cooked venison, mindful of the figs she still had to go through.
"Ugh, I don't understand how you can get up to attend lessons at such an ungodly hour, little Des."
"She's dutiful and knows that the sooner she finishes her lessons for the day, the sooner she gets to have leisure time. You should learn from her, son," her father scolded Hobber.
Disgruntled, her brother made to answer when Maester Herryk came to the Great Hall through one of the entrances. Desmera looked at him as he approached the high table. He was a mature man, sporting a well-kept mane of dark hair and a thick bushy beard braided in a Northern fashion.
"M'lord, a raven from Mermaid's Palace."
Desmera smiled despite herself. Herryk had never quite lost his peasant brogue, even though he'd been a maester more than eight and ten years. She had it on good authority that he now did it as much for amusement as it was a genuine trait of his. The little conspiratorial smile he sent her way was proof enough of that.
Her lord father didn't miss it, but showed no reaction aside from a good-humoured quirk of his brow. "Anything that can't be put off, Herryk? I was just having breakfast with my family," he said, eyeing the missive in the maester's hands with resigned frustration.
"More ironborn reports, m'lord, but-"
"That scum again?!" Her father smashed a fist onto the table, making everyone nearby flinch. There was a jarring lull in the hall's hubbub as silence took over the entire room for a beat before the sound of conversation returned, now somewhat stilted. "When will they tire of raiding our ships and killing our people? They've been spoiling for a proper thrashing far too long since the Rebellion and yet the king does nothing!"
His mood soured visibly, and the bitterness in his voice was impossible to ignore. Desmera could understand why; the ironborn had long targeted them, and while the cowards avoided them in open combat, they frequently used their navigational skills to outmanoeuvre them in hit-and-run raids from the sea. Her uncle Desmond frequently remarked that a death by a thousand cuts was still death. It didn't always work out for them –the Redwynes weren't a naval powerhouse for nothing, after all– but the ironborn were still more than a mere annoyance.
"It's high time we stopped giving those whoresons free rein to do as they please on our shores! If the king has a problem with me sending the Seven-damned squids to the bottom of the sea, he can well take it up with me," declared her father, face set in a terrible scowl. With a resolute nod, he jumped to his feet. "Maester, send ravens to Stonecrab Cay and all the other islands and raise the banners. We'll be having squid this week."
"M'lord, you misunderstand," Herryk quickly cut in before her father's rant went out of control. "Lord Gunther is reporting another ironborn ship sunk."
This took the wind out of her father's sails, who plopped down on the chair once more with a sigh. He began drumming his fingers on the table, a hard look on his face. "Again? What's this, the second time so far this fortnight?"
"Forgive me m'lord, but it's actually the fourth," the maester corrected politely.
"Fourth. I like this not. Not at all."
"Husband, is that not a good thing? The less those curs plague our shores and our people, the better, is it not?" her mother questioned, placing a placating hand on his arm. Smiling at her for a brief moment, her father took hold of her hand before his face returned to the troubled frown it had previously.
"Not quite, Mina. It's good the squids were sent to their blasted fish god, but whoever is sinking them is not a part of our fleet, and that is worrisome."
"You fear the vassals will lose trust in your rule," she stated simply, to which Desmera's father looked like he'd sucked on a sour Dornish lemon.
"Your words cut deep, wife, but you are right. That is precisely my fear – if fishermen villages and coastland keeps see not the Redwyne fleet aiding them, but unknown ships instead, what does that say of my rule? Of our House? No, I need to know who it is, and soon!"
"M'lord…" Herryk began, but trailed off. The whiskers on his face twitched, as if he were mulling on whether to continue or not.
"What is it, Herryk? Speak!"
"M'lord… the captain of the garrison there believes it to be the work of the Seafarer," the Northern maester finally revealed.
A sudden silence followed his declaration, and Desmera could see the way her father's face reddened, twisting in anger at the mere mention of the name in question. For her part, Desmera couldn't help the spark of curiosity that flared up in her. In her seventeen years of life, she hadn't seen this expression of sheer anger mixed with utter frustration.
"That fool ghost again?!" he hissed, struggling to maintain his composure. He rose from his seat, a determined look on his face, and addressed one of the guards in the hall. "Martyn, get me a ship ready! Not the Arbor Queen – a fast one, like a longship. Mayhaps the Seasnake. "
"At once, m'lord!"
"Husband?"
Her father, the Lord of House Redwyne, turned towards her mother and his stern expression melted into one of quiet fondness at once. His face always softened when he directed his eyes towards his wife and Desmera never tired of seeing it. It was a beautiful sign of the love they shared, and she hoped the man she married in the future looked at her the same way.
"Fret not, Mina. I will find this daredevil preying on the squids and get the truth out of him. I'll be back safe and sound before you know it," he promised. Desmera watched as he moved away from the table, approached her mother and took her hand, placing a kiss on it.
Mina Redwyne, born a Tyrell, smiled at him indulgently. Her dark amber eyes shone with amusement, but Desmera didn't miss the faint blush that bloomed on her mother's cheeks. She pressed her lips tightly to refrain from grinning. It was sweet to see.
Unfortunately, her older brothers didn't seem to think so, because they coughed pointedly and made mock sounds of disgust in a cruel jape. Even the hard look Desmera sent their way did little to make them stop. The unamused look her lord father gave them, however, did.
"I will take my leave. Horas, you are my Heir and as such, you will be acting as Lord Redwyne in my absence. Your lady mother will supervise your decisions. Work with her and do me proud," he said, laying a hand on his son's shoulder.
Caught off guard by his father's words, Horas straightened up and tried to look as lordly as he could while nodding gravely. "I will, father. I promise." His words sounded strong, but his nervousness was plain to see.
"Good lad. Hobber, Desmera, look after your brother," he told them, planting an affectionate kiss on Desmera's brow before he swept away, leaving the Grand Hall with an imperious gait. Several of his household guards accompanied him.
Silence reigned amongst them for a moment after her father's departure before she turned towards Herryk, who had remained near the table. "Maester, who is this mysterious Seafarer that has my father so incensed?" she asked
Instead of answering immediately, Herryk looked to her mother for confirmation, who gave him a slight nod. It didn't surprise Desmera that her mother knew about this Seafarer: her father often confided in his wife and often not only heard, but also implemented her counsel.
Until Desmera's cousin Margaery was born, Mina Redwyne had enjoyed the undivided attention of her mother for many years. The Queen of Thorns, Desmera's own grandmother, had made sure to shape her daughter into a highborn lady with strong opinions.
"My lady, the Seafarer is nothing more than a moniker, one given because neither Lord Redwyne nor his vassals have yet been able to find the man in question. From what little we know, he appeared around three months ago in the Sunset Sea to the north, near the Arbor. Though we can only say so because that is when he sank the first ironborn ship," Herryk explained, turning to her.
"If father or his vassals have not managed to catch him, why are you so sure it's a single man or even a man at all?" Desmera asked curiously and she could see from the corner of her visions how her mother nodded at the question, a brief look of pride appearing on her face. Next to her, her brothers sat straighter, listening with rapt attention. It wasn't often something like this happened in the Arbor, and mysteries such as this one broke the monotony of daily life.
Herryk shifted on his spot, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "A keen question, one we wondered about as well for a time. From the first ship he sank, only one of the ironborn survived. A patrol found him in open waters near the wreck, clinging to life on a piece of driftwood amidst the waves. They fished him out, though he was not long for this world with the wounds he'd suffered. Only the Gods know how long was he out there. He only had enough time to spit a few words before he perished."
"Was he squealing for his fish god to take him?" Hobber japed, earning a chuckle from his twin Horas. Even her own mother smirked at this; there was no love lost for the ironborn in the Reach.
Herryk, as a Northerner, could understand the sentiment. He certainly didn't look saddened at all by the loss of life the ironborn suffered, though neither did he seem to relish it. Desmera wondered if that had to do with his learning as a maester.
In fact, he seemed to grimace as he answered her brother. "No, my lord, he said these words: 'The madman, the madman killed us! Drowned God keep me! He'll come for you greenlanders, you're fucked!'"
"Maester!"
He cleared his throat, looking contrite. "My apologies, my lady, but I feel that his foul language added a certain level of authenticity to his tale. That was the mildest insult he gave the men and sailors that found him, mind you."
Her mother gave him a hard stare, but nodded after a moment. "Just don't let it happen again."
"Of course, Lady Mina."
The sternness on her mother's face was clear for all to see. Even her older brothers didn't feel brave enough to make a childish jape after that. Desmera, knew it was merely a matter of keeping up appearances. House Redwyne had always been inclined to seafaring; while it brought a different number of cultures and new ideas to them, it also meant they were constantly in danger of adopting the more coarse world of sailors, fishermen, and raiders.
Not even Lady Mina of House Redwyne could claim to be innocent of such; Desmera had heard her mother curse her father or some other fool that earned her ire out loud more than once. 'Fucked' , as Herryk had said, was one of the mildest things Desmera had overheard the sailors say or shout when she went down to the harbours and docks. She was sure her own brothers could unleash a stream of foul curses that even a grizzled sailor would be proud of.
That said, she was in no rush to mention any of that to her mother.
"If father didn't get anything useful out of that ironborn, then I assume he and his men had more luck in the following reports?" she asked instead.
"Correct, my lady. The second report of his existence came from a half-sunken ironborn ship, off the Isle of Pigs' northwestern coast. There were several ironborn still alive this time, so the men that captured the vessel could get a somewhat accurate report, confirming that this Seafarer is a single man."
"A single man?! That can't be right, how could a single man butcher an entire ironborn ship? There must be at least thirty of those fuc- I mean, of them in every ship!" Hobber exclaimed with a disbelieving look. His shock was mirrored by everyone else at the table.
"I too find that hard to believe, maester. No man could fight that many scores of men and live to tell the tale. Victorious at that!" Horas agreed.
"And yet, the few wretches he left alive agreed on there being one single man, m'lords."
One man against thirty. It sounded ludicrous to Desmera, but why would her father's men tell it wrong if they'd heard it from the lips of dying men? It sounded fantastical and almost impossible to believe – as a Redwyne, she'd lived quite a bit of her life in ships and ports, she knew much of ships and seafaring. She knew the size of ironborn longships and while there was some space, it wasn't enough for a lone man to make a successful stand against thirty men.
'Thirty, at the very least, ' she corrected herself. But even if it had only been thirty ironborn, they'd still have easily overwhelmed a single man. Ships didn't have a lot of space to manoeuvre. The fact that one single man could cut down so many people by himself…
Desmera shuddered. 'He must be a terrifying beast.'
"What else did the ironborn say about him, then? Did they describe him?" she asked out loud.
Herryk nodded. "Indeed, m'lady. We cannot confirm the words of men at the gates of death, but all accounts seemed to agree on some details. He was tall, slight of build and possessing jet black hair. Beyond that, one account mentioned his eyes were green as emeralds, glowing like torches, and another said he had a strange scar on his forehead. He also wore a strange type of cloak."
"Strange, how? A cloak is a cloak. And what about this scar? What's so strange about it?" Hobber questioned the maester, but the man only shrugged. The motion sent the chains around his neck jiggling, made of copper, iron, brass and yellow gold.
"I wish I could say, my lord, but I know only what Lord Redwyne's men got from the ironborn. Perhaps not surprisingly, they were more preoccupied with being butchered than getting a clear view of this… Seafarer."
Neither her mother nor Horas said anything. Her mother seemed content to hang back and watch the children question the maester, though Desmera noticed the intense look in her eyes. For his part, Horas appeared in deep thought, most likely mulling over Herryk's words. Desmera was sure he was trying to emulate their father as much as possible to impress their mother.
'A Lord of the Arbor and indeed, any Lord of Westeros, listens and thinks before doing or saying anything. He gains nothing but failures by acting rashly,' he'd say, though those sounded more like mother's words, uttered by her father's lips.
Horas made to speak, but Desmera proved faster. "What else do you know, Herryk? How did this Seafarer defeat so many of the ironborn?"
Here, the maester paused, yet his hesitation wasn't quite the same as before. This time, it looked to be born from heavy skepticism and disbelief. "M'lady, I do not think it wise to even repeat such fanciful information. It is no doubt wildly inaccurate, coming from dying men whose senses were addled. Moreover, they were ironborn – it's not unlikely they lied to sow confusion amongst the people of the Arbor," he said, squirming uncomfortably on his spot.
'Such a long-winded way of saying he doesn't want to tell me,' Desmera thought. 'He may hail from the North, but there's no doubt the Citadel has smoothed the infamous Northern bluntness.'
"Maester Herryk, the words of House Greyjoy, the ones you yourself taught me, are as such. We do not sow. I doubt dying men such as these would care to lie in such circumstances; they'd be more preoccupied with their impending demise, I would think," she replied. Horas looked at her reproachfully, and only then did she realize that she was probably overstepping. He was the heir and acting lord per their father's wishes; it was his place to question the maester, not hers. The silent admonition stung, but she had already spoken and would not stop now. "Tell us what they said, Herryk. If our father seeks to capture this man, we should know more of him."
Desmera could feel the others' eyes on her, but she didn't waver. Her attention was squarely fixed on Herryk, who almost seemed to age visibly before her.
"Very well," he finally agreed. "But I want it known that I unequivocally believe these tales to be nothing more than the delirious ramblings of dying men." When they all nodded, Herryk launched into a farcical tale, and Desmera realized why he'd been so reluctant to share their findings with them. "Many of the ironborn said that the Seafarer wielded magic – what we maesters call the higher mysteries. If their words are to be believed, he commanded invisible cutting winds and the power of gods, fists of unseen might that sent men flying. They also said he could will ropes into being, turned swords into roses and axes into twittering birds. Lances and bolts of fire sprouted from his hands, and he could command lightning at his leisure."
Hobber scoffed with a roll of his eyes, drumming his fingers on the table. "They really expect us to believe this lone man is a sorcerer? Worse still, he sounds like a mythical figure from the Age of Heroes! Everyone knows those are just stories. What nonsense!" he dismissed with a mocking laugh, but Desmera didn't join in.
She'd said dying men wouldn't lie and she stood by that – but that would mean this mysterious man was incredibly dangerous. She now understood why her father was so incensed and wroth at the mere mention of his name. Regardless of whether he believed in magic, the Seafarer could be a danger to the people of the Arbor, as well as her own family.
"The Citadel doesn't believe in magic," Herryk replied in a clipped tone. "It existed once, correct, but it disappeared after the Doom. Just like dragons, it is the mark of a more savage time, a less civilized one. It is a sword of glass."
"Thank you maester Herryk, that will be enough," her mother Mina jumped into the conversation. Desmera could not even begin to guess what was going through her mind. The maester bowed and departed to tend to the ravens. Then, their mother turned to them. "Now, what have you learned from this?"
'This is a test,' Desmera realized. Either that, or she was simply curious to hear her children's thoughts on this strange mystery, but she highly doubted it. Her mother rarely did things without a purpose.
"Mother, surely we shouldn't put stock into such tales? It's been more than a century since the last dragon died, magic doesn't exist anymore. Thousands of years have passed since it had any meaningful power!" Hobber said.
Hobber's disbelief came as no surprise to Desmera. He had never given much consideration or importance to the lessons they took from the maester beyond the bare minimum required; he was always more interested in the here and now than any lessons ancient history could offer. A foolish attitude, but Desmera took pains to keep her opinion to herself, lest he retracted his agreement to train her.
Horas didn't dismiss the information outright, but he didn't seem to think much of it either. "The ironborn are a barbaric and superstitious lot, why would they worship their Drowned God otherwise? There's probably an easy explanation for what happened; I'm sure a handful of very skilled men happened upon them unaware and cut them down to size. With luck and a good plan, I'm certain a fast raid would appear as though someone had the powers of the gods on their side. And dying men are notorious for being delirious and spouting nonsense."
It was a very rational explanation, one that sounded quite logical and reasonable, yet it left Desmera unconvinced the more she thought about it. If that were the case, at least some of the ironborn would have mentioned more than one assailant attacking them, but they all agreed: one man, and one man alone, had cut them down. All of them had mentioned magic too, and this could not be the result of a merely speedy assault.
No, she suspected the truth was far closer to what the words of dead men claimed. And that, in itself, was already terrifying enough.
"And what about you, daughter?" her mother prompted when she didn't offer an answer immediately. Looking up from her half-finished plate, Desmera found her staring at her expectantly. Beside her, her brothers had gone back to finishing their meals, having already lost much of their previous interest in the topic.
"I believe," Desmera began, all too aware of her mother's silent interest, "that there's more to this stranger than we think. Magic existed once, Maester Herryk admitted as much. Why shouldn't we believe it could not return at some point? But we know few facts and many rumours – until father finds this Seafarer and catches him, I don't think we'll have a clear answer. It could be anything."
For a moment, she feared she might've erred in her judgment as her mother remained impassive, but then she nodded, eyes glinting with quiet approval. "Quite right, Desmera, you speak the truth. Listen well, all of you – we can neither accept nor dismiss second-hand accounts, not until we find out the truth for ourselves. Until then, we must act with caution, but not cripple our actions with indecision."
Desmera and Horas nodded, an action that wasn't shared by brother Hobber, who was more preoccupied with finishing the meat pie the servants had brought in minutes ago as dessert. Desmera resisted the urge to shake her head. Sooner or later, their parents would put their foot down and stop indulging Hobber's carefree attitude. She certainly wouldn't want to be in his shoes when that happened!
The conversation died down soon after, and it didn't take long for Desmera to excuse herself, sending a meaningful look to Hobber after catching his eye. Her brother could be a handful and annoying much of the time, but she couldn't deny that he wasn't against helping her with something sensitive. Thankfully, he didn't look down on her just because she was a girl.
'At least not enough to actually deny helping me.'
For all that Horas, being the heir, was more conscious of his words and his behaviour, there had been a condescending edge to his words when she'd first approached him. "A girl need not know any of that, sweet sister. That's the realm of men. You heard what Lord Tarly said when he was here: 'The gods made men to fight, and women to bear children.' So you need not worry, Hobber and I will always be there to protect you," he'd said.
Thinking back on it once more, Desmera clenched her hands into fists. It was infuriating, but she knew her father would agree with him and even her mother was unlikely to support her – if nothing else, because it was improper for highborn women to pursue something like this. But she'd pored over Herryk's history books, and there was precedence. Not much, true, but it existed, even if it was treated as a queer oddity more than anything else.
Desmera knew the Northmen held a more pragmatic view on their women fighting. Hells, if what Herryk had told her was true, there was an entire House up in the Northern wastelands where it was the women that took up arms to defend their land while the men fished! Being a Northerner himself, she didn't see why he'd lie to her about it. And didn't Dornish women have similar freedom in being able to train and bear weapons? The Dornish had always been queer people, but in this, Desmera felt as though they had the right of it.
As she made her way to her chambers, the servants passing by bowed or curtsied to her, but Desmera paid it no mind, too immersed in her thoughts to truly notice something she'd lived with all her life.
'So what if I'm a girl? The ironborn won't spare me because of it.'
Quite the opposite, in fact. The Reach was one of the most prosperous and wealthy kingdoms of Westeros and had suffered plenty of ironborn raids over the centuries, especially after the Burning of Lannisport and the Greyjoy Rebellion. Desmera was sure that it was easier for the ironborn to reave a land like the Reach, where there was no Tywin Lannister to put the entirety of the Iron Islands to the sword for the slightest offence.
Lord Lannister's fearsome reputation was well-known by all.
'All the more reason for me to learn, then.'
The gods might have not fashioned women for war, but the Seven did not walk the earth like mere mortals; they did not suffer the same passions and lusts of greed and flesh. She would rather trust her life on true steel than on flighty prayers while a reaver tried to defile her. And she knew it was a real possibility. Hadn't the ironborn once ruled as far down as the Arbor itself under Qhored I Hoare, long before the dragons came to Westeros? That glory was long gone, but who was to say it could not come to pass once more? And even if it didn't, nothing impeded those black-hearted men to reave and raid to their heart's content.
Because even if the Greyjoys bent the knee to King Robert, there were always 'lone rogues, acting by themselves,' as the Squid lord often claimed.
Desmera sneered as she reached her rooms. No, the ironborn couldn't be trusted to be good neighbours and it would be foolish not to expect treachery from people like them.
'And I might be many things, but I'd like to think foolish is not one of them,' she thought. Her mother had taken great pains to ensure that.
"Water the vine," she said, mumbling the words of her House to herself as she swept into her rooms and became a whirlwind of movement.
Changing into her riding boots was done in just a manner of minutes. Then, she grabbed the training leathers and jerkin hidden all the way to the back of the last drawer and stuffed them into her satchel. She wasn't too worried about her chambermaid Lily speaking to her parents about it – her silence had been one of the unexpected boons of befriending her from a young age.
Grabbing her boots, Desmera cast a critical eye over her room. She'd gotten everything she needed from it; the more… essential equipment was tucked away, hidden in their little training spot, so that wasn't something to worry about. Since she'd already had her lessons with Herryk earlier, her presence wouldn't be required in the castle for anything important the rest of the day, so no one should be looking for them before they returned.
Instead of leaving immediately, Desmera took a moment to step in front of the mirror hung on her wall. It was a polished sheet of glass, commissioned by her father from the most renowned Myrish glass-maker. With a critical eye, she inspected herself. Her thick mane of crimson locks spilled over her shoulders in waves, framing a freckled face that had shed all the baby fat of her childhood in exchange for a sharper, more angular jaw. Eyes the colour of hazel stared right back at her from the other side of the mirror and she stood tall.
Pleased with what she saw, Desmera nodded in satisfaction and slung the satchel over her shoulder, slipping out of the room. She made her way to the courtyard, where Owen would be waiting to take her and Hobber.
Just as expected, he was already there, readying the horses and making sure they had enough supplies for their little outing. They'd taken next to nothing with them once and it had been an unpleasant lesson to learn.
"M'lady, it's good to see you today," he greeted with a small bow when he saw her approach. He offered her a small smile, which she returned.
Owen was the son of a crofter near Ivyhall, the Redwyne's ancient seat from their time as Kings of the Arbor. Although lowborn, he was surprisingly swift and skilled with a sword, which is why he'd eventually earned a spot amongst her father's household guards.
"My thanks, Owen, likewise. Are the horses ready?"
"All but done, m'lady. I just need to tighten this stirrup from your Swiftwind here, and we can be off the moment Lord Hobber arrives."
Desmera nodded and watched as Owen worked, making some small talk with him while they waited for her brother's arrival. From what he told her, King's Landing had been in a state of upheaval just weeks ago, when the wizened Hand of King Robert, Lord Jon Arryn, was found dead on his bed from sickness. A trader of silks had come from the capital, and he'd told Owen as much the other day.
This was not news to Desmera, however. She remembered her father had received a raven from Grand Maester Pycelle informing House Redwyne of Lord Arryn's death several sennights ago. He'd even mentioned it to them after discussing the matter with mother. Apparently, King Robert planned on going North to meet with Lord Stark and offer him the post of Hand of the King.
"Maybe Stark can put some order in that stinking city of snakes, but I very much doubt it," he'd mused with a dismissive snort.
"I also overheard that some sailors out in the sea have heard strange sounds when fishing lately."
Desmera blinked, refocusing on the conversation. "Strange sounds? What kind of strange sounds?"
"Well, m'lady…" Owen coughed, looking embarrassed to say it aloud. "You might think it ridiculous, but they swore they heard a mermaid's song."
Caught off guard, Desmera laughed out loud. "Owen, really? The song of mermaids? Everyone knows those are just sounds lonely sailors make up when out in the sea. Wasn't there a large storm several fortnights ago? They probably confused the sound of thunder and the waves with it."
To his credit, Owen didn't seem too perturbed by her reaction, as he merely shrugged, patting the flank of his docile mare. "I've known those men most of my life, and they're not the kind to lie."
He said nothing further on it, and Desmera just shook her head. 'A mermaid… Such a ridiculous notion.'
When Hobber finally arrived, he did so with a stormy look, but he just shook his head when she gave him a questioning look. "I'll tell you later," he grumbled before mounting Thunderer, his own horse. "Let's go."
Desmera glanced at him. Unless she was very much mistaken, he'd gotten a rebuke from their mother for his less-than stellar manners. She shrugged; he'd tell her if he wanted.
Climbing expertly atop Swiftwind, she snapped the reins and set him to a slow trot, following her brother while Owen closed the march behind her. It still amazed her how many in the courtyard waved them goodbye, none the wiser of what they were actually doing.
'If they knew, they'd probably go straight to my father.'
But if others didn't see fit to give her the skills needed to survive should the worst come to pass, then she'd see about getting them herself. She wasn't interested in sitting down and watching as life passed her by, or content to wait for disaster to strike without being prepared for it.
They rode through the gates and left the safety of the castle walls behind them, but Desmera wasn't worried. While the Redwynes' claim to fame was their seafaring might, there were regular patrols to watch out for possible highwaymen and bandits. Given the size of the Arbor itself, they had a much easier time managing their land than, say, the Starks with the whole North or even the Tyrells with all of the Reach.
Taking the southern path that bordered the coast towards Ryamsport in the south, the group set a sedate pace to their destination.
Reaching the Bridgefork, they followed the lower path, which meandered downwards in a twisting slope until it reached the beach below. There, their palfreys trotted cheerfully at their prompting until they arrived at a bend, surrounded by rocks that made it difficult to spot from the sea.
Hobber had found this spot while exploring the island with Owen and he'd thought it the perfect place to help Desmera when she asked him for help.
Dismounting, Desmera quickly moved with her satchel behind one of the large rocks to change. While it was quite inappropriate, she trusted her brother to keep Owen in line if it became necessary –which she very much doubted– and her drive to do this was stronger than her sense of propriety.
'Though mother certainly wouldn't agree,' she thought with some guilt.
"I'll get the swords and shields!" she heard her brother call out.
"All right!" Desmera said, slipping out of her dress and getting into her training leathers. Then she grabbed a leather cord and pulled her mane of crimson locks into a ponytail. With that done, she stepped out from behind the rock.
Hobber was already giving some experimental swings of his sword when she approached, kicking up handfuls of sand with each step. He turned, giving a queer look to the breeches and leathers she wore, but said nothing. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore and the cries of seagulls were the only spectators to their presence.
He smirked. "Ready to suffer the Seven Hells, little sister?"
Desmera scoffed, sending her ponytail of red flying through the air with the motion. "Bring it on, I can take on anything you throw at me!"
Her brother could only laugh at the fierceness in her words. "Now that is some ice flowing in your veins, little Des! Why, any fiercer and I'd almost say that you are a Northerner in truth instead of a Redwyne."
"Will you take this seriously?" Desmera retorted with an annoyed glare. "You heard Herryk, we should be getting ready in case the ironborn come!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Desmera, they'd never be so bold as to attack our shores."
"You can't know that," she replied, huffing at his careless dismissal.
"Maybe, but you worry too much," Hobber said, pointing at her. "We have several dozens of knights and hedge knights all over the main island. Our father, Lord Rhysling and the other lords can muster thousands of men. You think they'd risk going against all that?"
"Well, we shouldn't believe ourselves to be unassailable! I'm sure the Gardeners thought the same thing right before the Targaryens set everything ablaze in the Field of Fire."
"That was forever ago, though, and the dragons long gone," Hobber pointed out.
Desmera gave him a bullish look. "Look at the Reynes, then, or even the Lannisters! They all thought themselves untouchable, and what happened? The first were wiped out and the second watched their biggest city burn," she argued, crossing her arms.
"Alright, let's say the ironborn attack and they somehow get past all our defences, what then? You think you'd drive them off alone? You know you've only been training for a few months, right?"
That question brought Desmera short. It was a good point, something she didn't like admitting. Yes, he was right. One more sword would truthfully make little difference, especially wielded by someone who had little experience, but instead of lashing out, she merely smirked.
"Good thing I have you to teach me everything about it so I can beat them all by myself, then."
'All swordsmen begin from nothing. If they can do it, so can I.'
Her brother barked out a laugh, clearly amused despite himself. "You're crazy, little Des, but that's alright, you're lucky I like you. If you're so sure of it, time to put those words to the test, Nymeria. Here, catch it!"
He threw at her one of the swords he'd been holding. It soared through the air, but instead of falling into the sand with a dull thud, Desmera expertly caught it by the handle, plucking it from the air.
"Ha!"
"Not bad." Hobber appeared impressed despite himself. While the underlying judgment stung, she could understand the reason for it – she'd been terrible the first month with the sword, always fumbling with its weight and size. It was a good thing Hobber had put a quick stop to her foolish idea of using live steel for this, backed up by Owen; had they let her use an actual sword for this, she'd be full of cuts scabbing over by now.
Desmera raised her sword, inspecting it. Made of fine wood, it weighed more than it normally would thanks to the iron core added inside. A typical training sword, scratched and worn from usage, but still perfectly serviceable.
"I'm surprised you even know who Nymeria is."
Hobber rolled his eyes. "Please, I might not be perfect little Desmera, but even I am not that clueless."
She snorted, setting into the stance Owen and Hobber had taught her before. "Fair enough. I'm ready! What are we doing today?"
Hobber thought about it for a moment before nodding to himself. "The other day, Ser Qarl taught Horas and me a neat trick with the sword. A more technical move, is what he told us; useful against other sword-wielders. After I teach it to you, we'll work a bit on your strength and stamina. Anyway, here's what you must do…"
Over the next few minutes, Desmera listened attentively as Hobber explained the technique to her, using Owen as the unfortunate training dummy. From what she could tell, the move was basically a small spinning thrust and flick of the wrist that sought the opponent's weapon hand. Against a distracted or unskilled enemy, it could either force them to drop the weapon or send it flying altogether – if one could do it properly, that is.
Desmera didn't doubt the move's worth. Ser Qarl, Ivyhall's master-at-arms, had fought in the Greyjoy's Rebellion and participated in the Siege of Pyke. Any move he taught would certainly be useful.
"Alright, so… like this?" she asked, flicking her wrist upwards experimentally.
"No, not quite. You need more strength in the movement – like this. And you've got to make the spin of the wrist before that. Okay, you try again... Better, keep at it."
Working on the move outside of combat, where she could take as long as she wanted to get it right was one thing, but live practice another completely different. Hobber didn't have her train by herself for long, because he quickly stepped up to have her try it on an actual opponent.
"Alright, ready? I'm not gonna hold back!"
"Bring it!" Desmera challenged, raising her own sword.
Owen gave the signal to start the spar and their wooden swords clashed loudly. Desmera was mindful of the terrain, she hadn't managed to get completely used to sparring on a sandy surface yet. She raised her sword to deflect Hobber's sword with a clumsy parry before taking a step back, eyeing him warily.
"What's wrong, little sister? Too afraid to play with the boys?"
She didn't rise to her brother's taunting. Instead, she clutched her sword tighter with narrowed eyes and waited. Hobber lost his patience, just as she knew he would, and attacked a second time. He swung his sword and Desmera felt her bones rattle a bit when their weapons clashed. She repaid him in kind, hacking at him with a sharp thrust, but Hobber swatted the strike away with ease.
"That all?!"
Growling, Desmera pushed him back, prodding his defences as best she could. It wasn't easy for her; Hobber had years of training on her. Her brother could predict her moves and how she would react because they were the same moves he'd been drilled on for years, the same reactions honed through countless sessions. It was like bashing her head against a particularly infuriating wall.
But Hobber was nowhere near being a master of the sword, and he wasn't incapable of mistakes.
Her chance came with his next swing as he overextended himself. Evading the blow, Desmera was in a perfect position to counterattack. Hobber tried to beat a hasty retreat, but it was too late. Desmera stepped into his guard even as he withdrew, bringing her sword forward in a stabbing thrust that sought his hand.
'Spin… and flick!'
Desmera's sword fell to the sand with a dull thud as she cried in pain. She fell to her knees, cradling her wrist and uttering a string of curses that would make a sailor proud.
"Well, now that's a foul mouth on you, sister!" Hobber exclaimed a little breathless, but he quickly crouched down next to her to inspect her wrist. "I'm no maester, but… how are you, Des? Does it hurt a lot?"
"Ugh… my wrist isn't going to fall off, if that's what you're worried about," she said through gritted teeth.
"Alright, could've been worse. Oh thanks, Owen!" Hobber took an ointment from Owen, who must have gone to get it from the saddles on their horses the moment she got hurt. "Okay, this is going to sting a bit."
"It already does," she complained, but the salve numbed the bruise and provided a very much welcome sense of cool comfort to her wrist.
"Can I see it, Lady Desmera?" Owen asked, crouching next to Hobber. Taking her wrist gently, he softly prodded at it on various spots and checked her reaction on each.
"I don't understand, I did as Hobber said, but it didn't work," Desmera said with some frustration.
"You put too much strength in the movement, m'lady. That will just hurt you instead of your opponent. It needs to be a firm but measured strike, not a wild swing," Owen explained, inspecting her wrist. "Can you rotate your it a bit? Does it hurt a lot?"
Desmera did as asked, shifting and turning her wrist experimentally. "It hurts a bit, but less than I thought."
"Then I doubt it's sprained or suffering anything serious. It's probably only slight bruising. It should be fine after a while, but take some rest."
"What? But I came here to train, not twiddle my thumbs!" she complained.
Owen gave her a stern look. "Forcing yourself will only make matters worse, Lady Desmera. I made that mistake. I ignored the maester that one time I broke an arm during training and my recovery took much longer than it should have."
"You heard the man, little sister. It's our turn to bash each other to death with our swords," Hobber joked.
"Owen, beat his arse bloody for me."
"I will do my best to spare m'lord's dignity the shame of eating the sand of this beach."
Hobber let out an incredulous laugh. "Dream on!"
Annoyed at the unexpected timeout, Desmera watched as her brother and Owen faced off. As always, it soon became apparent to her that Owen was a much better swordsman than either her or Hobber himself. He expertly parried or deflected all of her brother's attacks, looking unbothered by Hobber's ferocious assault.
That was not to say her brother was bad at sword fighting, by all rights he was more than decent. 'It's just that Owen is that much better,' she mused, watching as he dismantled Hobber's defence with a couple of powerful blows and stepped into his guard.
Desmera's eyes widened as she saw him perform the same technique Hobber had been showing her. Her brother's sword flew from his hand, falling onto the sand with a soft thud..
"Damn, you got me good there!"
"Thank you, m'lord. You overextend a bit too much and leave your right side unprotected. You need to shift your stance – like this. Otherwise, anyone fast enough will use that opening."
"I know, I know. Ser Qarl has told me the same thing," Hobber dismissed as he turned away to get the waterskin next to her. Thanks to her position, Desmera saw the unimpressed look on Owen's face, but he bit his tongue – probably because he was just a mere guard.
'Luckily, I don't have the same problem.'
"You should listen to him, you know. We both know he's better."
"Aren't you my sister? You should be on my side," he said with a huff as he drank from the waterskin.
"Stop being a boneheaded fool, Hobber! There are no sides here, he's just trying to help. Why would you ask him to come otherwise?"
"Who's teaching who here?" her brother huffed with some petulance, but it quickly bled out of him. Hobber sighed, pouring some water over his head to get rid of the sweat. "It's just frustrating. I've been trying that move nonstop since Ser Qarl showed it to us, but I can't seem to get it right! Horas can pull it off sometimes, but me… well, I'm not as good as him, I guess. Or as good as Owen."
"That's only your failures talking for you, m'lord," Owen interjected, approaching his charges. "You are skilled with the blade, and you understand the technique – you explained it to your sister quite well. Now it's just a matter of practising."
"See? You'll get it sooner or later, even if you're a numbskull."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. You're so bloody nice, Owen, I can't even get mad at you. Not like my hellion of a little sister."
"Hey!"
He chuckled. "Look – I'm sorry about that, I know I shouldn't let this get to me. Anyway, here: the last of this water. I'm getting some more from the horses." Her brother passed the waterskin to Owen and walked away to the spot where they'd left their horses.
Seeing him go, Desmera turned back to their guard. "Thank you, Owen. My brother needs someone to pull his head out of his ass, sometimes."
"I'm well aware, m'lady," he dryly replied. "But I meant what I said. Your brother is quick to pick up new skills, and he isn't bad. He's just letting his frustrations cloud his judgement, but even I find that move hard."
"Really?! But you made it look so effortless…"
"Just hours spent practising, m'lady. No one ever knows how to swing a sword from birth."
"Well, that makes me feel a bit better, to be honest. It's devilishly difficult," Desmera said, testing her wrist. It still stung a bit, but much less than before.
"Don't worry too much about it, m'lady. You will get it sooner or later if you keep at it, believe me."
"Gods, you make it sound so easy."
"It really is when you get down to it," he said, sitting down next to her. "Something Ser Qarl often beats into us is the idea that repetition is just as important as sparring, if not more."
"Is that why I always see you and the other guards practising the same moves over and over?"
"Yes. Our bodies have muscle memory – at least that's what Maester Herryk calls it. Ser Qarl calls it battle instincts," he told her. Hobber sat down on the sand in front of them, having returned with more waterskins, and Owen took one to drink from it. "It's something that only comes from spending a long time practising and perfecting the moves and techniques, to the point they come to you as easily as breathing. Then, you don't have to think about doing them, your body just… moves on its own."
"I see… you really know your stuff about fighting, huh?"
"Owen here isn't one of the best guards our father has for nothing, after all. I'm sure father will eventually make you captain of the guards, or even Master-at-arms!"
"Thank you, m'lord. That would be a great honour, but there are many others who would deserve it as well."
Hobber sighed, turning to her. "Unfortunately, one of his flaws is his crippling humility. I haven't managed to break that out of him. Yet."
Desmera laughed.
Luckily, her brother's downcast mood faded quickly and he slipped back into his role of impromptu teacher. After some more time spent making slow progress on further mastering Ser Qarl's sword trick, Hobber decided she'd trained on it enough for the day.
Her wrist had recovered by then, so he had her carry and lift heavy rocks to build the strength of her arms. It was an exhausting, thankless exercise that Hobber had come up with a couple of weeks ago. As if that wasn't enough, he always made her do it after sword practice, so she was already tired from all the training.
Desmera ran sluggishly across the beach, carrying a stone in her hands. Her arms burned from the exertion, and she could feel the sweat running down her forehead. She huffed loudly. The moment she reached the limit line, she dropped it onto the sand, panting with heavy breaths.
"M'lady, some water?" Owen said, offering her a waterskin as he approached.
Desmera promptly snatched it from his hands, ignoring the slight amusement in his eyes as she chugged it. "Thanks, I don't think I can even lift my arms," she wheezed after she was done. Wiping the leftover water from her chin, she turned to Hobber. "Why do I still have to do this?! This is nothing more than torture! Surely nothing can come from lugging heavy stones around!"
From the looks of it, her brother had been expecting complains about it sooner or later, because he quickly corrected her with some sage advice. "Don't be naïve, little sister! You think I would have you carrying rocks like a mere mule for nothing? No, this is to make your arms strong enough to hold a sword, to keep it swinging for some time without dropping from exhaustion. Weren't you the one to ask me for help training with the sword? So stop complaining and keep at it, I need to go have a piss."
"Gross! We didn't need to know that, you pig!" Desmera called out after him as he walked away from them.
His only response was to laugh.
Next to her, Owen let out a polite cough, catching her attention. "M'lady, what Hobber said, about you needing to carry these rocks everywhere…" he began, torn between looking sheepish and sympathetic at an exhausted Desmera, who looked ready to drop from tiredness.
"What is it? Out with it already," she grunted, shaking her arms to alleviate a bit of the sheer exhaustion she felt in them.
"We – the guards, that is. We don't really do that. The young lord made it up."
"What? I knew it! That… idiot !" she exclaimed. Her face reddened further, coming close to matching the crimson of her hair. She kicked at the sand of the beach, sending it flying in her anger. "I'll throw this stupid rock at his head when he comes back from pissing!"
"Please, don't. I'd have to stop you from harming him, Lady Desmera," Owen said, with the look of someone long used to their sibling bickering. "If it's any consolation, I did ask Ser Qarl the other day whether such a thing could be actually useful in building up some muscle. He mentioned the idea has merit, especially lifting and throwing rocks. So the young lord was right, even if he didn't know it."
"Really?" Desmera mused, looking down at the rock at her feet and giving it the stink eye. However, when she looked up at Owen, her face was set in a determined scowl. "Fine. If Ser Qarl really thinks it might help, I'll keep doing it. Let Hobber think he can get his cheap laughs from me."
Sighing, she crouched down and lifted another heavy rock with a grunt before sprinting down the bend once more, kicking up sand in all directions. It might be exhausting, but Desmera couldn't deny there was some truth to Owen's words – she did feel stronger and lately, she wasn't as exhausted on the next day as she used to, even though the intensity hadn't changed.
It was a grueling, thankless job, but nothing worth doing was ever easy. The waves lapped at the sand and the soft whistling of the wind twisting around the cliff faces filled their ears.
The earlier talk about the mystery known as the Seafarer was already all but forgotten in the back of Desmera's mind.