Gyselle
It appeared that Quentyn had gotten his wish; Daemon Blackfyre had granted the request which he'd been nursing since the Unworthy King. As a result, Quentyn spent most of his days at Daemon's side. It was a relief to Gyselle to see less of him, but that made her existence more isolating than ever.
Quentyn knew that he could not trust her, and so he'd given orders to his guards to keep her in her tent during the day. She was given all that she needed to live comfortably, including a bucket which served as her privy. She was permitted only to leave with an escort of two guards, both of whom bore the Fireball's personal sigil.
She was not permitted to speak with others unless spoken to, and the guards were mindful of whatever she said. It was also clear to Gyselle that they resented this duty. No glory in looking after a whore, even if she is carrying the Fireball's seed.
The guards' presence also discouraged others from approaching her, but that did not stop them from gawking and leering at her. Sometimes she even heard that horrid nickname as men or women muttered it at her. Penny Jenny. It always returns. May the gods punish that old knight with a cruel death.
The worst was not when nobles sneered at her, or knights and men-at-arms regarded her lustfully, or their women scowled at her. She was accustomed to the scorn and hatred of these people. She might as well weep if the sun shone too brightly, or curse the rain for making her hair wet. But there were other whores, hundreds of them. They plied their trade as best they could, either from any man who'd have them, or from one protector. Many regarded her with curiosity, even admiration. Still more looked upon her with envy. These glances filled her with rage; she would gladly exchange places with any one of them. Take my place. Take the good food and good drink, take the wise women who inspect you for illness, take the men who keep you safe, take the glory of your child's future reign, take it all. Take the whole fucking lot of it. But make sure you take Quentyn and his child as well. Then I will laugh and cheer and kiss your feet in gratitude. I'll fuck every man in this army for a single penny!
The army moved slowly, what with its incredible size. Gyselle was made to ride an old palfrey that was tethered to two of Quentyn's men-at-arms. She was told to sit side-saddle as ladies did, and the guards did not care that she was terrified of riding, had never sat side-saddle before, and dreaded falling from the horse. They simply tied her too the saddle when she expressed her concerns.
One day, she had been on the top of a hill, near the front of the long procession. Looking back the way they'd come, she beheld thousands upon thousands, two-legged and four-legged alike, marching on with what appeared to be the contents of a small town.
The town had first set itself up along the shores of a great lake known as the God's Eye. Days had passed, and then the procession began anew. Where they were going was not known to her, but she knew precious little anyway. Her ignorance fed her despair, fed her fear, and filled her with a burning desire to flee.
They were heading south-east, as far as she could tell. It must be King's Landing. Where else would we go?
Days and nights passed by her as the army slogged on. She stared listlessly at anything and anyone, trying to avoid meeting eyes.
There was one occasion which left her feeling more unsettled than usual. She was accustomed to the occasional glance and leer, but one man was different.
He was a commoner, from the look of him. His clothes were drab and ill-kept, his gut was protruding from his belt, his hair and whiskers were wild and greasy. The only feature which stood out was an ornate brooch that clasped his half-cloak. She could not make out what sort of jewel it was, and after he'd melted back into the crowd, she pondered the mystery in silence.
When the army halted and made camp, she saw no sign of King's Landing, not even a speck of towers on the horizon.
The land where they had stopped was a mixture of burnt homesteads and overgrown farms. She was not sure how long the farms had been abandoned, but only a scattering of crops still grew in isolated patches. Wild grasses and flowers grew in abundance alongside herbs and thistles, divided by clusters of trees.
It was so commonplace, so ordinary. Gyselle could not believe that they had stopped here. There was no castle, no seashore, no lake, not even the kingsroad. There was a ridge in the distance, rising up above any trees, but there was no sign of anyone or anything on top of it. She was baffled, trying to glean the army's purpose, until she saw a flash of unnatural colour.
East of the Blackfyre camp was a thin line of trees. Peering between the trunks, she beheld another field, wider than the one where the Blackfyres had their camp. The ridge loomed up to the north, causing the field to narrow at the north-eastern end. Beneath the ridge stood an army.
She could not determine its size, but it must surely be large if she could see it from so far away. A shiver of fear went through her as she stared eastwards.
An unexpected eruption of noise startled her out of her immersion. Turning, she saw that two oxen pulling a wagon had seemingly gone mad, charging forward to collide with another pair.
Gyselle gasped as the four animals immediately caused a great upset. Horses panicked and reared. Men, women and children fell from their mounts or the shaking wagons. Others tried to flee on foot. Several were trampled beneath the heavy hooves of the oxen.
"Seven fucking hells!" Gyselle's guards dismounted from their horses, all of which grew restless.
Gyselle screamed as she hastily tried to undo the knots which bound her to the spooked horse. Gods help me, please, I cannot die here!
The three horses sprang forward. Gyselle wailed in terror as she yanked the last of the rope loose.
She slipped off her mount just as the maddened beast started to bolt away. Crying out in pain and shock, Gyselle fell awkwardly, and might have badly injured herself had she not landed atop someone else.
The scream of pain took away the last of her rationality. In a crazed terror, she threw herself off the injured woman, stumbling into the crowd.
Others ran forward to restore order. She saw Daemon Blackfyre himself, shouting for order as he waved his sword in the air.
Gyselle moaned as she forced herself to halt, as did several others around her. Still more continued to flee, bulling past anyone who stood in their way.
Suddenly, Gyselle realised that Quentyn's guards were gone. She had left them behind, and the horses had long since departed. They will go after their horses first. Mayhaps they will think that I am still on that bloody saddle.
Turning, Gyselle threw herself away from the chaos of the accident. She made her way to that part of the field which was already crowded with tents and stalls being established. Hundreds of banners were already flying, even as men ran beneath them to assist their king.
Gyselle stumbled on, determined to hide from Quentyn and his followers. She wanted to go east, but she feared that Blackfyre's followers would fell her with arrows if she tried to run across that field. She needed to wait for nightfall.
Quentyn had given her new clothes of good quality, but they were not the sort that noblewomen wore. She suspected that she would not be able to pass off as a lady, so she shunned the finer-dressed people in the sprawling camp. I am a knight's woman. That is what they will think.
Calm was restored around her, and she felt herself breathe easier. But that meant she felt the pain in her ankle worse than before. She did not know if it was sprained, and she strove to find a septa or maester.
Finally, she beheld an amiable-looking woman who was scraping a fire pit out of the soft soil. She was heavyset with unwashed brown hair tied in a poor imitation of a braid.
"I beg your pardon," Gyselle murmured, "but I need your help."
"Mine?" The woman looked at her with astonishment, but also suspicion. She does not know who I am. She does not know how to speak to me.
"I fell from my horse, and I'm lost," Gyselle explained earnestly. "I think something is wrong with my foot."
The woman looked down at her feet, then back into Gyselle's eyes. Then, her expression softened. "Sit down, I'll give it a look."
Gyselle sighed with relief as she obeyed. Soon, a pair of hands gently explored her injured foot. "I don't feel no broken bones," the woman murmured. "And I don't see no big bruises neither. Lucky for you."
Lucky at last. Gyselle almost wanted to weep with relief. "Oh gods, I haven't felt so good in so long. Thank you!"
The woman straightened up. "So, who are you?"
"Gyselle." The answer left her lips before she could make up a name. She had been through too much today already.
The woman nodded. "Well, I'm Zia. I think it's best if you don't run on that foot for some time. Give it a rest and set out when you can."
"I will," Gyselle replied gratefully. "Can I stay here? Mayhaps I can do something while sitting down?"
Zia frowned thoughtfully. "Mayhaps you can. Can you prepare food?"
Thank the gods for you, Lunz, and you, Ser Rickard. "I can," Gyselle confirmed eagerly. "I can cut, carve, and pluck."
Zia wasted little time after that. She grabbed a chicken and twisted its neck before handing it over to Gyselle. As she prepared a roasting spit over her fire pit, Gyselle told her about the oxen and her own accident.
"I heard about that," Zia replied. "I hope it wasn't an ill omen."
Gyselle nodded, then glanced eastward. A maze of tents blocked her sight of the distance, but she sensed a danger looming up behind the trees. "It's a battle tomorrow, you reckon?"
"Like as not," Zia sighed. "May the gods choose the righteous side."
And who is that? Gyselle continued plucking the chicken, glad to focus on such a menial task to distract from the chaos. "What brought you to this army, if I may ask?"
Zia laughed. "King Daemon Blackfyre! What else?"
Gyselle shrugged. "I suppose that's my answer too, now that I think on it."
"I know what you meant. My husband serves Lorimar Mudd."
"Mud, did you say?"
"Aye, maybe you got some of it in your ears?" Zia cackled at her own wit.
"Beg pardon," Gyselle murmured. "I'm from the Reach."
"No harm done. But the Mudds once ruled the Riverlands. A long time ago."
"Did the Tully lords take it from you?"
"Nay, they took these lands long after we fell. Still, it's galling if you ask me. They was once our bannermen. Now they farm a stretch of the Red Fork by their leave. Little better than us, those Mudds. Must make them right sick of it all, bowing to them Tully men saying all "Yes milord, no milord, three bags full milord!" Zia shook her head and laughed again.
"Did the Black Dragon promise Riverrun to the Mudds, then?"
"I doubt that he needed to make such an offer. But I don't doubt young Lorimar will ask for it after the war is done. He's out to prove his worth, and he sees less shame in bowing to a dragon than a fish!"
Gyselle laughed with Zia this time. It was the first earnest laugh she'd had in a long time. But it soon died as she noticed a man staring at her.
He was dressed in leather and mail; a goiter bulged from his neck, and his mouth was pinched. One of his eyes was covered with a patch, and the other was narrow. Malice emanated from his countenance as he approached the women. "I know you."
Gyselle sat up, slowly putting the half-plucked chicken aside. "I don't know you, ser."
"He's no ser," Zia scoffed. "He ain't fit to kiss a ser's boots."
"Go fuck another goat, Zia," the man snarled. He peered at Gyselle again. "You're the Fireball's whore."
Cold terror coursed through Gyselle's body. She tried to contain it within herself as she shook her head. "Who's the Fireball?"
"Don't give me that!" The man spat at her feet. "Every man knows the Fireball!"
Zia's amusement had faded. She was standing up now, holding a hard wooden ladle in her hands. "You'd best leave the lady alone now, Rendel."
"What are you doing out here?" Rendel heeded Zia no more than if she were a fly. He advanced on Gyselle and drew a dagger from his belt. "What happened to that escort of yours?"
He's going to take me back. Oh gods no, not now. Gyselle attempted to stand. "I'm not with him! No more!"
Rendel paused, then his leer widened. "Done with you now, is he? Bully for him. Now you'll be wanting a new protector, eh?"
Zia's ladle struck him across the face, right across his good eye. Rendel gave a shrill cry as he dropped the dagger and covered his face with both hands.
"Get out of here!" Zia did not even look at Gyselle as she struck at Rendel again as he writhed on the ground.
Without waiting another second, Gyselle limped off as fast as she could. But Rendel's screams had attracted more attention. And before she could get far, she saw immediately that Rendel was not the only one to recognise her.
Men and women alike looked at her with unfriendly eyes. Gyselle wished to run, but her foot was still sore, and she did not doubt that she would be chased.
"It's true then?" One of the men approached her. "Quentyn Ball's cast you off?"
"Pity for you, Jenny," a prostitute laughed as she lounged beside several barrels.
"Aye, that's her name. The famous Penny Jenny," another man jeered. "Is that all you're worth, Jenny?"
"Please…" Jenny whimpered, unable to finish her plea for mercy. One of the men grabbed her by the hand and pulled her close.
"Wonder what the Fireball's leavings are like," the brute muttered as he groped her body. "I can pay the price for it, alright."
This is better than getting caught by Quentyn. That was the cruel truth, the dreadful reality which she loathed to admit to herself. So, she made no more cry of distress as she was led by the man to a nearby clump of trees. Some men growled at him, but the brute snapped something back at them. They might as well have all been animals to Gyselle, so much did she block out what they had to say.
It was happening to someone else, some other body which was not her own. Thus, she did not resist when she was bent over a tree stump. Why should she? It was not her dress that was being hauled up, it was not her hips which were seized by two great hands. She was back in Oldtown, surrounded by ancient structures of brick and mortar. Hulla was there, looking whole and healthy, smiling as she made some jape. Except that was no longer a fond memory; now she wept to think of Hulla, knowing just how she had turned on her, abandoned her, blaming her for all her misfortunes.
The brute was not long with her, but there was another man ready to take his place. And another man after him. More men arrived, grinning at her as she whimpered and wept. She knew better than to struggle, for they would kill her without a second thought if she displeased them. She opened her mouth and hands to embrace other men who waited their turn to use her. A small collection of copper pennies formed at the foot of the tree stump, but most did not even deign to pay her that pitiful amount.
She could not know how many men spent themselves inside of her, but when the crowd finally dispersed, she could only slump down onto the ground, curled up with pain as she sobbed herself into a painful sleep.
Fresh horrors awaited her in her sleep. She was blind and could not see the monsters from which she tried to flee. She could only hear the noises they made; the howls of wolves, the shrieks of birds, the roar of dragons, but what terrified her most of all were the sounds which she could recognise.
Hulla called out to her, mocking one moment and furious the next. She begged Gyselle to come back, she whispered truths about her which she'd always despaired to hear.
The ground beneath her feet was solid, then soggy like a swamp. She bumped into walls, objects, she could never be sure.
Just as she started screaming back at Hulla, wherever she was, Gyselle heard a new sound drowning out Hulla's words. The milky cry of a babe.
She cried aloud too, stumbling and falling to the ground. It was then that a hand grabbed her face.
With the last ounce of willpower left to her, Gyselle forced her eyes open.
The dream dissolved, but the hand did not. It still kept a firm grip on her cheeks, covering her mouth so that her shriek was smothered.
"Quiet, woman! You want these men to take you a second time?"
Night had fallen. The sun was gone from the sky, but there remained a hint of gold as the darkness was closing in.
Gyselle moaned, staring up at the bewhiskered commoner whom she had seen during the march. He had not seemed a very dangerous man, but something about how he loomed over her now, barely visible in faint torchlight, and how he whispered to her… she could not help feeling deeply afraid and uncomfortable.
"You had better learn to trust me," he urged softly, "else you won't escape this place alive. Fireball's looking for you, with a reward for any man who brings you back."
She believed him. When he pulled her to her feet, she could barely stand without wobbling on her unsteady legs. She was filthy, too; her thighs were sticky, and the stench of man was overwhelming on her body. Almost as an afterthought, she stooped back down to the earth. She stretched out her hands, groping in the dark.
"Seven hell," the man swore, "what are you doing now?"
"My pennies," Gyselle stammered. I earned them. I earned them more than anyone else ever has. Her hand touched cold metal; she sobbed with relief as she closed her trembling fingers about the battered little coin.
"Leave them, you idiot!" He pulled her upright again. "I'll give you silver stags for your troubles. Forget those bloody pennies!"
She did not like this man, and his promise of wealth only deepened her distrust of him. But it was all she could do just to stand upright and follow his lead.
They shirked the main tents, where men and women still loudly called out to one another. Fires had been lit, hundreds of them, casting long shadows of those who sat around them. Gyselle wondered how many of them had left their seed inside of her. Are they laughing about me? Are they boasting that they fucked Quentyn Ball's whore?
The man did not even look at her as he pulled her along. He offered her no words of comfort, nor did his grasp soften. She did not presume to converse with him either, stumbling along in silence whilst holding the penny tight in her fist.
They were heading towards the biggest tents. In the light of torches and moon, Gyselle could barely make out the black and red of Daemon Blackfyre.
Even as she struggled to keep pace with the man, she suddenly thought of the words he'd spoken to her. Fireball's looking for you, with a reward for any man who brings you back.
Any man.
With a gasp, she wrenched her wrist from the man's grip. "Get off me!"
The man stared at her. "Are you mad?"
Gyselle did not care. She stumbled away from him as fast as her legs could carry her. She did not know where she was running, but paid heed to no one as she hugged the shadows as best she could.
Voices called out, but if they were speaking to her, Gyselle did not care. Blood was pounding in her ears as she forced herself onward. This camp must end somewhere. I will find my way out.
Instead of grass or dirt, however, she landed in water. It was neither deep nor cold, but she still gasped in shock.
She had come upon a small creek, as far as she could determine, on the border of the massive Blackfyre camp. She did not know where she was, nor did she know where she should go, but she realised that she had a raging thirst.
Gulping down water as fast as she could drink it, Gyselle took in her surroundings. She looked for the ridge, and the army which she had seen the day before. But she saw no sign of either. Did I run the wrong way?
She stiffened. Hoofbeats were approaching her. She looked around for a sign of whence they were coming. Before she could even think of running, two torches appeared, reflecting the armour of the men who held them. Their surcoats were both red, with the black dragon upon them.
They were soon at her side; they did not need to tell her to surrender. Gyselle was too exhausted to do anything but raise her arms into the air.
"Well well," one of the knights drawled. "The Fireball will be pleased to see you again." He turned to his companion. "Go and seek him back at the line of elms."
As the other rider galloped off, Gyselle stepped out of the creek. She gripped the penny so tightly that she was not sure if it was water or blood seeping from between her fingers.
Hoofbeats sounded again, and another torch seemed to drift through the air like an overgrown firefly. As it drew near, Gyselle looked upon the grim, brutish face of Quentyn Ball once again. She shuddered at the sight of his frown, and the cold anger in his eyes.
"Did you really think that we wouldn't have guards along the camp?"
Does he want me to answer that?
Quentyn turned to the Blackfyre knight. "You didn't bind her?"
"We didn't have rope, my lord," the man explained, "and besides, she didn't try to run."
"No matter. I'll take her back. But first…" Quentyn slid off his horse and knelt beside the creek. He dipped his hands in the water and brought them back to his mouth, slurping noisily.
"Let me go."
Quentyn did not even look at her. He simply lowered his cupped hands back into the water and drank again.
"You can find another woman, a better woman. Women will form a line to give you an heir. That's all you want from me, isn't it?"
"Is it?"
If he had shouted a death threat against her, it would have been more pleasing to her ears.
Quentyn took another sloppy gulp of water, then looked at her. "What happened to that older wench? The one who was with you when we first met."
Gyselle felt an icy jolt of revulsion. "I never found out."
"I thought not. But I wager that whore won't grow old. They never do. Mayhaps she'll get a knife inside her instead of a cock, or mayhaps the wrong cock will kill her slowly. Mayhaps a baby will split her in two. Or mayhaps she's already dead. But I wager it won't be a pretty end. Or a happy one."
Tears ran down Gyselle's face. The summer night was beginning to get very cold as she huddled beside the creek in her wet clothes.
A small smile formed on Quentyn's face. "Do you still think I am so much worse than all that, then?"
Gyselle hesitated. Not because she did not know what to say, but because of a sudden movement to her left.
It was the knight who had discovered her. He had remained on horseback whilst Quentyn drank, but now he suddenly grunted and slumped forward.
Quentyn had seen it too. He glanced up in surprise. "Laswell? What are you-"
In the same time that Gyselle could blink, an arrow had suddenly impaled Quentyn's thick neck. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open. Whether he meant to scream for help or simply take another breath of air, Gyselle would never know. Somehow, his look of terror was more unsettling than his wrath had ever been. She had never seen him so nakedly vulnerable before.
A guttural sound, barely heard, left his pierced throat as he clawed at his throat with both hands.
Gyselle could not look away. Or perhaps she did not want to look away. Even after his throes ended, and he fell forward in the water, she continued to watch him in utter disbelief. The notion that she might be killed too did not even cross her stunned mind until she saw the archer emerge from the darkness.
His moon amulet almost glowed with its own light. A smile of triumph split his aging face in two as he kicked the motionless Quentin in his side.
"My thanks, wench," he murmured when he finally looked at Gyselle. "You did well after all."
Gyselle had no words. She simply knelt where she was, regarding the man with growing terror. It was not the bow in his hand, nor the arrows at his side. "You tried to bring me back to him."
The man shrugged. "Believe that if you will." He knelt beside Quentyn and mockingly patted his shoulder. "Sleep well, master. I'll send you your favourite pupils on the morrow."
He straightened again and glanced at Gyselle. The easy leer faded, leaving him with an expression that seemed empty of any real feeling. For one brief moment, so fleeting that Gyselle doubted whether it had actually occurred, his eyes seemed to change from deep blue to an unnatural red.
"Is it true, then? You're carrying this man's bastard?"
He is going to kill me if I speak truly. "Yes."
The man blinked. "Strange. I believe you."
Before he could say or do anything else, Gyselle spoke again. "Will anyone else believe me? After what happened to me today?"
Another pause, another blink. Then, the man smirked again. "I can see how you survived this long." He gave a mocking bow. "Take care, Penny Jenny." With that, he turned and melted away into the night. If it weren't for the two corpses in his wake, Gyselle might have suspected that the man had never existed.
She remained where she was, kneeling in the wet grass, shaking from cold and fear alike. Then, slowly, she arose to her feet and began to walk as far from that cursed place as she could manage. Away from the Blackfyre army, away from their enemies, taking nothing with her but the babe in her belly, the torn clothes on her back, and the single copper coin which she continued to clutch.