One x One Words Are Wind [Closed][Flashbacks]

[Lucyfer]

Prodigal Son​

Domeric Bolton was the image of his father – black hair and those queer, silver-blue eyes that seemed to have a light all their own. He kept his hair long, as well, even while he’d been in the Vale and the sight of him returning to the Dreadfort after so long was enough to cause his older sister to lose some of her standard stoicism. She had been waiting in the cold for hours near the gateway. All of it was worth it the moment she saw him along Walton, and she broke from her father’s side and sprinted down the path.

Domeric dropped from his steed at the sight of the flowing red fabric, and took a few steps ahead to catch her as she flung herself at him, pulling her tight against him in an embrace. “It was only three years,” Domeric lightly teased. Only three years, after endless togetherness, and several letters between. “You could have come to visit me.”

“Tell that to father,” she grumbled against his chest, before lifting her head, tilted up, “He’s annoyed you want to become a knight. Joust. Go Southern on us.” She started to pull away, only a bit, to fall under his arm as she walked back with him towards the gate. He kept her there, using his other hand to lead his steed along his other side. “Next you’ll be talking of going to live in Dorne.”

“Their sand steeds are gorgeous,” he sighed, almost longingly, “and so fast. Redfort had one, and she was the fastest thing I ever rode.” His sister let out an irritated groan and he laughed a bit, “My place is here. I cannot be a knight, no matter, though I can still ride in the tilts.”

“Oh?”

“I still believe in our gods, not the false Seven.” Sometimes, Domeric let shine that he was Northern, that he was a Bolton. He could ice his voice, or firm it, easily. There, it held all the steel of his own faith.

Amara shook her head, “Then you shouldn’t have gone away to become a squire,” that was the step before knighthood.

“I had to learn,” always his answer. He was a curious boy, despite how quiet he was. He wasn’t content with books. He wanted to go out and experience. He had wanted to see the South. He had wanted to know the Faith of the Seven. He had wanted to see so much more than the Dreadfort and the North, and so, Roose had arranged it for him. “Lord Redfort was good to me, and his sons were good. I wish I had a brother now.”

Amara felt herself go cold – colder. She didn’t dare to speak, to tell him that he did, in fact, have a brother. She held her tongue, but he noticed the tension. He smiled at it, “Not that I would trade you for the world, but…it’s not quite the same. I’m sure you would like a sister, wouldn’t you?”

‘No. I have you.’ Still, she humored him with a smile, a nod, “I suppose, but I have my ladies, and you have your men-at-arms, like Walton,” she passed a glance back to the ever-dutiful Walton, Steelshanks as some called him. He was loyal and quiet, like Domeric in so many ways, and perhaps it was why he was always at his side – he was a good friend to him, and trusted by Roose as no other.

Domeric sighed, recognizing the losing battle. There would be no making Amara understand this, if she imagined her ladies could ever be as close as a sister, or share such a familial bond. He looked to Roose then, as they were close, and he noticed the two horses alongside Roose. As his eyebrow arched, Roose answered the unspoken query, “Lord Redfort has been boasting of your skill on horseback, Domeric,” he addressed him, “I thought we could put it to the test and see if you still remember how to hunt in the North, or if you have gone soft after your time away.”

It was hard to tell when Roose was joking. His voice had remained soft, calm and cold, but there was a lilt to it that told both siblings he meant no offense; he did not doubt his son at all. “What do you have in mind, father?”

“Two turns of the hourglass. We’re hunting deer. Whoever brings back the largest, or the most, will win. We’ll enjoy venison this evening, no matter.” He gave a nod to Walton, “You shall accompany Amara.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Aw, she can’t manage on her own? I suppose this makes it fair….”

“I can handle on my own,” Amara snapped, “I can’t carry the deer I kill.” Unfortunately. She would need Walton’s help to make sure her kills were moved from their spot. Lord Roose and Lord Domeric did not need such aid – well, Roose, perhaps, but he never seemed to in spite of his lithe form.

Roose clapped his hands together once, silencing both and then, calmly gesturing to the horse. Amara went to it and stepped up and onto the saddle, causing Domeric to cant his head, “You’re hunting, like that?”

“I’m going to hunt better than you and father in a red dress. Yes.”

“They’ll see you for miles away!” Domeric protested, but seeing that slight smile on Roose’s face, he felt a chill go through him. Amara wasn’t kidding. She’d been hunting in dresses for a while since he left then – arrogant. Fine. He grabbed the reins of his horse and pulled himself up into the saddle once more as Roose gestured, and their bows were brought, their weapons. Domeric had his near at hand already, but he let out a low whistle as he saw Amara’s. “Weirwood?” Roose’s glistened white, too.

“Our tree let some fall,” Roose answered, “I saw fit to turn it into bows.” The arrows weren’t, but they were feathered red. “You have one – but you’ll use the one with you.”

Domeric chuckled, “You’re both afraid,” he said, though was they left the Dreadfort and left for the once-familiar woods together, and split, he learned rather quickly that while he was still good upon a horse, he was not as good a hunter in his homeland as he used to be. He didn’t get a single deer, and worst of all, one of his kills was taken by Amara – her arrow pierced its neck before he had a chance.

It would be Amara who came out ahead that day, with three deer to her name, to Roose’s one – though Roose’s was by far the largest.

That evening, though, he was able to show up Amara – he may not have been hunting, but he had learned new songs in the South, and new dances, and though they feasted in the large Great Hall, it was still more a family gathering than anything else, intimate and small. He spent the night playing music with Amara and teaching her the new dances, mocking her steps when she faltered but always calmly correcting and teaching, while Roose observed, enjoying the peaceful reunion and the good food, glad to have his son back.

Dessert they were back around the table, together, again, “Domeric, did you meet any girls in the South you favored?”

“Isn’t it typical for the oldest to marry first?” He glanced to Amara, understanding what his father was asking of.

“It would be, if she would settle on someone,” Roose eyed her with not-so subtle annoyance. In the moment of the glance, Domeric arched a brow, a quiet question, and as Roose’s look was turning back to Domeric, Amara gave a swift, sharp shake of her head. “She did not like Lord Stark’s son, nor does she seem to care for other men I’ve introduced her to.”

“It’s hardly my fault you keep introducing me to boring men.” Boring and honorable men with no ambition except to step into their father’s shoes, and too stubborn. Not her type. At least Roose was keeping to just introducing her to heirs or lords – a second-son would never do. If she couldn’t rule the Dreadfort, she was going to rule something. “But, Domeric,” she looked at him, smiling, “Shouldn’t you tell father of Lady Hunter?” He had written of the woman of Longbow Hall, someone who challenged Domeric now and then. His writing suggested he was a bit smitten with her, and even then he seemed to show it, his features softening, relaxing, as Roose gave him that silently curious look.

“Lady Alesandra Hunter,” he offered, “she did seem strong-willed – she may survive the cold. Perhaps we could invite up the Redforts and others of the Vale someday to thank them for taking care of me, as a way to see?” Domeric didn’t shy away from it.

Roose offered a consenting nod, “That can be arranged. Winter should last a while yet, another three years or so,” Roose was impeccably good at telling when it would change, “and it will be a long winter. If you wish to marry a Southern woman, we will need to move quickly so that she has the time to travel and prepare, as well.”

“Thank you, father,” Domeric inclined his head, grateful for the consideration. He knew his father wasn’t a fan of marrying outside of the North, but it seemed he was becoming more accepting of Southern things. Southern people. Perhaps how well Catelyn Tully ran her household had inspired some acceptance. Few were better – everyone praised her for it. Not to mention her fertility…the Boltons unfortunately were dwindling.

 

[Lucyfer]

Night’s Children​

Amara had her knees drawn up to her chest as Domeric stood at her harp, playing the strings he’d been learning under her tutelage without pausing or thinking much, without the music before him. His fingers followed the familiar pattern, the tempo not hastened in anxiety, nor soft in fear of wrong notes. Her eyes glittered above her knees as she watched her younger brother play, pride and joy mixing together.

They were only a year apart, eight and seven, but it had only been last year that Domeric came to her, after his mother died, to learn how to harp as she had.

The trouble hadn’t truly been with his fingers, though. It had been his voice. Always a quiet child, teaching Domeric to project his voice had been the trouble, but it soon came, and proved that all her work had paid off. It was still a child’s voice, but one day, Amara hoped it would boom out – as carrying as Roose could make his own voice, even when he seemed to be whispering.

“When winter comes
When life is frozen
When the moors they hide away under the snow
Fingers of doom will clutch the chosen
All beasts will shiver from the lion to the crow.”

Amara couldn’t help but let her own voice join him, and though he stumbled a couple of notes, he quickly regained his place.

“When winter comes
When times are darkest
When the wailing of the wolves fades with the sun
The wilds are numb, the days are hardest
The fates of many cease to rest on only one.
Walls will not hold the winter
Over and under crawl.
Walls will not hold the winter
All in the way will fall.”

The children played and sung on, heedless they had a guest until the end, when the sound of clapping caused both to jump. Amara’s eyes shifted immediately to Roose as he moved into sight, and Domeric stiffened, bowing his head immediately. “Father. I—I’m sorry, I know I should have been asleep. I—,”

“It’s all right,” Roose interrupted, glancing to Amara who did not bow her head nor seem apologetic at the least. His daughter – without a doubt, his daughter, as she seemed more concerned with finding a way out of trouble than admitting to any wrong. “Music is a noble pursuit, Domeric, even by men – so long as your other arts do not suffer.”

Domeric kept his head tilted down, clearly afraid Roose was about to say they were. “Fortunately, they have not suffered, and you do not pursue this during times you ought to pursue more important matters.” Domeric looked relieved, and he looked up then.

“You don’t mind?”

Roose shook his head, “I suppose I do not.” He would have, if Domeric had pursued it openly. If he had let other matters fall, like hunting or his studies. Roose moved to the bed and took a seat upon it, watching as Amara slowly uncurled herself, but keeping his focus on Domeric, “How long have you been teaching him?”

“Since Lady Bethany took ill,” Amara said. “He tried to convince me it was good for him – not just that he wanted to learn.”

“Oh?”

“Histories are in song.” Amara said, and Domeric nodded.

“It’s helped me remember some things,” he did admit, “Much about the history of the North, and the Winter,” there was an emphasis on ‘Winter’ that caused Roose to cant his head, that silent question poised. “The one with the Others. The Winter that is yet to come, the one the Starks actually talk of in their words.”

“Amara, have you been telling him that the Others are real?” Roose glanced to her, expression almost unreadable in the dim light.

“Yes.” Amara didn’t hide it. “And that people say we’re descended from them. From the Night’s King and his Corpse Queen.” Roose chuckled at the idea, and Domeric flushed, embarrassed that he believed such things then.

Of course, as any child, “I didn’t believe her! I just didn’t want to crush her hopes. I don’t know why she wants to think we are….”

“It’s intimidating.” Amara grinned.

“Our history is intimidating enough without such rumors,” Roose noted. “Our ancestors chose their words wisely – Our Blades Are Sharp. We did not need Valyrian swords to pass down through the ages, only the simple truth you both know.”

Both sighed, and reiterated, “A naked man has few secrets, a flayed man, none.”

Roose gave an approving nod. “We were the Red Kings of old. And Queens,” he added, for Amara’s sake. “In those days, they say that some of our more willful forbearers would even wear their enemy’s skins as cloaks, but no such tokens remain…if they ever existed,” Roose waved it off as more rumors, more lies, “As old wives and fools insist, though you can be certain our House spread such rumors, as we spread the rumors of our descent from the Night’s King.”

“Why?” Domeric blurted.

“It is as Amara says. Few weapons are as effective as terror, as you should have learned if you know the Rains of Castamere.” Domeric swallowed, but nodded. “It was an age of war, the North was torn apart, every man wanting to be a king, and the Iron raiders taking advantage of it,” he shook his head, “it was inevitable that we would end up united against such a common foe, though. Fear may have made us powerful, but it was our downfall as well. The North came to favor the just and noble Starks over us, and so we became their vassals, rather than their leaders.”

Domeric asked then, “So none of it is true?”

Roose kept a gentle expression, “Some of it. We did certainly flay our enemies, but I doubt any man wore their flesh, and the Night’s King is mere fiction, as is his Corpse Queen.”

“And the Others?”

Roose seemed to consider a moment, brows knitting together, as if uncertain as to how he should answer. Slowly, the words formed, “There is a reason that Winter is feared, and it is not only because of the hunger and the darkness, nor the direwolves or the cold,” he let his gaze move over both his children, “We have bones of giants and we have bones of dragons. The Wall was not built to keep Wildlings out, I assure you.” He rose then, “Whether or not the Others remain is debatable, but of their existence, once, I am certain. Now, come, Domeric. It’s indecent for you to remain here, unless you want rumors to start.”

“All right,” Domeric didn’t know what rumors Roose meant. He’d understand when he was older, and people commented on how close he and Amara were. How they seemed twins in some respects.

“Then why couldn’t the Corpse Queen be real?” Amara asked, not letting Roose escape so easily as she reached and grabbed his sleeve. “Why couldn’t the Night’s King exist as they say?”

Roose smiled, took her hand gently and removed it, “The Others hate all things with hot blood in their veins.”

“We’re cold,” she said, as if it would change things.

Roose’s eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. Childish fantasies. And yet, he considered, he should not encourage them. “Not as cold as the Others. The Corpse Queen would melt beneath her King, as snow still melts between your fingers.”

It was a satisfying enough answer for her, as she huffed, but accepted it. Roose reached for Domeric, and the two left.

 

[Lucyfer]

Modesty​

Domeric didn't want to believe what he saw as he pushed open the door to Amara's room. A door that should have been locked. He stared for only a moment at the bare back and rumpled sheets before pulling the door shut as he turned on his heel. "Get dressed and get out!" He snapped, surprised he didn't yell. He was shaking as he stepped to the side and tried to tune out the rustling of fabric and murmurs. His fists clenched on either side of him, but he managed to wait.

Managed, even, to let the dark haired lad pass him, though he didn't look to meet his gaze. The stranger left hurriedly, and Domeric went into the room after him.

Amara was blessedly dressed, covered in a robe, the bedding thrown aside and replaced. "Who is that?"

"Byran, a merchant's son." She could easily see the anger in Domeric's expression, but kept her tongue held for the moment, offered nothing more tho incite him.

"A lowborn?"

"Well I can't sleep with a Lord without father deciding I have to marry them, so yes." There were lords who may not care, but Amara wasn't about to risk it. The Boltons were the second greatest house in the North. Such an arrangement would be advantageous to many.

Domeric looked scandalized, though. "So father knows--,"

"No. And you won't tell him."

"Why won't I?" He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to puff up. "What you are doing is immodest and indecent for a lady."

"Spare me, whoremonger." More scandalized looks. "A man should be honorable and chaste, too, no?"

"Yes, but -,"

"But you're given a pass because there's no way to check if a man is or isn't. No blood."

Domeric's cheeks were a deep crimson. "I don't want to... what you're...."

She gave him a wink, amused, "Women like it too, Dom. You shouldn't need to pay for it with your looks. Just find a willing and pretty girl and enjoy yourself."

"What if she gets pregnant?"

"You think whores don't?"

"They have...ways...."

"Yes but every whore would want a Lord's bastard. They're set for life then."

He remained red faced, though he realized the sense of it. Amara spared him words of the Bolton curse of difficult pregnancies. She had many stillborn siblings in the crypts. Domeric didn't need to think of that. Didn't need to consider it was a Bolton issue and not one with the women father chose. "You're not going to tell father. He'll marry me off to someone like Smalljon."

"He wouldn't marry you to an Umber," Domeric sighed, but there was defeat in his sigh. "I won't tell him...but you owe me." Amara threw her arms around him. "Please go take a bath," he groaned.

 

[Lucyfer]

The Bastard's Boys​

Domeric’s wails echoed through the Dreadfort. Roose was content to pace and wait, hands clenching in fists at his side, but Amara was not.

“YOU KNOW THIS WAS RAMSAY!”

Domeric returned to them from his visit with the bastard last night. That morning, he was ill. The maester seemed to think it was just an illness, but Amara knew better. Roose knew better. ‘And there must be an antidote.’ But Roose seemed to think his hands were tied. He spoke of the taboos, and Amara ignored him with that last shout. She took Domeric’s horse, and she galloped nearly the whole way to the Weeping Waters, to the village where that bastard was born.

She had never seen him, but she knew she would recognize him. He had the same eyes, and supposedly, a ‘cute’ face. Curly hair. Innocent. ‘Faster. FASTER DAMN YOU.’ For a moment, her eyes fluttered, her vision seemed to flicker, but she pulled back, shook it off, and the damned beast made it to the village and she dismounted, startling several guards who recognized her, even though she bore nothing recognizable.

There had been no time to change.

One called out to her, “Lady Bolton! Lady Bolton!” The fair-haired man-at-arms caught up to her, reaching out for her arm, only to be slapped as soon as his gloved hand wrapped around it to try and stop her. He recoiled, more startled than in pain, but she had stopped. She was staring at him, waiting for him to say more. “You’re here for Ramsay?” his voice lowered, as if speaking the name were forbidden.

“Yes.”

He nodded, “Thought you would be. This way,” he gestured, and she followed him, hearing another horse arriving in haste but not looking back to see who it was that arrived. “I saw Domeric come to see him yesterday. They seemed to be having a good time together. Your father set me to watch his bastard.”

“So you watched him poison my brother. How nice. I’ll be sure to let him know.”

“Aah, so that’s what this is about.”

Amara wasn’t stupid. Even in her state nearly blinded by rage, she could hear that tell-tale lilt she’d come to associate with this man in the future. She may not have gotten to grab armor, but she had grabbed her daggers, and her hand shifted to one. “Ramsay thought you be showing up angry.”

‘Me?’ Perhaps she didn’t give the bastard as much credit as he deserved.

“He didn’t want you to show up angry, though he didn’t really specify how to manage that.”

‘You lost one, father.’ One of his hired hands fell into Ramsay’s grasp, and Amara pulled the dagger, only to lose it with the crack of a whip.

Blood hit the snow, with the dagger, but Amara’s gaze didn’t fall. It remained steady on the idiot before her, as he kept enough distance to be dangerous with that greased bullwhip in his hands. They’d gotten far enough away that they were beyond the help of the towns square. “Ramsay said you’d be fun.”

“Ramsay says a lot, doesn’t he?”

“He’s quite friendly,” the whip lashed out again, and Amara jolted back, avoiding the lash of it, but the moment covered the sound of others as they approached. She heard too late, and when she spun around, dagger in hand, she found one at her throat. “Unfortunately, I don’t have the time to dance with you this time, Lady Bolton.” Another was picking up her dropped dagger. “If you’re nice, maybe they’ll take you back to your father alive.”

Amara didn’t want to let him get away. She didn’t want to let Ramsay get away when she could find him and flay him until he confessed. Just as the larger man was starting to get a smirk on his face, thinking his size was going to make this easy, she slammed the dagger in her hand home and leaned back as he flailed.

She felt his dagger still cut her, neck opening, but she ignored it. She pulled her blade out as she reached up and caught the larger man by a shoulder, and pulled him forward. He staggered and fell, bleeding heavily from the wound to his heart.

The other didn’t wait for her to get close. He threw the dagger at her, but his aim was poor. It didn’t strike fatally, though it cut across her side. These weren’t soldiers. These were hired thugs. Before she could approach, though, another hand fell on her shoulder and shoved her back, “STAY!” The voice was unmistakable as she hit the ground, and she heard a sword leave a sheathe.

Then, another thud, after steel met flesh. She had sat up enough to see as Walton came back to her side and cupped his hand over her neck, pressing it tight as her vision seemed to swim. “Lady Amara, stay with me….”

She was bleeding more heavily than she realized.

She did not stay with him, but as she tried to get up, tried to figure where the man with the whip went, she blacked out. She woke a few times back to the Dreadfort, but wasn’t truly awake again until she was in her bed, wounds wrapped and treated, and to the news that Domeric had died.

Roose was, needless to say, agitated, especially to learn who was behind it. “Damon,” he spat the name. “I suspected he may have turned on me. He will be yours to deal with as you see fit…soon.”

Soon did not mean what Amara wanted it to mean.

Soon meant Ramsay moving into the Dreadfort with his “Bastard Boys”, which included Damon, who apologized profusely – claiming it was only ever meant to scare her. A prank. A game.

Amara feigned forgiveness, as did Roose.

 

[Lucyfer]

Blindsided​

It was a long game that Amara played with Damon when he came to the Dreadfort. She set her sights on him and Ramsay both to murder, but him first. Roose had given that to her, and she toyed with him for months, warming to him and then freezing him, until word reached them that Lord Stark was going South to become the Hand of the King. It was hardly anything of importance – but many of the lords of the North chose to celebrate that a man of the North had been chosen to advise the King.

They felt it may give them some due representation in the South.

Roose used it as an excuse to allow his smallfolk some revelry, and have something of a feast and merriment in his own home, which Ramsay took full advantage of.

Amara and Ramsay sat on either side of Roose – Ramsay still kept the left. Unlegitimized. A bastard. Roose knew better than to sit them besides each other. That didn’t stop Ramsay from antagonizing his sister, though, “Amara,” he spoke over Roose, leaning on the table, “You know, Domeric used to talk about how well you could harp and sing – I haven’t heard you once since I’ve been here.”

Amara just gave him a dull stare. It was true – since Domeric died she hadn’t really touched the harp or done much in the way of music. It reminded her too much of him. “Why don’t you play something?”

‘Do I look like your servant?’ He’d say yes if she asked. “No, thank you, Snow. I’m here to enjoy, not to entertain.” Ramsay never liked being called ‘Snow’. His expression soured immediately, before it softened, and he smiled.

He could fool the world with that cherubic smile. “I understand. I’m sorry, I’ve just always wanted to hear you.” He settled a bit, “And I know Damon would be interested, as well.” Whether or not Ramsay understood the game Amara was playing with Damon, the Bolton woman didn’t know. Sometimes it seemed he did, and he didn’t seem to care to stop it at all. More evidence of his sociopathy – he cared for nothing but himself. Yet it was hard to imagine a man so cold towards a supposed friend, so sometimes Amara imagined him ignorant.

Even with the suggestion, he was still just trying to get what he wanted. A song. Her to act as a puppet to his whims. “Perhaps he would,” but she wouldn’t do so. No, instead she soon found an excuse to part from Roose and Ramsay both to find Damon among many other men-at-arms who were enjoying the celebrations in their lord’s castle. She was able to easily pull him away for a dance, and she let his hands roam, already knowing this was going to be his last night.

He was stupid.

Arrogant, like so many men who believed they were truly irresistible. She didn’t wait for the conclusion of a song, but let her own hand slip down and hooked her fingers in his waistband as she moved her lips to his ear, pressing herself against him, “Let’s get away from the crowd,” she urged him, with another tug at his pants.

She’d convinced Damon she was mad. A masochist – to help explain why she did not hate him for earlier, why she remained interested. He bought it. The Bolton reputations helped, as did Ramsay’s madness.

He followed eagerly, but she didn’t take him back to a room. No, she took him outside, and he seemed a bit confused, but not uninterested. Not suspicious. Curious. “What are we doing out here, Amara?” He was familiar now.

She allowed it, as she spun back around, walking backwards, “I want to try something….” Steps continued on, back towards the training yard, “No one is going to be around here, and I’ve been practicing with the whip….”

“Oh? Have you now?” He seemed amused, “What are you wanting to try that requires you to use it?” He teased.

“It won’t hurt you,” she lied, “You’ll even like it.”

“How are you so certain?” He paused as she turned back around and picked up one of the whips that the men-at-arms did train with. It wasn’t exactly ‘blunt’ like a sword, though. It was a fully functional weapon.

“It involves stripping,” she said, turning back around and coiling the black strand around her wrist, “So…?”

“All right – but if it hurts, you’re going to suffer for it.”

‘No, I won’t.’ “That a promise?” She teased back, but didn’t let him respond before the whip cracked.

The fabric of his shirt tunic broke open, but true to her word, no injury. Yet. He seemed startled, and glanced down at the split attire, but then laughed, relaxed a bit as he realized he wasn’t hurt. That she’d just broke the fabric of his shirt. “If you just wanted me—”

Another crack of the whip, and this time, his pants were split down one leg. “I see why you enjoy this so much,” she told him, “the sound of it sounds like power….” She coiled the black whip around her fingers and her wrist once more, before stepping back and winding up again.

“You know how cold it is out here? We can take that inside….”

“We can, but…,” she didn’t finish her thought aloud. She just brought the whip down once more, and this time, the tail slashed across his eyes. He screamed out and reached up immediately to cover them, and Amara tossed the whip back behind her, “Damon?!” She continued the game, moving to his side and trying to bring his hands down as he stumbled back, cursing her name. “Damon, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—let me see! We can get you to the maester.”

Eventually she got him to lower his hands, and to her satisfaction, the eyes were indeed a lost cause. Still, she said, “It’s not so bad, it’s not so bad – we can get those looked at, just, here, come on, we’re going back inside.” They were not going back inside. She was taking him further away, but he could only stumble along, clinging helplessly to her arm as she led him on some ways into the hunting grounds.

He muttered and complained, but she kept reassuring him. Told him they were inside. He was only feeling so cold because of his ripped clothes. His blubbering complaints were almost endearing. He still thought he could trust her. Thought it was an accident. He did rage and curse, but he knew better than to lash out. He wouldn’t get to a maester if he did that. He had to trust her….

And so eventually she told him to sit against a tree, and told him she was going to get the maester. He was safe in the walls of the Dreadfort.

Except, he wasn’t.

Amara abandoned him. Eventually, his inhuman wails would be heard. Eventually, others would go looking for the sounds, and he would be hunted. Ramsay’s own arrow would hit him before he’d learn the identity of who he hit. Amara feigned ignorant as to how he got in that state.

 

[Lucyfer]

In Parting​

The crypts were rarely illuminated. Amara had to bring a torch with her as she moved beneath the Dreadfort and walked into those crypts. Soon enough, she did reach the bottom, and she paced to the simple slab that held her brother’s corpse. She slipped the torch into a skeletal hand scone so the light would fall upon the rock, and she gently placed the love-lies-bleeding flowers over it, before she stepped back and watched the shadows dance.

What point was there to speaking to the dead? She didn’t speak. ‘I’ve tried to hear you. Every day I’ve tried to hear you again.’ There were stories of weirwoods and how bards would sit before them and play, to record their music for all time. Domeric had played before their weirwood, and Damia went almost daily to mediate besides the tree, but nothing. ‘It’s all lies.’ There were no gods. Not old, not new, not drowned, not of fire…nothing.

The stories were lies.

No wargs. No Others. Nothing. Nothing at all but this world. ‘So none would punish me for killing Ramsay.’ Ramsay wasn’t suffering for killing Domeric, his kin.

“Finally saying goodbye to Domeric?”

Ramsay was the one to speak, and Amara glanced towards him, if only to assure herself of his location as he approached, “Amaranth, right? I’m not so good with plants,” he chuckled in a self-deprecating way as he walked closer, glancing at the flowers. “But I do remember that you were named after them. “I was named after garlic. We’re both named after plants.” He was trying to make conversation. He was failing. Amara looked away, back at the dancing shadows. “I liked him. He was nice.”

‘He was nice. He was stupid, naïve, trusting, and nice, and I loved him.’

Amara clenched her right hand into a fist, but still didn’t speak. “I know what you think I did. I didn’t – I really didn’t. He wanted to bring me to the Dreadfort on his own, even if I would have thought of it, I wouldn’t have needed to. He wanted to make me family, like that Stark boy – Jon. I always wanted a family…just like he did.”

“Is that why you asked Damon to intercept me?”

“I didn’t ask him anything. I only mentioned I was afraid of meeting you angry. Domeric spoke so highly of you,” he was smiling. It could be heard in his voice. “He said you were the intelligent one. So like your father…our father.” He corrected. “I’m sorry for what Damon did, but you handled it well.”

Silence.

Until he moved closer and before she could stop him, he wrapped his arms around her, standing behind her. She froze. She didn’t mean to, she wanted to kick him, or shout, turn and shove him away, but she froze. “How you dealt with him was almost masterful,” his lips were at her ear, whispering, “Toying with him like that – I only noticed as an outsider. I thought you were only icy and frozen, only thought intelligent because you were too dumb to say anything at all and people mistook your silence for smarts.”

That did it. She pushed his arms down and stepped forward, then turned back and shoved him. He stumbled a step, laughing as his arms fell open, “I’m trying to compliment you!”

“If you wish to make me happy, go jump from a parapet.”

“We don’t have to hate each other. I know you miss him, but your blame is misplaced. I only want a family. I only wanted Roose to accept me, and I only wanted you and Domeric as my siblings…the timing of his illness was horrible, but it wasn’t me. This – a family, love, this was all I wanted, Amara.”

He was pleading. He was a good actor, really. Amara would give him credit, but he had too many tells. It was in his posture. It was in the twitch of his lips. Amara wasn’t easily deceived. She made a life of learning to read others. Boltons had to be good at it, considering they had to watch their own posture, their own tone.

Ramsay did not have the training, but he had the Bolton instinct to lie. He had the Bolton ambition and cruelty, without the loyalty. How could he have that? He was forsaken. “What my father did to you, and to your mother, was wrong.” Amara stated, “I am sure you have longed for many things in your childhood and to the current day, but it does not excuse what you did to Domeric.”

“I didn’t—” Her gaze hardened. He lifted his eyebrows, but this time, waited. Silence was as much her weapon as her words.

“One day, Ramsay. You will tell me the truth.”

He looked saddened. “Why do you hate me so much? Why do you think I am so capable of killing Domeric?”

It was simple. It was so simple, but she did not know how to tell him it simply. How did she tell him that it was obvious what he was? He was everything he said, a broken boy who wanted love and a family, but was denied it for too long. A broken boy who wanted what he thought was stolen from him, so he took Domeric’s life to try and have it. Only now he would starve even more. Roose did not love him. She did not love him. Even if they could have loved him, he would never love them.

The second they slighted him, by ignorance or sincere anger, he would take it as an offense.

He was inhuman. He was not cold as the Boltons, he burned, and his fire needed constant kindling.

How did she tell him that so simply? With unblinking precision, she managed to say, “I saw the way you looked at our father when he let you go too soon from his welcoming embrace.”

Ramsay’s brows knit together, genuine confusion in his expression. He did not remember such a small detail. He didn’t even remember feeling anything in that moment that would have been so significant. “One day you will tell me,” she reiterated.

The confusion melted away a bit. He smiled, but this time it was not falsified. The twitch was there, momentary, but apparent. “I see I have a long road ahead of me to convincing you of my good intentions for you and for House Bolton.” He moved an arm over his chest and leaned forward slightly, “I’ll leave you to your goodbyes,” he said, straightened, “At least you are finally starting to move on. One day…you’ll see how your anger and sorrow have blinded you, sister, but I don’t hold it against you.” Gleaming gaze, “Women are always the weaker and more emotional ones. It suits you.”

Ramsay likely thought his words stung, but Amara did not react. She was not even tempted to. Ramsay was the one retreating, and once he was out of sight, she turned back to the slab. To the flowers. To the fire and the shadows, and the beautiful sound of silence.

 

[Lucyfer]

A Father's Intuition​

“You’re answering Robb Stark’s call?”
“Lord Robb’s call, and yes, I am. He has called the banners and I am duty-bound—”
“You swore an oath to the king as well, father.” ​

The silence that had followed the statement still rung in Amara’s ears as she changed out of her gown and into her leathers, throwing rope around herself and preparing to go out onto the wall of the Dreadfort.

“Yes, I am aware of who I am sworn to.”​

It was in the way that he said it, that Amara understood long before the negotiating with Tywin Lannister would begin, that Roose was weighing his options, and he understood that denying Robb’s call meant he would not have opportunities later. Opportunities that could raise them higher, be it because of their loyalty to the Stark boy, or because of their disloyalty to the Stark boy.

Amara questioned it no further, but it was moving her to act. Ramsay had to die. She wasn’t going to survive a week with Ramsay here if she didn’t act. Roose was leaving her in charge of the Dreadfort, and that ambitious son of a bitch was going to crave that position in Roose’s absence. He’d act.

Amara stepped out onto the window ledge and looked across the wall, considering how far it was to Ramsay’s room. With a breath, she pulled herself out and threw a rope with the grappling hook into an arrow slit. She tested it, before binding it around herself and looking for the jutting stones and slits, the ledges and windows, and mapping her passage across. ‘Breathe.’ And Amara did, before stepping onto the first stone, and then onwards. The difficult part was always finding a way to get the rope with the hook back so she could adjust it once more. It usually required climbing a bit higher than she intended.

The Bolton woman almost made it.

She would have made it, if a window wasn’t thrown open near her position, and familiar arms didn’t reach out and grab her. She did cry out, did struggle, before logic returned and she realized that was stupid as she was pulled back in through the window and set on the ground. The rope was cut, and she turned to see Walton and Roose there, Roose looking at her quite calmly while Walton looked agitated. He didn’t speak, though he looked almost angry enough to forget the rules of the household.

Roose did, in a voice that even sent a chill through Amara, “Kinslaying is taboo,” he reminded, apparently fully aware of what she had been doing out on the wall, “but the rules are unclear on if it is taboo to have someone else kill your kin.”

Amara didn’t speak to the threat that hung between them. Not for several seconds as Roose’s silver eyes seemed to reflect all the light around, just like the moon. They glowed in that darkness. “How did you know?” Amara asked calmly. She hadn’t told anyone. It was a decision that night.

Roose did not answer. “It does not matter how I knew. I knew.” He pushed himself away from the door and walked to her, watching as she bristled, but it didn’t halt him as it may have others. The tension and the adrenaline were still high, and he knew if he left, she would just do this again. Before she could open her mouth to protest further, he reached out and grabbed her hair near the top of her head, clenching his fist and pulling.

She stifled this cry, and didn’t attempt to pull away as he tilted her head back and up so she was looking at him. The defiance in her never died. He’d learned that a long time ago. Punishments left their scars, but they didn’t teach obedience. They taught her how to hide better. “I need Ramsay. Until I marry again, until I have a new son, you will not touch him.”

“He—aah!” Her breath came in a sharp inhale. She clenched down as Steelshanks looked away, as Roose twisted his wrist just a little, pulling at the roots of her hair, threatening to pull a huge chunk out. Her breathing was heavier in the pain.

Roose waited.

Then, he spoke. “You are more protected than Ramsay is. I would not leave you without such protections, and I know that you are smarter than him. Ramsay will have things to do soon enough, he will not be staying at the Dreadfort. Once Lord Stark realizes the North has almost no defenses left, Ramsay will be set on patrol. That will leave you in peace. Do you understand, Amara?”

“Yes.” It was spoken through gritted teeth, and Roose released her hair, stepped back to give her space, and let her use her fingers to comb her hair back into place.

“Should Ramsay be dead, I assure you I will marry you to a Stane and you will be lucky to survive after your first child.”

Roose didn’t need to say more. Truth or lies, Roose spoke of those on Skagos as if they were far worse than the Boltons ever had been. Cannibals, rapists, among other things – no taboo was too indecent for them, and he usually only suggested things worse than even that by saying only the Heart’s Trees knew what they did on Skagos.

Amara had no desire to go there and find out, even if there were unicorns on that treacherous island as well. “He’ll live,” she swallowed, “until you have a new heir.” It should be her. Damn all the laws of inheritance, it should be her.

“Walton, escort her back to her room.” Roose said, and turned away, leaving her with her guardian as he went to resume packing and mustering the arms to join Robb Stark.

In the darkness, Walton offered his arm, and Amara took it. She let him take her back to her room, and he didn’t mutter so much as an apology or a word of sympathy. He knew better. He’d seen worse. Roose had to keep his children in line – it was just a pity his children wanted to kill each other. Walton felt the pity for all three of them, even if he disliked Ramsay.

Amara parted from him at the door, but he stayed near, outside, listening. He had to make sure she didn’t try to escape again, but she didn’t. She settled in, defeated.

 

[Lucyfer]

The Lion's Cub​

‘You have your father’s temper.’

It was all Maro could think as he leaned against a pillar inside the Farman training grounds and watched as the red-head girl struggled not to fall to her knees as Sebaston circled her, a sword gripped tight in two hands and fury coursing through her. He could remember Roger in those moments, the fury that would come over him and steal his mind from him. It was why people called Reynard the 'cunning’ brother, but in truth, Roger had been far more intelligent than Reynard.

He just had a temper.

‘And…now.’

The girl was still predictable, and she lunged at Sebaston. The brunette dodged left and slammed his sword against her back as she passed him by, sending her sprawling to her knees with an outcry as her sword clattered across the ground and she scraped her hands on the ground.

Sebaston was not a knight, nor a squire, nor would he ever be. He saw no point to it, but he still learned how to fight. He was a better archer, even at ten, he could easily hit the bullseye of a target from several paces away. “Come on, Dame!” Sebaston shouted at her back, watching as her fingers curled back to her palms. “How are you supposed to beat Tywin if you can’t beat me?”

Maro arched a brow as he saw a new expression run over Damia’s face. He started then, as he saw a manic grin spread across her lips, but he wasn’t quick enough as the sand of the ground was pulled in with those fingers, and she twisted her body around and threw the sand at Sebaston’s eyes. He had no chance to shield them, though his arm flew up after, only to leave himself open as the girl twisted her body around and lunged from the ground, tackling Sebaston and ending up on top of him. She quickly threw her weight on the arm with the sword, pinning it to the sand, and keeping a knee in his gut.

It was a precarious position. Sebaston could struggle and throw her off, but he did not, seeing the red claws above his eyes as his vision cleared. “Er.”

“Say it.” Damia flexed her fingers, each nail making it clear she could plunge them down into an eye and steal his sight. Obviously, it was just sparring – she wouldn’t do that.

“This is cheating.” Sebaston accused.

Damia didn’t look impressed with his accusation at all, and as he started to smile, she thought she’d won.

Nope.

She left one of his hands free, and he quickly mimicked her earlier tactic, spraying sand into her face. She rocked back, letting go of his hand to try and get the sand out, and she was bucked off of him and sent into the sand herself, only to feel the cold metal of the blade at her throat. They were blunted swords, of course, but she still understood quite well she had lost. “You’re learning.” He praised, “Rules are for knights like Maro.”

Who had finally joined them close enough to be acknowledged. Damia looked up at the knight and felt a rush of shame flood her. She was supposed to learn how to fight like a knight. Like her father. She bowed her head as the sword was drawn away from her throat, and Sebaston offered his hand instead. She took it, rising, and blinking away the bleariness. “I think I may have been teaching you wrong.” Maro noted then, to her surprise. She looked back up, “I forgot that your father wasn’t exactly a standard knight.”

“Huh?”

“He cheated?” Sebaston looked hopeful.

“Not exactly,” Maro said, and took the sword, before adopting a pose with one hand, moving his other behind his back. “Your father fought with a long sword, and he used it in one hand. He adapted the Westerosi style based on what he knew of Braavosi styles. They suited him better – he was never going to be a strong fighter like a Clegane.” He was as lean as any feline, and he couldn’t get his strength up, nor Reynard. Heritage was against them – their blood was weak.

Reynard used to joke all their blood went into their hair.

“He trained me, but I could never master his style. It was agile, and tended to throw his opponents off. It was how he survived Ninepenny,” he shifted into another pose, drawing on old memories. “When Jason Lannister fell, Roger had to take the command,” stealing it right from Tywin on the field, in the chaos. Tywin may have won the veterans over later, but Roger had them in the moment, not letting them falter under the loss of their leader. “Without him, we wouldn’t have won the battle of Bloodstone.”

Maro had been knighted there, by Roger. So had Kevan Lannister.

“How did he win it?” How did this style help him?

“Roger was competing with Tywin for the lead, even then. He had a volatile reputation, but he kept his head there. Tywin seemed the more volatile,” young and inexperienced. Newly blooded, a young lord that others didn’t have faith in yet. It should have fallen to him by rights of blood. “Roger had been alongside Jason,” so was he, Maro recalled. “They were in the vanguard,” stupid, stupid men, but they led by example, always. “We were surrounded by them, and Kevan was yelling that we needed to retreat,” he had been Roger’s squire at the time.

“Roger wouldn’t retreat. One death didn’t end a battle, and he could see through the lines – they were weaker. He commanded the vanguard to press forward rather than cut a way back, and he did much of it himself.” Reynard at his side, twisting and dancing in the battle like a bloody whirlwind.

Despite all that would happen in the future, Roger had never drifted far from Kevan, never let Kevan fall like Jason, until Kevan found his poise again and managed to leave Jason behind to get lost in the chaos of the battle. They’d find his body later. ‘Kevan wasn’t so bad….’ Still Maro’s thought, even to that day, as he remembered the young boy’s roar of rage on the Bloodstone, and how he fought like a berserker.

That was when Roger watched him, until that rage left his head and he fought with precision again. All the while, Roger had fought with his longsword and one hand behind his back, occasionally using his free hand to reach for a soldier, ally or foe, and move them as he needed for the dance to proceed as he wanted it to.

“I don’t think Tywin was happy with the decision,” though he hadn’t been in the vanguard, but with Aerys Targaryen. “But it won the battle of Bloodstone, and Roger went on to win several more victories at the Stepstones for the West. You’d think he and Tywin would get along but…,” he sighed.

“But?” Damia pressed, eager for more. She lived on the stories of her father. Her mother. Her family.

“Roger liked to chide Tywin about his father, Tytos, not being there. Not leading. He made it too clear that he thought he was better suited to lead the Westerlands than Tytos – and so, Tywin.” It was only a year later that the Reynes were destroyed. Damia was the child of Roger’s victory at Ninepenny, his reunion with Sybelle. “Tywin never lashed out, but he stewed on it for a while and he used Roger’s peacocking against him later.”

“Peacocking?” Damia canted her head, not certain of the meaning of it.

“Showing off.” Maro clarified, “Your father had every right to be confident, but…not everyone likes that. You’ll understand one day that sometimes being quiet is better than being loud. A lion that roars gets itself killed….”

“The Lannisters roar….”

“Yes. But so did Roger.”

 

[Lucyfer]

The Bravos​

Ser Maro had been arguing with Lewys Farman for weeks about hiring a new teacher for Damia after he realized where and how Roger learned to fight so well – how he mixed styles and dances to his advantage. It seemed all for naught, until Sebaston pulled him aside after one argument. “He’s never going to consent. He’s afraid of Lord Tywin.” Sebaston said, walking alongside Maro through the halls of the Fair Castle. “And he doesn’t think it is Dame’s place, of course.”

“I know,” Maro sighed, “But I can’t just drop it. Roger would have let her.” Roger was generous with his children. Maro could still remember his other children – his son, Roland, his eldest child, Desirae. Whatever they asked, he saw that they had it. Roland had been a quiet boy, a good squire, well on his way to becoming a better knight, yet he’d taken to poetry and embroidery in his down time, and Roger never once teased him.

A daughter who wanted to fight would be nothing to him. Desirae had been taming wild horses, after all.

“I know you can’t. I’m here to help,” Sebaston answered, “There’s a man who comes here to trade, usually stays a week or so, from Braavos. He has a son, Zain Duchant. He wants to be the First Sword in Braavos. He may be willing to help her for a price.”

“How old is he?”

“A year younger, and five years better.” It was a strange way of saying it, and when Maro glanced down at the brunette, he saw that Sebaston’s face was flushed, “He, ah, beat me. It’s not what you’d like, but it may be the easiest way. They’d never suspect anything.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re too smart for your own good?” Maro had to ask.

Sebaston just smirked, “That’s an oxymoron, isn’t it? If I were smart, I’d know what was for my own good and not show it, wouldn’t I?” Maro laughed a bit at that, “I’ll introduce you. He’s in town, that was why I thought of it. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Maro agreed.

Sebaston was true to his word then, and he took Maro and Damia both, though Damia didn’t know why she had to go into the market, she tagged along, often running off to go look at some of the stalls or speak with others there. She was developing her languages with a few people there – hiring the merchants for other tasks wasn’t uncommon on the Fair Isles. It was cheaper, and mutually beneficial.

“Here! Duchant!” Sebaston called, and soon enough, a man came out towards the shopfront and smiled down at Sebaston.

“Lord Farman – here for Zain?”

“Yes,” he answered, “What we spoke of – is that still all right?”

“If it is all right with Zain?” Who just then popped his head up. Maro noticed immediately the contrast of father and son. The father looked nearly like royalty, dressed in black and purple, while his son seemed much more like a peacocking bravos, in greens and yellows.

“Teach some girl to dance?” He scoffed, “Sounds boring. But, you’re paying, so,” he shrugged, “I guess. I have to save up.”

“For what?”

“I want to meet the Moon Maiden,” he let out a deep sigh, already stricken at such a young age, and Maro couldn’t help but be amused, and was moreso when the lad added, “Her hair is so beautiful, so silver, and I know it’s not natural…I want to know how she does it.” When Maro glanced at his father, the man just shook his head.

“Children,” he said with a roll of his eyes, “You know how it is, eh?”

‘No.’ Well, he did, but not his own. He gave a tired smile, and tried not to think of his lost chances, of his drowned heart.

“So where is she?”

“Somewhere…,” Sebaston muttered, glancing around for the red hair that always stuck out. It didn’t take too long to see her conversing with another, this a woman that always came to buy more wood for Braavos so they could make more barges and such. “Damia!” Sebaston called, and she looked over, then quickly ended her conversation and hurried over, “I want you to meet Zain Duchant. Zain, this is my sister, Damia Farman.”

“Charmed. I’ve been told you want to learn to dance?”

“I know how to dance.” She said, and that was when Maro stepped in.

“Something besides the knight’s dance,” he offered, “Zain’s learning the braavosi style.”

“Water dancing. And some other things,” he quirked his lips, “I was told you wanted to learn, but if I’m wrong—”

“How old are you?”

“Seven.”

Damia looked up at Maro, clearly wondering if he was being serious, before Sebaston noted, “He’s beaten me. You still can’t do that.”

“Yeah, but…,” then she sighed, and shook her head, “Fine. Okay. I guess it can’t hurt.”

“Brilliant. Dad, I’ll be back in an hour when she gives up!” Zain said with a cheeky grin, feeling the searing glare that he was given by the girl, but ignoring it completely, “Come on then, Sebaston, on to that marvelously horrible sand field you all call training grounds.”

“It’s better than your Moon Pool.” Sebaston said, but led him on, until they were all in the familiar sand.

“Now, if you’re going to…oh.” Zain had just picked up the wooden sword he preferred, and was about to drop into the proper pose, when he saw his opponent already mimicking it. Side-facing. One-hand on the sword. The only oddity was the hand behind her back. “You know some things.”

“I taught her some things,” Maro said, “What I could remember….”

“You learned?”

“My mentor was…weird.” ‘Eccentric.’ He figured the kids wouldn’t know that word. Zain chuckled, not noticing then the glare that the girl sent to the knight.

“Well, well…that makes this more interesting.” Zain adopted a more traditional stance, bent knees, hand near his hip rather than at his back. “Show me what you can do, Farman.”

She came rushing, and while Zain expected the standard hack and slash of the Westerosi, he was at least pleased she tried to mask her intention with a feint, a turn to make the direction different, but it wasn’t enough. He parried it and pushed her blade away. Again, and again, he parried or avoided, until he managed to catch her as she spun around him, reaching for the hand behind her back and pulling her to him.

The spin was almost graceful on the sand as she was turned into him, and found the blade along her neck, her arm pinned to her side by the way his crossed over her chest. “Maybe you can be redeemed. Your brother can’t,” he gestured with the sword to him, releasing Damia.

Sebaston rolled his eyes, “I know all I need to know. This is why I hire guards.”

“Then why not hire such guards for your sister?”

“She wants to go on the mainland one day,” Sebaston sighed.

“Marry some lord?” Zain teased, “Be a proper lady? Ah yes, if Westerosi men are the brutes I hear of on the mainland, such skills may be necessary one day when that good lord is drunk.”

‘Kill some lord, but sure.’ Maro didn’t comment. “We’re not all brutes, but men with power tend to hide dark natures.”

“So I hear,” he chuckled, “Well, okay. I’ll help, but I’m going to expect plenty of payment for this, Sebaston.”

“I know, I know,” he waved it off dismissively.

So began the relationship that would end up spanning many years, off and on, often with months in-between, until one day he stopped showing up and was presumed dead when they learned his father's ship had sunk. Damia grew into her own style of swordplay through the occasional visits, and asking other merchants and travelers as they moved through the Fair Isles. As she learned languages, piece by piece, stranger from stranger, so she learned to fight in a manner as unpredictable as her father.

 

[Lucyfer]

Uncloaking​

The Red Lioness walked the streets of Braavos, dressed scandalously by Westerosi standards, but no one knew she was a Westerosi during the Uncloaking festival. Well, Maro did, who walked alongside her with a mask that looked as if it was a statue’s face, breaking up. Her own was a lion, of course.

In the festival, she had been seeking for another – a lion, or a blue star, something that would call out to her the identity of the rumored ‘Lord Tarbeck’. ‘He can’t be alive.’ He was three. He had been with Rohanne, and thrown down a well by Amory Lorch. Those were the stories in Westeros.

In Braavos, there was another story, about a singer who claimed to be Ciaran Tarbeck, son of Rohanne, grandson of Ellyn, who sung the saddest songs anyone ever heard. Who sang better than Rhaegar Targaryen. So far, no such mask had been seen, and the Reyne woman was starting to get frustrated as she walked across the Moon Pond, hearing the laughter and revelry around them.

“Well, well, you know swords shouldn’t be worn in Braavos unless you’re looking for a fight, don’t you, my dear?”

“Don’t call me dear, love,” Damia turned to face the one who spoke, some man in white and black, his mask even half. She assumed immediately he was someone faithful to the Many-Faced God. “Unless you’re looking to be skewered.”

“No one ever taught you not to fight angry, no?”

“Plenty have.” She let her sword rest upon the silver hilt. “You’re outnumbered.”

“That’s hardly fair.”

She shrugged, clearly not caring. She may have smiled at the playful exchange any other day, but she was actually angry. This was the last distraction she needed, though her anger faltered as the man opened his arms a bit and said, “The man you’re looking for, he’s not going near anyone with swords. He’s a wanted man, as you must know.”

“How do you know I’m looking for someone?”

“You’re good – but not so good. The crowd masks most noises, but I have heard you through it. Lord Tarbeck, no?”

“Yes.”

“A year ago I would have told you I knew him. Today…he is not the same man I knew. His eyes are different, his songs have lost their feeling, and the people with the swords have stopped coming for him.”

Damia felt her heart drop. She felt her throat go dry, though she couldn’t figure why. Her mind was saying it meant he was dead, the rumors of Faceless Men were truths, but another part denied it as she walked up to the man and grasped him by his tunic. He didn’t even step away as she glared at him. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know now. He comes and he goes, just like you, Farman.” It was in the way he said it, that caused her grip to loosen on his tunic. He knew her through the mask, “What, you don’t recognize me? Has it been so long?” He laughed, and he stepped back as she let him go and removed his mask, “I’m not even in a good disguise,” the face was familiar. The eyes. The black hair.

“Zain? Zain Duchant?”

“The one and only!”

“Your ship went down!”

“Aye, and the water was cold, but I travel in a fleet. My father drowned, but I did not, nor others. My brother has taken up the family business now, and he lets me swagger around as a bravos to keep the shop safe,” he chuckled, brushing his hair back as he readjusted the mask on his face once more, “I thought of becoming a Faceless Man, but they told me I would have to give up who I am, and well…I can’t do that.”

“No surprise there….” Maro muttered.

“But your Lord Tarbeck, I did know him. He is family?”

“Distant, but yes. I wanted to bring him home to Westeros.” Not so distant. Not as distant as if she was a Farman. “Would you help me meet him?”

“Yes…I can,” he hedged a bit, shifted, “but perhaps you should see first, hear first, and then decide if you want to meet him. Besides, we’ve much to catch up on, don’t we?” He threw an arm over her shoulder and started to walk off with her, “And you must meet the Moon Maiden!”

“Zain, I’m not—”

“Sh, sh, sh, she needs more women in her life, and I’m sure that you do, too.”

“I have a sister….”

“Married and with children already, I hear. Why aren’t you married to your Westerosi lord yet, hm?”

“…you’re right, I want to hear stories of you becoming a bravos and meeting the Moon Maiden.” Zain let out a hearty laugh, but dragged her on into the midst of more revelry, where he was able to get them a seat easily enough to watch from a balcony as others enjoyed with dancing, as bravos fought, and the songs lifted up to them.

Zain caught them up on his life as it was, how he’d become a bravos to help his brother out, but he was all but pretty decoration now. Of his affair with the Moon Maiden, even if she was at least a decade older than him, and how he’d tried bleaching his hair – it hadn’t gone well. He talked, nearly all night, and Damia enjoyed it all, until he got to the part of Ciaran Tarbeck.

“He used to have eyes like yours,” he commented off-handedly, thinking it a familial trait, blissfully unaware of which family it came from. “And deep, deep auburn hair, like mahogany trees.”

“Isn’t that brown?” Maro snorted.

“No, the hues of red in it bled over that like sap. He was handsome,” Zain admitted easily, never shy. “Still is, though…if you knew him before, you would understand,” he gave her a sad smile, “His voice was as beautiful as they said, but no longer. I am not sure what happened. I imagine he got into some heavy debt and finally got caught. It must have killed his spirit a bit, what they did to him, or asked of him. He won’t say.”

“I…see.”

“Well, I suppose you wouldn’t know the difference,” he laughed a bit and shook his head, “he still sounds good, and he’s still pretty. I’ll mention you.”

“Please do,” she smiled.

“Now! Catch me up!” He leaned forward, crossing his arms over the table and looking as eager as a child. Damia rolled her eyes, but did tell him.

She told him of Jeyne and her marriage to Ser Clifton, of Sebaston and his own marriage to Lady Crane, of their son, Octavian, and that there was another on the way. As for herself – she simply had yet to catch the eye of the one she wanted, though she thought she made a good showing in the Siege of Dragonstone.

“Maybe it wasn’t so good to let the Targaryens get away, but I never saw the ship that left with them,” she shook her head, irked, “Nor did Stannis Baratheon.”

“Is that the one you like? You seem to like him.” She’d been speaking well of him.

“Gods forbid,” she shook her head, “He’s far too serious for my liking. He’s a good man. He deserves his position as Master of Ships, but he’s not my type. By the way, any chance you’ve seen those Targaryen kids?”

“So you can kill them?” Zain looked startled, “They’re innocent! Children! Maybe one of them is out begging for his crown, but he’s no threat.”

“You’ve no idea the threat children can grow into.” Maro murmured. They knew. Perhaps it was wrong to ask for children…to think of killing them…and yet, Maro couldn’t fault it.

Zain just shook his head, looking a bit disgusted, even behind his mask. “While it is true there are plenty of evil pickpockets here in town and I was no saint, at least let them grow up and make that decision. Maybe they’ll fade into obscurity and become nothing, like the Lord Tarbeck. Well…he was a minstrel, but no threat to anyone in Westeros. He just liked to sing. Perhaps that will be them. I always heard stories of Rhaegar….”

Damia may have denied his words, wanted to think that Ciaran would crave revenge as she did, but there was a roar from the Titan of Braavos, and the conversation was lost in the haze of sounds, and the sight of hundreds of masks being thrown off. Damia took hers off at last then, throwing the lion over the balcony as the stone mask and the black-and-white one also went over.

“I’m glad you’re alive, Zain,” Damia said then.

“Death doesn’t want me yet,” he chuckled, “Hopefully, never,” he started to rise, “Come on, let me introduce you to the Moon Maiden. The night is still young.”

It wasn’t young.

Damia would regret everything when she woke up hung over, though at least in her bed. Zain didn’t join then, but it wouldn’t be long before he did, as a way to see more of the world and better his brother’s trading empire. Well, that’s what he said. He didn’t ever seem to do much of that, and instead became more of a hired guard on the ship who helped with pirates and anyone looking to cause any trouble.

 

[Lucyfer]

The Greyjoy Rebellion​

“We have Euron, Victarion, and Aeron Greyjoy. No Balon, no surprise, he's a fucking ostrich.” Damia Reyne was muttering to herself as she stood at the prow of her ship and watched the Iron Fleet make their way into her waters. She and Sebaston had promised to hold them there to give Stannis Baratheon and Paxter Redwyne time to get to the Iron Fleet before it regrouped after burning Lannisport. She folded up her silver far-eye but kept her gaze on the ships. “Pick your poison, Maro.” Damia gestured out. “Who do you want to fuck with?”

“Not Euron.” Maro was fairly certain he was the mastermind behind this, and from the few occasions he'd glimpsed Euron abroad, he had decided he didn't like him, but he also had no interest in fighting him. “Victarion.” A simple brute by all accounts, likely as good with his ship as any other, but they could easily anticipate his moves. Aeron held no glory. He was a Greyjoy but the least of them, no input in this mess, just a dutiful brother.

What Maro always said of Kevan and Tygett, though it fell on deaf ears.

“Cecil!” Damia called above the din, “Tell Sebaston we'll be engaging the idiot wearing plate mail on a fucking boat.”

“...Victarion?”

“Yes, who else? The one with a ship named victory and a name named victory. I want one of those things broken, preferably his name.” Cecil couldn't mask a grin. He only started his services with the Fair Fleet a year ago and mostly served Sebaston, but in the times he'd spent with Damia, he came to learn fairly quick that it was Sebaston who preferred to keep his cufflinks clean. Sebaston was a thoughtful and cunning man - no question - but his sister was quicker in the moment, which was more useful for battle.

Sebaston was growing cautious.

Cecil went to the flags to get the message to the technical flagship of the Fair Fleet, Fair Chance, where Sebaston agreed without issue. They would cut a path to the Iron Victory.

Damia didn't expect differently and so hadn't waited. She let commands flow easily as she quickly had the sails unfurled. The wind was in her favor, not theirs, and it was soon caught in the sails to take them on towards the fleet. Archers and shields came on deck. “One day I'm putting a trebuchet on this thing.”

“Please don't.” Maro groaned. “The ram is enough for a ship.”

“Nonsense!” Fire was lighting up from the Iron fleet. “We always need more ways to throw fire at people. Speaking of...oh, there it is....” Damia smiled as a lighter ship came ahead. “Shields!” She ducked under one herself as the arrows and fire flew from the other side.

Some hit the other ship. Most bounced off shields or lit the sails aflame. Nothing she was really worried about in light of the fiery ship before her. It wasn't wildfire, but a fiery ship still wasn't good, especially as it crashed the front lines of the enemy. “You know my favorite part about the Iron Fleet?”

“Their ships are wooden?” Zain called up.

“Their ships are wooden. Time to play a game! Randall, break this ship on something not-iron, we're taking a new ship.” They already knew the plan. Damia intended from the outset to keep ship hopping. They'd have to keep destroying their own vessels. Given, it was not an easy task to take ships, but Damia had faith. Not as much faith as plate armor idiot, but faith. Especially as she spotted the ‘stag’ banner and the ‘grapes’ banner fast approaching now.

The only direction that was safe now for the Iron Fleet was back towards Lannisport, if that could even be called safe.

Randall steered the boat well, and the wonderful ram pierced right into the next ship. It wasn’t the Iron Victory, but it would do for now as the collision rocked both parties. There was no time wasted on Damia’s ship. Planks were thrown across what space remained, and others just jumped if they were able – Damia and Zain among them, while Maro waited for a plank.

Men fell quickly on both sides at the first collision, but it was evident that the Ironborn were not as prepared for this. They were reavers, perhaps, but they hadn’t been in years. They were all but green men. They knew their ships, and they knew how to intimidate, but once they were boarded they were at the disadvantage as westerosi trained knights and soldiers came aboard. Well…and those with a bit of additional training.

Zain and Damia confounded their rather simple, brute foes. Maro held his own well enough, as good a knight as any and able to utilize his shield to annoy the ironborn.

The strategy persisted of hopping ships, whether it be one that came to wreck them, or one they were able to steer closer to and rip open, and she did make it to the Iron Victory as the Royal Fleet was wreaking havoc on the side where the Silence was.

Victarion, though a brute, was unfortunately no pushover. Damia learned that when she was nearly cleaved in two on stepping upon the boat and having to dodge the kraken-decorated axe that came down for her. ‘Gods!’ There was no mistaking him, though, and she quickly found her stance as others of her crew started to spill over, distracting the crew, but not as well as she would have liked. Someone still put an arrow into the back of her shoulder when Victarion came for her again, and she barely avoided him.

She quickly realized that she was absolutely not going to guard or block anything. She’d lose her sword.

Luck was on her side more than talent.

There was an outcry, and a shattering of wood. Victarion looked over to see his brother’s ship, the Golden Storm, broke apart in fire, the Fury triumphant besides it.

In the moment of his distraction, Zain got behind Victarion, and Damia moved forward and slashed open his wrist, causing him to drop the axe. She quickly put a foot on it and put her sword to his heart, as Zain put his at the brute’s neck. Was that going to be enough? Absolutely not – Ironborn didn’t surrender. Good Ironborn didn’t, anyway.

Damia kicked the axe back as Victarion threw his head back and slammed it into Zain’s own, causing the man to fall. She didn’t press the sword forward. Perhaps she should have, but hostages would be useful.

Victarion seemed to recognize that he wasn’t in any real danger.

He barreled forward, throwing his shoulder into her and sending her sprawling before she could concoct a good counter, but in vain. He wasn’t able to grab his axe back – Maro had picked it up, and when Victarion turned to face him, Maro slammed the flat of the axe against his face. He fell, out cold, and offered an irked glance between Zain and Damia, before assisting in the clean-up of the ship.

Other ships were starting to retreat in the distance, the combined forces of the three navies overpowering the Iron Fleet.

Stannis was eventually brought aboard the Iron Victory to meet a newly-conscious Victarion, and Maro gave his victory to Damia. They allowed the king’s brother to deal with him, all annoyed that he was the only brother they captured in the fight.

Eventually Stannis came to join them on the Fair Chance, “I thank you both, Lord Sebaston, Lady Damia, for the assistance here. We’ve significantly weakened the Iron Fleet and scattered them,” they had all fled in different directions, escaping the trap wherever they could. “They will not regroup in time. I have already sent a raven on to my brother to let him know it is safe to head towards the Iron Isles. I will be going that way myself to make sure those seas stay safe. Lord Paxter is going to be returning to his lands, and I advise you to stay here as well and make sure none of the Iron Fleet try to sneak through this strait.”

“We will have patrols in our waters, and plenty of forces to back them up.” Damia spoke, earning an arched brow from Stannis, who looked to Sebaston for confirmation.

“As she says,” he didn’t contradict. He didn’t make it his own order. He was already hearing the talk around him, he’d been hearing it for a while, but it was louder then. The men and women were impressed by the recklessness. Not as many admired him keeping the Fair Chance out of the fray and using archers, as well as flagged messages, to direct the course of the battle. They preferred someone bloodied and at the front lines.

He’d make it official back home, but for now, he’d make it clear what side he stood on all the same. Besides, she got them Victarion – that was enough to convince him. Sure, Victarion would be going with Stannis, but they all knew it had been the Fair Fleet that was responsible.

Stannis had nothing to say against it. It was just…strange hearing a woman give the directions when the proper lord was right there. He didn’t let it bother him overmuch, made a note that he would mention their service to Tywin Lannister, before he was off. A liege should know when they had good vassals who served effectively, at the least. Credit where credit was due.

 

[Lucyfer]

The Last One Standing​

“Trying to find your hand in the darkness.
Trying to hear your words over the rain.”

The Last Reyne sat at last with Ciaran Tarbeck in her sight, but the more she looked upon him, the more she realized it was not him. She had never met him, and yet, all that Zain had told her seemed correct. If he once had eyes like her, he did not any longer.

They were blue. Not green. There was no life to them as he sung, and though his voice was beautiful, it did not stir her. Not that Damia was a fan of music anyway. Tywin killed that a long time ago, and she felt only that quiet pain as she watched him over the rim of a glass of wine.

“Trying to be unveiled but accepted.
Trying to mend your heart without the pain.
And we fall together….”

Still, Damia waited for him. It was a couple of more songs that she had to endure, before he came to join her, a nervous smile on his lips as he came to take a seat in the lion’s corner. Her own was broad, and she pushed his drink towards him, “I’ve been waiting to meet you for years, Lord Tarbeck.”

“Ah, yes, that is what I was told. Forgive me – it’s a bit strange having someone come and claim to be kin.” He drank the beverage that he clutched with both hands, wrinkling his nose a moment, before relaxing.

“Well, it is distant, but we are. I wanted to bring you back to Westeros.”

He smiled, but then shook his head, “I can’t. Lord Tywin…,”

“Stopped hunting you,” he had paused when he saw the twinkle in her eye. He sipped at his beverage, keeping that nervous demeanor as he sipped down the purple liquid. “You know that. Did you fake your death?”

“No, I didn’t, I really died.”

There was a pause. Damia didn’t seem surprised, though the twinkle left her gaze. The life left her with the words. “Curious,” she mused, and the man looked rather startled, before that became anger, “Don’t,” she said as he started to open his mouth. “I learned one thing of the warlocks in Qarth. One flute, as they say, allows you to see beyond. What I’ve found as an unintentional side-effect of that is that it also loosens the tongue. Lying is more difficult under the influence. So…Lord Tarbeck is dead. Who are you?”

“I am Lord Tarbeck now.”

Damia furrowed her brows. She didn’t understand. The stranger across from her took a deep breath, trying to gather the thoughts that ran away from him, “I am No One. Lord Tarbeck feared how Tywin’s men would kill him, and he came to the House of Black and White. He asked us for death, and we provided him with death. Lord Tywin was made aware that he died, but I continue in his name and memory. Does this satisfy you?”

‘No.’

He had lived. Damia was too late. He had lived…once. He had escaped. He had an ally who had helped him, and Damia did not know who it was. Did not know how. And now, she never would. He was silenced. She didn’t care for the oddity that there was a man wearing his face right then, she didn’t need to understand it. She’d seen stranger things in this world, and the name ‘faceless men’ implied everything.

Zain told her before he hadn’t been willing to give up his identity. To be No One.

Still, it felt like her head was spinning, as if she’d drank the tainted beverage and not the other way around. “With a word, Lord Tywin could fall as well. None would know who. None would know why.”

“And you would want my face as well?” She snapped, rising from her seat, “No.” She remembered her place. “He is my liege lord. I had hoped to reconcile him…them…to show him there was no threat, as the Targaryens may not be a threat, but now I cannot. If Tywin wants to lash out at phantoms in the dark, all the better. He can jump at every shadow for all I care, be paranoid. The more he kills the more enemies he makes.”

She felt sick.

Still, she threw down a couple of coins, “Thank you. In spite of my treachery, thank you.” And with that she turned away and stormed out.

Zain was not far behind. Damia had been unaware he followed, but he crept up then like a shadow, “I did not know, Damia. I did not know or I would—”

“Shut up.”

He frowned. “You never knew him. Why does it bother you so? You told me once children can be threats. Tywin’s actions are understandable, you westerners are so paran—” He was silenced with a slap.

Damia wanted to deny the truth of his words, and yet she could not. Viserys was rising, Daenerys was rising. ‘You will rise.’ In Tywin’s situation, would she have done otherwise? Likely not. Though, she never would have committed genocide in the first place. ‘You wanted to kill the last Targaryens.’ Well when a genocide starts….

Kill them all. Or they grow to be like her. Full of pain, and always wanting to place that pain right back on the one who caused it. “Do you feel better?”

“No.”

“Will hitting me again help?”

“No.” Maybe.

“Then let me speak.” He waited, and when she gave a nod, he reached for her arm, and walked her back to the ship. To the cabin. She moved around it, but so did he, and he pulled open a drawer before she could stop him, and he took out a ring with a lion on it. “I’ve wondered, for a long time, Damia. You look nothing like your parents, or your siblings.” He was walking back around to the front of the desk, as her eyes followed the ring.

She clearly wanted to jump over and kill him.

“You were obsessed with Lord Tarbeck. You don’t like music at all – nothing less than the Rains of Castamere. It isn’t subtle – and you have this ring, you have a red lion for your war board, and I learned who Maro was mentored by, a Roger Reyne, no?”

Zain didn’t see the dagger. Not before it nicked his fingers and the ring fell, clattered, and rolled under the desk.

She was holding another. “Choose your words carefully, Zain. They may be your last.”

“Lady Reyne,” he said, and in the darkness of her cabin he saw her smile. It was a thrill to hear it – how could it not be? “I put the pieces together after so many years observing you, and I will not turn you in. I do not know precisely how it feels, but I understand. You know my father’s ship went down, no?” She gave a nod, “Our rivals did that. I became a bravos, and I killed them. One by one. My trips with you let me travel without being recognized by my ship, or with my brother’s crew, and I have killed them all. Do you think I would get in the way of your revenge? Do you think I would be that stupid to get in the way? I showed you to Lord Tarbeck – I hoped as you, the result would be different, but no. No…it wasn’t.”

Damia hesitated. “How am I supposed to trust that?”

“We’re friends. I owe nothing to Tywin, I don’t even like Tywin.”

“You don’t even know Tywin.”

“Nor do you.”

The statement was startling enough to cause her to lower the dagger to put her hand on the table, though she didn’t let it go. “All these years…if I wanted to betray you, do you think I would confront you? I’m smarter than that. I’d simply wait until we made port in Lannisport, and then go off to Casterly Rock. It’s only an hour away by horse. I’d take your ring, and I’d sell you out for more gold than you could ever pay me, and you know it.”

“…fair.” She consented. “So what do you want?”

“Simply to let you know, I know. To be your ally. To help you more, as I can. It must be lonely with only Maro knowing on the ship, and then Sebaston and Jeyne back home…let me in. I’ll be another to know and keep it, and teach you a bit about keeping it from people as clever as me,” he winked, and Damia let out a breath. Her grip on the dagger relaxed and she bowed her head over the desk, shaking her head slightly.

“Fine. Fine. But if you betray me—”

“Oh, I’m fucked. I know it. You, Maro, Sebaston – I’m more afraid of him – Jeyne…yeah, I’m dead, I know, trust me.” Because at that point, the cover would be blown. Everyone would scramble, but they wouldn’t forget to kill him in the chaos of the revelation. “So, hug?”

Damia let the dagger go and walked around the desk, then threw her arms around Zain. “And maybe some bandages for my fingers. Maybe?” She just laughed a bit, “I’m not kidding, they’re really bleeding, and they kind of sting,” she just continued to laugh, dissolving into it a bit as they held each other.

 

[Lucyfer]

Whore​

Sebaston knew that the Myrish tradesman was going to be upset as Damia translated his words of payment over, calmly explaining the ‘fine print’ of their deal. Sebaston had promised to buy the lace and carpets, with only 10% more on top of the price of the material. The Myrish trader had signed the agreement, but neglected to consider that it meant the price Sebaston sold it to him at…which had been insanely low, because Sebaston knew he could make a fortune off of the finished product later.

It was a profit.

Just not the profit that the olive-toned man wanted.

He started to argue. Sebaston wished he had understood Myrish then, but he never took to it. Damia started to learn after Edmar joined the crew, and ever since then, it seemed to dominate many discussions. Not as many people knew it in Westeros as languages like Valyrian, after all. It was easier to keep certain conversations mostly private.

“Damia, what—” Sebaston turned to look at her as she had moved a hand to her sword, but he really shouldn’t have let his eyes leave the tradesman. He felt the sting of a cut across his face, just as Damia was able to get her own sword out to prevent further harm. Sebaston rose as Maro drew his own blade.

More words passed in Myrish as Sebaston held his cheek, only interrupted by a loud yowl as the silver cat, which had been near his feet, hopped onto the desk. It was ignored.

It yowled again and then reached out to paw not at Damia, not at Sebaston, but at the tradesman, a light, nagging paw, demanding affection with all the raised voices. The oddity was enough to pause the arguments. “Tempest, go see Sebaston,” Damia said, “Not….”

Except the tradesman lowered his blade and reached out to scratch the silver cat under his chin, and to ask the name. “Tempest,” Damia sighed, “Whore,” she muttered to the cat, who preened under the touch and began to purr.

This would not be the last time that Tempest chose the enemy in a situation. Nor the last time Damia wondered why she kept the cat on the ship.

Whatever the case, it seemed to calm the situation for a moment, and they talked the Myrish man into accepting his stupidity and selling the finished materials for the agreed upon costs, using receipts as proof of what the 10% profit would be.