Post by The Smith on Jan 10, 2009 1:01:06 GMT -5
As Jennelynn’s retinue ambled down the country road, a group of riders came cantering up to meet them. She wondered who they were; they were still two days from King’s Landing, and she was eager to be home.
She felt both relieved and a little sad. The thought of seeing her family again, and living comfortably, was wonderful – but she would miss her sad Aunt Jeyne, and some of the others at the motherhouse.
How she had hated it in the beginning! She wasn’t strong enough to carry big buckets or sacks of grain. Churning butter for hours made her arms burn, and she would feel faint. Blisters appeared on her hands and feet. In the cold dormitories she was shivering and miserable on her straw pallet. She had no idea how to bake bread, or light a fire, or wash her own clothes, but Jennelynn began to learn quickly when she saw that there was no other choice. And the farm girls spoke in such an unintelligible accent; she never understood what they were saying, and they never understood what she was saying. Most of them avoided her, and so she had nobody but Aunt Jeyne for company at first, though she slowly made friends later. She would miss Aunt Jeyne. Her godmother was kind and gentle and full of love…but also sadness. Jennelynn wished she could have done about it.
Now she blinked and came back from her daydreams. The riders were approaching fast, and now Jennelynn recognized them. Her uncle Brynden rode at the head, along with Ser Cayne Mooton, his white cloak fluttering behind him. Behind them were a group of Royce knights and two of her father's household knights. One knight held the royal standard high, and another knight held the banner of Brynden Royce, which flew a little lower than the royal stag.
“Princess Jennelynn,” her uncle said, reining in his golden-red stallion and bowing slightly from his saddle, as did Ser Cayne.
“Uncle,” Jennelynn replied. She acknowledged Ser Cayne with a smile. “It is good to see you. Is my mother well?” Jennelynn had heard about her mother’s miscarriage, to her horror.
“She has recovered,” Uncle Brynden said gently, turning his horse around to ride with. The fifty knights that had accompanied Jennelynn drew back slightly to allow Lord Brynden and Ser Cayne to ride at Jennelynn’s side. “And she awaits you eagerly. That was why she sent me to meet you on the highway and bring you home swiftly and safely.” He twinkled down at her. “How was your aunt Jeyne? Were you good to her?”
“We had a good time together,” Jennelynn said honestly. “And I shall visit her again, as often as I can. But for now I am eager to come home. You have come very far from the city to meet me, uncle.”
“And with good reason,” Uncle Brynden said. “Of late there has been a spate of killings and robberies in this area, and we believe that a group of Braavosi mercenaries are behind it. They have formed a band of thieves – violent, depraved thieves, it seems. Don’t worry,” he added cheerfully, seeing her face. “You have nothing to worry about. They only attack small villages and poor travelers – they will take one look at your escort and run the other way. You have fifty knights with you, and I have brought ten more.”
And he began talking pleasantly of things that were happening in the city, and asking her about her time at the motherhouse. Uncle Brynden was a good listener – he listened attentively to all her stories, and Jennelynn was surprised to find that he was very knowledgeable about how septries and motherhouses worked. He was funny and teasing and grave by turns, and Jennelynn enjoyed passing the time by telling him about the motherhouse. She liked Brynden – he always had a kind word to say, or some teasing compliment which thrilled her.
When they stopped under a large oak for lunch, Uncle Brynden took one look at the dried fruits, bread and cheese that the holy sisters had sent Jennelynn and snorted. “We’ll have none of that,” he said. “How are you with the bow, little princess?”
“Er…I know how it works,” Jennelynn said. “But I fear I do not have much practice.”
“As it happens, my own archery has gone a little rusty. You are twelve and still young – there’s no time like now to learn,” her uncle said briskly, taking a quiver of arrows from one of his retainers. “We shall hunt our lunch together, just you and me. What do you feel like eating?”
Jennelynn laughed. “Something that does not run too fast, perhaps?”
Uncle Brynden grinned. “We shall hunt some birds, then. There is a small lake nearby. Bring me a few fat ducks, and then perhaps I will share my quail with you.”
Before riding out to hunt, Brynden took her into a secluded clearing and set up a target. They both practiced, and Jennelynn was surprised to find that her uncle had really meant it when he said he had gone rusty. But she noticed that he taught himself; soon he was explaining to her how to sight down an arrow’s length, close on eye, and aim at the target. His arrows hit closer and closer to the mark, and when she followed his advice, she found that she had the same results. Soon afterwards, her uncle gave her a leg up into the saddle and mounted his own horse, and they rode out. At a canter it was harder to aim, but with some practice and concentration, Jennelynn almost hit a deer – but it sprang away. Uncle Brynden had a little more luck, but perhaps because his horse was better suited to this, and he was a great horseman.
Her uncle found his quails first – he was a good tracker – and had shot down a few before she even found a duck to shoot. After he had shot down a couple fat deer, he rode back to Jennelynn. Jennelynn felt a little bad about killing the ducks – her lessons with the holy sisters had preached about respecting the world that the gods had created. Stop being ridiculous, she told herself. We all have to eat. Does the bear ever feel shame at killing the deer? Why should I be any different? When her uncle returned, he helped her draw the ducks closer by throwing bread crumbs into the water – at that, Jennelynn couldn’t help but feel wretchedly guilty – and helped her aim. She hesitated for only a few moments before setting her jaw firmly. Jennelynn did not want to disgrace herself in front of Uncle Brynden. She shot down three ducks, and that was enough to please him.
They brought their killings back to the camp. Jennelynn noticed that her uncle kept glancing back over his shoulder. She crept behind the oak tree at the camp and listened as Brynden spoke with one of his knights, Ser Robb Graves, and Ser Cayne Mooton of the Kingsguard.
“I wish I had brought Shadow and Titan with me,” she heard Brynden say in a low voice. Shadow and Titan were his wolfhounds, Jennelynn knew. Shadow was the smaller one, a fierce, black hellhound. Titan was an enormous beast, more direwolf than dog, and inspired terror in people.
“Was something amiss, my lord?” That was Ser Robb’s voice.
“There were some unfamiliar tracks in the mud around the lake,” Brynden said. “Fresh tracks. There’s a village nearby, but I didn’t see anyone near the lake. I’ve half a mind to have us pack up and ride away right now.”
“The men are tired and hungry,” Ser Cayne said. “And fresh tracks in the mud don’t mean anything. It’s a freshwater lake, and the peasants need it. No doubt some farm boys were fishing there earlier today.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Uncle Brynden answered, but he sound doubtful. “Ser Robb, set men to watch the area while we eat. Change the sentries regularly so that all of them get a chance to eat.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Eventually, the company finished luncheon cleaned up camp and saddled their horses, which had been fed, watered and rested. Ser Cayne helped Jennelynn and her maid into their saddles. The sunlight was bright and warm, and Jennelynn had eaten well, but she kept glancing at her uncle as he rode beside her. Stop worrying, she told herself. Even if some robbers attack us, what can they possibly do against these men? Uncle Brynden was right; she had no reason to fear.
Trying to distract herself, she asked Brynden, “What other news is there from the city, uncle?”
He smiled down at her. “Well, your mother has arranged for Elinor’s wedding to happen next month – you will be sailing for Braavos with your mother and Cyrenna within a week.”
“Oh,” Jennelynn said flatly. She was not particularly thrilled at the idea of being shipped back to Braavos, even if it meant seeing Elinor again. Besides, she noticed something in his words. “Won’t you be coming with us, uncle?”
“Unfortunately, no. The King needs me here. But I promise you, I shall be able to attend your wedding, my lady.” His voice was suddenly sober.
“What?” Jennelynn said slowly.
“You have been betrothed to the Prince of Dorne,” Uncle Brynden said. “Horas Martell.”
“Him?” Jennelynn said, horrified. Her voice was low, but she noticed a couple of knights glance her way. Ser Cayne rode silently on her other side, eyes straight ahead, but she knew he was listening to everything. “The Crow’s son? His parents were…”
“Traitors and murderers, like every other great House,” Brynden finished. “I know.”
“But he’s a Dornishman…”
“So are Lady Yronwood and Lord Wyl, who are good friends of our family,” her uncle said, a little sternly. Jennelynn knew that when he said “our family”, he meant their branch of the Royce clan. “Dorne was the only kingdom that did not rebel against your father in the last war, Jennelynn. The King’s rule is not as strong as it appears. Besides, Prince Horas might be the wealthiest lord in Nine Kingdoms. Your father needs him.”
“And I’m the coin he pays with?”
“Of course you are,” Brynden said. “Your sister Elinor was married to that Braavosi whoreson for the same reason. Do you think your mother was happy about it? Dorne and Braavos have an ugly history with the Iron Throne, but they are rich and the Iron Throne is poor. That is why we make alliances like this, dear Jennelynn. I am surprised that you did not expect it. You’re a bright girl – far more than your sisters. Your mother thinks that only you would be able to handle the Dornish court. She would never have betrothed Cyrenna to the Prince of Dorne.”
The compliment mollified her, though his slightly sharp words made her wince inwardly. “The Dornish are pleasure-loving and treacherous, my friend Adalee told me.”
Uncle Brynden laughed. “People love to make up wild rumors. The Dornish are people like you and me, my dear. You had a Dornish tutor at Storm’s End, didn’t you? A nobleman?”
“Yes,” Jennelynn stifled a giggle. “Maester Villiers. His grandfather was Lord Allyrion of Godsgrace. Villiers is very cold and haughty and scholarly.” She couldn’t help but grin at the idea of Villiers being a sensual, pleasure-loving ladies’ man.
“I’m afraid the Dornish have stiff people, cold people, ugly people and pious people in their ranks, just as we do. And since the Dornish wars, they have been much less eager to rebel. Too many of their leaders have died.”
“But there must be some truth to the rumors,” Jennelynn persisted. “Rumors don’t just spring from nowhere.”
“There is some truth,” her uncle admitted. “Certainly they have a culture where women have some freedom to…dress as they like and take what lovers they please. There is a strong Rhoynar influence in that kingdom. A man’s mistress has special status which must be recognized by others - she is held in high esteem, but beneath the wife.”
“Prince Horas will never take a mistress after I marry him,” Jennelynn said vehemently. “We have a custom in the Stormlands too. Hack off a man’s head if he cheats on a princess.”
“Do you really?” her uncle said, laughing.
“Not yet,” Jennelynn said, drawing herself up. “But I would create it, so to speak.”
“I am sure you would,” he replied, still highly amused. “In any case, you needn’t worry about Prince Horas yet. You are just twelve years old, and your mother and Prince Horas have agreed to wait until you are a little older.”
Jennelynn was relieved. She had dreaded being married off at the age of thirteen, like poor Elinor. It was a little frightening – she would have to leave her father’s indulgence and protection to a stranger that she did not know. “How old is he?”
“He’s in his twenties,” Uncle Brynden said. “And rather good-looking. I think you’ll like him.”
“Oh, stop teasing, uncle,” she said, but she couldn’t help but blush a little.
Night was falling. Brynden ordered that the company halt and set up camp for the night. Two of her knights set up her tent, and her maid fetched water from a nearby stream to heat up for washing. When it was ready, Jennelynn washed her face and allowed the maid to undress her. The men were eating outside, but Jennelynn was not hungry. She just wanted to sleep.
Suddenly she heard a horse whinny loudly outside, and a few other horses joined the alarm. Someone swore loudly. “Find Lord Royce!” came a yell. “Mount up, mount up! Swords, men!” There was the sound of armor clanging into place, being dropped, and men running. Jennelynn’s maid hurried outside to see what was happening. Without waiting for the girl to come back, Jennelynn seized her white woolen robe and pulled it over her shift, belting it firmly and pulling on her boots.
When she emerged from her tent, she saw mounted knights mounting up and charging, pulling out their swords. A brief glimpse was all she had. Someone grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her back into the tent. Jennelynn opened her mouth to scream, but a heavy hand clamped over it.
“Shh, my lady, it’s me,” It was Ser Cayne Mooton’s voice. “Stay inside. I will be with you.”
Jennelynn pushed his hand away and turned to looking at the white knight. “What’s happening, Ser Cayne? Where is my uncle?”
“We were surprised under the cover of darkness,” Ser Cayne said grimly. “A group of bandits killed two of our sentries and rode into the camp while men were eating and resting. They were trying to get to you. Don’t worry, my lady, Lord Brynden will take care of them.”
“Robbers? Are they the same Braavosi mercenaries that my uncle was talking about?”
“We think so. There seem to be about twenty or thirty of them.The knights have gone after them; they’re in the woods. Come with me, quickly. Do you have a darker travelling cloak? We can’t stay in your tent until it’s safe again.”
Jennelynn nodded and shrugged out of her robe, not caring if Ser Cayne saw her in her sleeping shift, and then her maid came rushing back in to help dress her. Ser Cayne saddled their horses while she dressed, and when she was ready he lifted her into the saddle, pulled her maid up on his own horse, and said, “With me, my lady.”
They rode into the woods, in darkness, guided only by a sliver of moonlight. Jennelynn heard the sounds of swords clashing and horses’ hooves and whinnies quite nearby. “Up on that hill,” she said, seeing the end of the wood approaching. “We can see what’s happening up there.”
“My lady…”
“We can’t see anything in here, and I want to know what is happening to my uncle.” Without waiting for him to reply, she kicked her palfrey forward and urged her up the slope at a hard canter. She heard Ser Cayne cursing and coming after her.
The battle raged down below. Jennelynn stared in horror, fear and awe. When Ser Cayne came up behind her, he made no move to get her away; both of them stared, transfixed.
The mercenaries were ragged, but they were mounted and armed with swords – or rather, they had been mounted. The knights’ charge, with long lances, had killed many of the robbers, but others had avoided the lances. Some of them were locked in mounted combat with the knights, swords flashing as they pounded each other’s shields furiously. She saw a few knights dead on the ground, bloodied and crushed by horses. The robbers were getting organized under one leader; she could see that one man was directing them and protecting them.
Then her uncle emerged from the chaos, his golden-red destrier rearing and trumpeting a battle cry as another mounted robber attacked him. Her uncle delivered a blow with such violent force that he broke the man’s neck and knocked him from his horse. Then he dropped his lance, drew his sword and charged to protect one of the knights, who was being overwhelmed by four bandits on foot. He leaned down from the saddle to hack at the men, and soon had killed them. She heard Brynden shout, and the knights rallied under his orders. They came together in several formations, crowding the bandits and forcing them back down the slope, so that Brynden’s horsemen were higher up than the bandits were. She saw that many of the bandits were ready to give up and flee, but Brynden gave the order to charge. The ground shook as the knights galloped down the slope, swords ready. Her uncle was leading the charge, and she saw the smoky Valyrian sword Dark Sister held high in his hand. They said that the violent spirit of Lady Aranya was trapped in the sword, and that was what made Brynden such a ferocious man in battle…
Jennelynn covered her eyes as the knights rode down the mercenaries, slicing at them with swords. There was blood everywhere. Jennelynn was certain that she had seen someone’s intestines spill out. She felt like vomiting, but then she controlled herself. Slowly, she lowered her trembling hands and sat still and straight in her saddle. A lady should have more courage, she told herself. A lady should not be squeamish, like a little girl.
“That was efficient,” Ser Cayne said softly. “Brutal, but quick and efficient.”
“Let’s go,” Jennelynn said wearily. “We are safe now, I presume.”
They rode back to the camp slowly, and after a while the others came up – bloodied and scratched, but triumphant. Her uncle found her immediately and checked if she was all right.
“You rode well, uncle,” she said. “We were watching.”
He frowned. “I told Ser Cayne…”
“I wished to see how you were faring,” Jennelynn said. “Did you – did you kill all of them?” She felt a little frightened of him.
His face softened. “Battle is not something a child should ever see. I killed all of them except their leader, who surrendered at the end. I will take him back to King’s Landing to interrogate. I am sorry that you were in harm’s way, dear Jennelynn. Now come on, back up in your saddle. We’re going home.”
She obeyed quietly, still in shock from what she’d seen. Jennelynn couldn’t help but wonder if this was why Aunt Jeyne had sought refuge in a motherhouse – if she had sought safety from a cruel and dangerous world.
Results:
- Brynden gains Noteworthy in Archery
- Brynden gains Expert in Battle Command
She felt both relieved and a little sad. The thought of seeing her family again, and living comfortably, was wonderful – but she would miss her sad Aunt Jeyne, and some of the others at the motherhouse.
How she had hated it in the beginning! She wasn’t strong enough to carry big buckets or sacks of grain. Churning butter for hours made her arms burn, and she would feel faint. Blisters appeared on her hands and feet. In the cold dormitories she was shivering and miserable on her straw pallet. She had no idea how to bake bread, or light a fire, or wash her own clothes, but Jennelynn began to learn quickly when she saw that there was no other choice. And the farm girls spoke in such an unintelligible accent; she never understood what they were saying, and they never understood what she was saying. Most of them avoided her, and so she had nobody but Aunt Jeyne for company at first, though she slowly made friends later. She would miss Aunt Jeyne. Her godmother was kind and gentle and full of love…but also sadness. Jennelynn wished she could have done about it.
Now she blinked and came back from her daydreams. The riders were approaching fast, and now Jennelynn recognized them. Her uncle Brynden rode at the head, along with Ser Cayne Mooton, his white cloak fluttering behind him. Behind them were a group of Royce knights and two of her father's household knights. One knight held the royal standard high, and another knight held the banner of Brynden Royce, which flew a little lower than the royal stag.
“Princess Jennelynn,” her uncle said, reining in his golden-red stallion and bowing slightly from his saddle, as did Ser Cayne.
“Uncle,” Jennelynn replied. She acknowledged Ser Cayne with a smile. “It is good to see you. Is my mother well?” Jennelynn had heard about her mother’s miscarriage, to her horror.
“She has recovered,” Uncle Brynden said gently, turning his horse around to ride with. The fifty knights that had accompanied Jennelynn drew back slightly to allow Lord Brynden and Ser Cayne to ride at Jennelynn’s side. “And she awaits you eagerly. That was why she sent me to meet you on the highway and bring you home swiftly and safely.” He twinkled down at her. “How was your aunt Jeyne? Were you good to her?”
“We had a good time together,” Jennelynn said honestly. “And I shall visit her again, as often as I can. But for now I am eager to come home. You have come very far from the city to meet me, uncle.”
“And with good reason,” Uncle Brynden said. “Of late there has been a spate of killings and robberies in this area, and we believe that a group of Braavosi mercenaries are behind it. They have formed a band of thieves – violent, depraved thieves, it seems. Don’t worry,” he added cheerfully, seeing her face. “You have nothing to worry about. They only attack small villages and poor travelers – they will take one look at your escort and run the other way. You have fifty knights with you, and I have brought ten more.”
And he began talking pleasantly of things that were happening in the city, and asking her about her time at the motherhouse. Uncle Brynden was a good listener – he listened attentively to all her stories, and Jennelynn was surprised to find that he was very knowledgeable about how septries and motherhouses worked. He was funny and teasing and grave by turns, and Jennelynn enjoyed passing the time by telling him about the motherhouse. She liked Brynden – he always had a kind word to say, or some teasing compliment which thrilled her.
When they stopped under a large oak for lunch, Uncle Brynden took one look at the dried fruits, bread and cheese that the holy sisters had sent Jennelynn and snorted. “We’ll have none of that,” he said. “How are you with the bow, little princess?”
“Er…I know how it works,” Jennelynn said. “But I fear I do not have much practice.”
“As it happens, my own archery has gone a little rusty. You are twelve and still young – there’s no time like now to learn,” her uncle said briskly, taking a quiver of arrows from one of his retainers. “We shall hunt our lunch together, just you and me. What do you feel like eating?”
Jennelynn laughed. “Something that does not run too fast, perhaps?”
Uncle Brynden grinned. “We shall hunt some birds, then. There is a small lake nearby. Bring me a few fat ducks, and then perhaps I will share my quail with you.”
Before riding out to hunt, Brynden took her into a secluded clearing and set up a target. They both practiced, and Jennelynn was surprised to find that her uncle had really meant it when he said he had gone rusty. But she noticed that he taught himself; soon he was explaining to her how to sight down an arrow’s length, close on eye, and aim at the target. His arrows hit closer and closer to the mark, and when she followed his advice, she found that she had the same results. Soon afterwards, her uncle gave her a leg up into the saddle and mounted his own horse, and they rode out. At a canter it was harder to aim, but with some practice and concentration, Jennelynn almost hit a deer – but it sprang away. Uncle Brynden had a little more luck, but perhaps because his horse was better suited to this, and he was a great horseman.
Her uncle found his quails first – he was a good tracker – and had shot down a few before she even found a duck to shoot. After he had shot down a couple fat deer, he rode back to Jennelynn. Jennelynn felt a little bad about killing the ducks – her lessons with the holy sisters had preached about respecting the world that the gods had created. Stop being ridiculous, she told herself. We all have to eat. Does the bear ever feel shame at killing the deer? Why should I be any different? When her uncle returned, he helped her draw the ducks closer by throwing bread crumbs into the water – at that, Jennelynn couldn’t help but feel wretchedly guilty – and helped her aim. She hesitated for only a few moments before setting her jaw firmly. Jennelynn did not want to disgrace herself in front of Uncle Brynden. She shot down three ducks, and that was enough to please him.
They brought their killings back to the camp. Jennelynn noticed that her uncle kept glancing back over his shoulder. She crept behind the oak tree at the camp and listened as Brynden spoke with one of his knights, Ser Robb Graves, and Ser Cayne Mooton of the Kingsguard.
“I wish I had brought Shadow and Titan with me,” she heard Brynden say in a low voice. Shadow and Titan were his wolfhounds, Jennelynn knew. Shadow was the smaller one, a fierce, black hellhound. Titan was an enormous beast, more direwolf than dog, and inspired terror in people.
“Was something amiss, my lord?” That was Ser Robb’s voice.
“There were some unfamiliar tracks in the mud around the lake,” Brynden said. “Fresh tracks. There’s a village nearby, but I didn’t see anyone near the lake. I’ve half a mind to have us pack up and ride away right now.”
“The men are tired and hungry,” Ser Cayne said. “And fresh tracks in the mud don’t mean anything. It’s a freshwater lake, and the peasants need it. No doubt some farm boys were fishing there earlier today.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Uncle Brynden answered, but he sound doubtful. “Ser Robb, set men to watch the area while we eat. Change the sentries regularly so that all of them get a chance to eat.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Eventually, the company finished luncheon cleaned up camp and saddled their horses, which had been fed, watered and rested. Ser Cayne helped Jennelynn and her maid into their saddles. The sunlight was bright and warm, and Jennelynn had eaten well, but she kept glancing at her uncle as he rode beside her. Stop worrying, she told herself. Even if some robbers attack us, what can they possibly do against these men? Uncle Brynden was right; she had no reason to fear.
Trying to distract herself, she asked Brynden, “What other news is there from the city, uncle?”
He smiled down at her. “Well, your mother has arranged for Elinor’s wedding to happen next month – you will be sailing for Braavos with your mother and Cyrenna within a week.”
“Oh,” Jennelynn said flatly. She was not particularly thrilled at the idea of being shipped back to Braavos, even if it meant seeing Elinor again. Besides, she noticed something in his words. “Won’t you be coming with us, uncle?”
“Unfortunately, no. The King needs me here. But I promise you, I shall be able to attend your wedding, my lady.” His voice was suddenly sober.
“What?” Jennelynn said slowly.
“You have been betrothed to the Prince of Dorne,” Uncle Brynden said. “Horas Martell.”
“Him?” Jennelynn said, horrified. Her voice was low, but she noticed a couple of knights glance her way. Ser Cayne rode silently on her other side, eyes straight ahead, but she knew he was listening to everything. “The Crow’s son? His parents were…”
“Traitors and murderers, like every other great House,” Brynden finished. “I know.”
“But he’s a Dornishman…”
“So are Lady Yronwood and Lord Wyl, who are good friends of our family,” her uncle said, a little sternly. Jennelynn knew that when he said “our family”, he meant their branch of the Royce clan. “Dorne was the only kingdom that did not rebel against your father in the last war, Jennelynn. The King’s rule is not as strong as it appears. Besides, Prince Horas might be the wealthiest lord in Nine Kingdoms. Your father needs him.”
“And I’m the coin he pays with?”
“Of course you are,” Brynden said. “Your sister Elinor was married to that Braavosi whoreson for the same reason. Do you think your mother was happy about it? Dorne and Braavos have an ugly history with the Iron Throne, but they are rich and the Iron Throne is poor. That is why we make alliances like this, dear Jennelynn. I am surprised that you did not expect it. You’re a bright girl – far more than your sisters. Your mother thinks that only you would be able to handle the Dornish court. She would never have betrothed Cyrenna to the Prince of Dorne.”
The compliment mollified her, though his slightly sharp words made her wince inwardly. “The Dornish are pleasure-loving and treacherous, my friend Adalee told me.”
Uncle Brynden laughed. “People love to make up wild rumors. The Dornish are people like you and me, my dear. You had a Dornish tutor at Storm’s End, didn’t you? A nobleman?”
“Yes,” Jennelynn stifled a giggle. “Maester Villiers. His grandfather was Lord Allyrion of Godsgrace. Villiers is very cold and haughty and scholarly.” She couldn’t help but grin at the idea of Villiers being a sensual, pleasure-loving ladies’ man.
“I’m afraid the Dornish have stiff people, cold people, ugly people and pious people in their ranks, just as we do. And since the Dornish wars, they have been much less eager to rebel. Too many of their leaders have died.”
“But there must be some truth to the rumors,” Jennelynn persisted. “Rumors don’t just spring from nowhere.”
“There is some truth,” her uncle admitted. “Certainly they have a culture where women have some freedom to…dress as they like and take what lovers they please. There is a strong Rhoynar influence in that kingdom. A man’s mistress has special status which must be recognized by others - she is held in high esteem, but beneath the wife.”
“Prince Horas will never take a mistress after I marry him,” Jennelynn said vehemently. “We have a custom in the Stormlands too. Hack off a man’s head if he cheats on a princess.”
“Do you really?” her uncle said, laughing.
“Not yet,” Jennelynn said, drawing herself up. “But I would create it, so to speak.”
“I am sure you would,” he replied, still highly amused. “In any case, you needn’t worry about Prince Horas yet. You are just twelve years old, and your mother and Prince Horas have agreed to wait until you are a little older.”
Jennelynn was relieved. She had dreaded being married off at the age of thirteen, like poor Elinor. It was a little frightening – she would have to leave her father’s indulgence and protection to a stranger that she did not know. “How old is he?”
“He’s in his twenties,” Uncle Brynden said. “And rather good-looking. I think you’ll like him.”
“Oh, stop teasing, uncle,” she said, but she couldn’t help but blush a little.
Night was falling. Brynden ordered that the company halt and set up camp for the night. Two of her knights set up her tent, and her maid fetched water from a nearby stream to heat up for washing. When it was ready, Jennelynn washed her face and allowed the maid to undress her. The men were eating outside, but Jennelynn was not hungry. She just wanted to sleep.
Suddenly she heard a horse whinny loudly outside, and a few other horses joined the alarm. Someone swore loudly. “Find Lord Royce!” came a yell. “Mount up, mount up! Swords, men!” There was the sound of armor clanging into place, being dropped, and men running. Jennelynn’s maid hurried outside to see what was happening. Without waiting for the girl to come back, Jennelynn seized her white woolen robe and pulled it over her shift, belting it firmly and pulling on her boots.
When she emerged from her tent, she saw mounted knights mounting up and charging, pulling out their swords. A brief glimpse was all she had. Someone grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her back into the tent. Jennelynn opened her mouth to scream, but a heavy hand clamped over it.
“Shh, my lady, it’s me,” It was Ser Cayne Mooton’s voice. “Stay inside. I will be with you.”
Jennelynn pushed his hand away and turned to looking at the white knight. “What’s happening, Ser Cayne? Where is my uncle?”
“We were surprised under the cover of darkness,” Ser Cayne said grimly. “A group of bandits killed two of our sentries and rode into the camp while men were eating and resting. They were trying to get to you. Don’t worry, my lady, Lord Brynden will take care of them.”
“Robbers? Are they the same Braavosi mercenaries that my uncle was talking about?”
“We think so. There seem to be about twenty or thirty of them.The knights have gone after them; they’re in the woods. Come with me, quickly. Do you have a darker travelling cloak? We can’t stay in your tent until it’s safe again.”
Jennelynn nodded and shrugged out of her robe, not caring if Ser Cayne saw her in her sleeping shift, and then her maid came rushing back in to help dress her. Ser Cayne saddled their horses while she dressed, and when she was ready he lifted her into the saddle, pulled her maid up on his own horse, and said, “With me, my lady.”
They rode into the woods, in darkness, guided only by a sliver of moonlight. Jennelynn heard the sounds of swords clashing and horses’ hooves and whinnies quite nearby. “Up on that hill,” she said, seeing the end of the wood approaching. “We can see what’s happening up there.”
“My lady…”
“We can’t see anything in here, and I want to know what is happening to my uncle.” Without waiting for him to reply, she kicked her palfrey forward and urged her up the slope at a hard canter. She heard Ser Cayne cursing and coming after her.
The battle raged down below. Jennelynn stared in horror, fear and awe. When Ser Cayne came up behind her, he made no move to get her away; both of them stared, transfixed.
The mercenaries were ragged, but they were mounted and armed with swords – or rather, they had been mounted. The knights’ charge, with long lances, had killed many of the robbers, but others had avoided the lances. Some of them were locked in mounted combat with the knights, swords flashing as they pounded each other’s shields furiously. She saw a few knights dead on the ground, bloodied and crushed by horses. The robbers were getting organized under one leader; she could see that one man was directing them and protecting them.
Then her uncle emerged from the chaos, his golden-red destrier rearing and trumpeting a battle cry as another mounted robber attacked him. Her uncle delivered a blow with such violent force that he broke the man’s neck and knocked him from his horse. Then he dropped his lance, drew his sword and charged to protect one of the knights, who was being overwhelmed by four bandits on foot. He leaned down from the saddle to hack at the men, and soon had killed them. She heard Brynden shout, and the knights rallied under his orders. They came together in several formations, crowding the bandits and forcing them back down the slope, so that Brynden’s horsemen were higher up than the bandits were. She saw that many of the bandits were ready to give up and flee, but Brynden gave the order to charge. The ground shook as the knights galloped down the slope, swords ready. Her uncle was leading the charge, and she saw the smoky Valyrian sword Dark Sister held high in his hand. They said that the violent spirit of Lady Aranya was trapped in the sword, and that was what made Brynden such a ferocious man in battle…
Jennelynn covered her eyes as the knights rode down the mercenaries, slicing at them with swords. There was blood everywhere. Jennelynn was certain that she had seen someone’s intestines spill out. She felt like vomiting, but then she controlled herself. Slowly, she lowered her trembling hands and sat still and straight in her saddle. A lady should have more courage, she told herself. A lady should not be squeamish, like a little girl.
“That was efficient,” Ser Cayne said softly. “Brutal, but quick and efficient.”
“Let’s go,” Jennelynn said wearily. “We are safe now, I presume.”
They rode back to the camp slowly, and after a while the others came up – bloodied and scratched, but triumphant. Her uncle found her immediately and checked if she was all right.
“You rode well, uncle,” she said. “We were watching.”
He frowned. “I told Ser Cayne…”
“I wished to see how you were faring,” Jennelynn said. “Did you – did you kill all of them?” She felt a little frightened of him.
His face softened. “Battle is not something a child should ever see. I killed all of them except their leader, who surrendered at the end. I will take him back to King’s Landing to interrogate. I am sorry that you were in harm’s way, dear Jennelynn. Now come on, back up in your saddle. We’re going home.”
She obeyed quietly, still in shock from what she’d seen. Jennelynn couldn’t help but wonder if this was why Aunt Jeyne had sought refuge in a motherhouse – if she had sought safety from a cruel and dangerous world.
Results:
- Brynden gains Noteworthy in Archery
- Brynden gains Expert in Battle Command