May 4th - Early Morning Who: Lyanora Stark, Myrwin Martell What: A training session turns into something more when Lya decides to test her steel. Where: Red Keep's yard When: May 4, Early Morning Status: Closed/Log Rating: PG13 (Violence)
Normally, in King's Landing, the shouts of thirty or so excited Dornishmen could be considered anywhere from a beer sale at the local tavern to a full-fledged riot. But in this case it was neither - the Dornish honor guards for the Queen and the First Prince were merely keeping their skills sharp in a little contest of skills.
Nevermind the pot of gold for the winner, and never mind Myrwin himself sitting in a fairly elaborate chair overseeing the whole thing, occasionally cat-calling points and suggestions in a tone that could blister paint.
Lya readjusted her braid. Ned was still sleeping, and when he did wake up she was counting on Toria to keep him out of trouble and make sure he did at least some of his studies. Her father had made sure none of his children were little more than dumb swordsmen, and she'd have it be the same with her son.
The shouting and general commotion distracted her from her own practice though, and against the warning of her one of her brother's men who had stayed behind to 'protect' her, she went to see. Her would-be guard close on her heels.
It looked like a contest, as in there were men whacking pointed objects at each other, but most of them smelled drunk or hung-over. Lya could beat most of these men easily. So this was what passed for skill in the south.
The first round was almost completed by the time Lya poked her head in - some sat by under the shade of a nearby tree, nursing bruises and sprains. One poor man had his entire arm bandaged - probably broken to boot. Myrwin hadn't noticed Lya yet, but his constant exhortation that "I've seen little girls who fight better than you!" could hardly be endearing him. Of course, at least a few of the contestants were women, and so far they were holding their own.
The fact that there were women fighters only encouraged her next move as she wove her way to the front of the crowd. "If that's so, then why not let one more girl who does fight better than the lot of you in?" she asked. Her brother's knight didn't say a word to stop her, though his face was resting in the palm of his hand at the moment.
It was just as well, if he had said it was a bad idea, she wouldn't have cared.
Myrwin blinked. "Better clean up your acts, you dogs. We have ourselves a real laaaadeeeeee." he taunted. "Entry fee's five dragons." he said. "You get hurt, it's your problem. Nobody's looking to kill but it _is_ a violent sport." he pointed out blandly. "We play for keeps in the South."
Her companion handed Lya her pouch and she pulled out the entry fee before handing the pouch back to the knight.
"I do a good deal more with this needle than sew," she said simply, ignoring the way in which he had said 'lady.' He was hardly anyone's example of a Lord. Of course, anyone hoping to live up to that example had to live up to the example of her late Father. Which were large boots to fill indeed. "I think I can handle it."
"Your funeral." he said with a shrug. "You go last." he said, then hopped off his chair to grab a spear. "Who's next?" he bellowed.
"I go last?" she muttered, "What sort of game is this?" That was hardly fair. She hadn't paid to wait to the end and have to deal with the smell of sweaty Dornish men.
"A bad one," the knight said firmly, "You shouldn't be doing this milady, if anything happens to you, your brother-"
"Will won't find out, because nothing will happen," she said simply, "I'm more talented than most these men."
"It's not the ones you can best that worry me, milady," he said gravely. "It's the ones you can't," he said, his eyes resting on the 'Lord' Martell. Lya snorted at that as the next challenger came forward.
The bout between the Lord Martell and one of his skirmishers ended in under thirty seconds. There was a blur of motion, an attack, a counter, then the skirmisher was laying on his side in the dust, gasping for air. "Rushed me a bit." Myrwin said pleasantly, helping the man to his feet. "And watch that stab - you're leaving yourself open while you attack. Good way to die." he commented.
"He's right," said her brother's knight. Lya shot him a look.
"You be quiet," she said, but had to admit that it had been fast. Almost too fast to watch. But she had been watching fights for longer than she had been allowed to carry a sword. Either up close or hidden from a distance, but she knew how to study a fighter.
Everything else came in the last ten years of training, making up for what most men up North had been learning since they were old enough to walk. She didn't often show it, but she was acutely aware of her own skill level and how much she still had to make up for. Shock value wouldn't always work.
Meaning against that rake in a lord's clothing she'd have to wear him out, out maneuver him. And from that little bit it didn't look as if it was going to be easy. Unless, as some people were wont to, he took her as a total and complete joke.
The tournament went on, with another half-dozen bouts before it was Lya's turn. Her opponent was another woman, a hard angular woman from the deep deserts of Dorne. She kept her face wrapped in some sort of a veil and preferred the short spear and a buckler to a sword. She strode into the middle of the sparring ring and waited patiently.
A spear, even a short one, gave someone a ranged advantage, Lya noted as she stepped forward after getting a buckler. And given she was fighting a woman her gender lost its advantage.
This however didn't mean she wasn't ready. Her sparring earlier had her stretched and she was more than ready after watching the last few fights. Eyes the color of ice covered lakes studied the woman in front of as Lya assumed a defensive stance. When there was an opening, she'd press that.
The woman leaped into the fray, shouting without words and stabbing down with her spear, looking to drive its blunted tip into Lya's belly. The stab was a strong move, perfectly executed, but the warrioress was overconfident and disrespectful of the hazards and the advantages of a sword.
What a waste of air, Lya thought about the shout as she side stepped the attack, pressing the advantage of a totally open side now that the other woman was more than close enough to present.
Three moves, she calculated, if that. And here she thought another woman would take her seriously. Wind might be a needle of a sword, but it was perfectly weighted and balanced for her, which made Lya's moves even more efficient.
The Dornish spearwoman took the blow to her side and tried to roll with the blow to lessen its severity, but the force of it wound up forcing her to the dirt. It took her a moment to scramble to her feet but this time the look in her eyes was far more calculating. She jabbed with the spear experimentally, looking for a blow to the throat. Her breath came raggedly, as if she was having trouble breathing.
Breathing heavily always made someone move slower, and Lya had always been light on her feet. When Ned's father and Will had started teaching her how to fight everything focused on her being faster and quicker. Which was the case here.
At least she had taught the other woman some respect for her blade, so the knock which was delivered after glancing the spear off her shield was to the other woman's shoulder and by no means gentle.
After all, Lya reasoned, a spear to the gut or the throat would've been quite nasty indeed. She'd repay intent in kind.
The woman kept up the assault, still breathing a touch raggedly. Her spear flickered out like a flame, looking for vulnerable points to pink the Northron girl.
A couple of the mad slashes came a bit too close for comfort, which reminded Lya she'd have to work on her footing and that uncomfortable spot on her left side that always managed to slip out of her attention.
It almost got her a cut on the cheek. She moved fast, treating it like a dance where the goal was to get in close to steal a kiss from your partner. Only in this case the 'kiss' would be replace with a sword to the skin of the neck.
When it was over, she was grinning, it had been fun, almost worth the entry fee on its own. "Do you always waste so many moves?" she asked the spear-girl.
Her only response was a spat that just barely missed Lya's foot. Myrwin, who had watched the whole thing, had a vaguely thoughtful look on his face. "Winner, the Northron Wolf." he announced with a laugh. "Next round begins in five, dogs." he told his assembled soldiers. "Rest quickly."
Lya didn't even dignify the woman's behavior with a response as she walked out of the ring a grin on her face, which did look rather wolfish. She put Wind back in its place.
"That was fun," she said to her brother's man, who nodded once, a slight smile on his face.
After the five-minute rest, the next round started. This time the quality of the combatants was much better. The best - besides Myrwin himself - was a hard-looking big man who went through his opponents like a hot axe through butter. Soon enough it became Lya's turn again, this time to face an older man who favored twin axes which he moved with contemptuous ease.
This would be a bit harder. Lya knew that this man wouldn't be angered into wasting moves. He was older, so perhaps she could outlast him. She stepped into the ring after making sure her hair was tightly tied. Having it come loose while fighting was bad. She didn't need it blocking her vision.
Again, she held a defensive posture and waited. Two weapons meant she would have to watch from both sides. And stay on her toes.
The man loosely twirled one axe, then he slid just a little closer to Lya. His eyes, looking flat and dead, never left hers. He looked like someone had stitched together a corpse and animated it with sheer malice.
She held his gaze, not flinching, though his appearance nauseated her. She kept her eyes as cold as winter. It was funny to think that staring contests held out of boredom with her younger sister actually could be effectively applied.
This man moved like a snake with the way he slid in so Lya resolved to take him out fast. She let out a breath to stead herself and moved. The goal was to get rid of 'two' axes which meant she had to damage or get HIM to damage one of his wrists. You didn't give a snake time to strike. She knew that much.
Then, with very little warning, he struck. Twice. One axe high, coming in at an oblique angle, the other one low, looking for her thigh or her knee. It barely seemed like an exertion to him.
Her shield went to block the high axe. A sword couldn't stop an axe, so Lya didn't try. Moving back would be disastrous here, so twisted to move in and too the side opposite of that arm, getting out of the arc of the lower axe that way.
The other axe still hit the shield radiated. The blow through her shoulder with a ringing, vibrating pain that was hard not to vocalize but she managed, her sword slashing towards his midsection.
She wasn't going to be stomped on before she had a chance to pink the grin off of Myrwin Martell's face for the insult of having to get dressed in front of him. That gave her determination. That alone should be enough, she thought.
The axeman was an experienced veteran of the weapon and he used his momentum to good use. He stepped towards Lya again, both axes still whirling about, using the momentum of the earlier failed strike to give this one more power. One axe went for her midsection while the other looked to bury itself between her eyes.
Lya angled the shield this time, block the blow to the face, moving the shield to send that axe off at another angle with all the force she could muster. To avoid the other axe she had to move back or end up with a good part of her stomach missing. The result was a glancing blow, cutting fabric and pinking the skin on her stomach. It could've been worse.
After a pause she moved to bash the wrist closest to her with her shield. Hard.
The axeman kept the axe, but he clearly felt the blow. He attacked with his free axe, a vicious slash that, if it hit, would spill her guts to the dust. Either that or he was trying to turn her decent shirt into a halter.
Lya moved to block that one in the same fashion, sending it off at an angle that would be extremely uncomfortable to his wrist at best. She could already feel blood from the pinking blow she had taken early. She wasn't looking to lose clothing or more blood.
If she twisted Patchwork's wrists enough, using those axes would become really hard indeed.
The axeman kept up the pressure, but still only using the single axe. The blows seemed to come a little slower now, not quite as quickly. But his facial expression never changed and his relentless pace never slackened.
Lya blocked again, once more using her shield to send the axe in a different odd and uncomfortable. She also stabbed with her sword towards the only arm he was using.
Blocking was less painful when she used his own momentum against him, but she was still feeling it. Her pale face only had determination on it though.
He moved like a snake, slithering away from her strikes. Now he returned to double-axe strikes since she'd committed to an offensive blow. Both blades whistled out, high and low.
They were back to this again. Lya blocked the lower one, putting force into it, hoping to twist his wrist. The higher one came too close for comfort as she moved in to miss the blade, and held her sword up, inviting his wrist (and not the axe) to hit her blade as his arm came in closer.
She was close enough to come to the conclusion that he was in sore need of a bath.
The wrist was partially protected by a boiled-leather bracer, but even still her blade bit and pinked the axeman. To make matters even better for her, he lost the axe in that hand and came close to losing the other axe as well.
Lya brought her shield around to bash his face. She wasn't feeling like playing nice anymore. She wasn't the best puncher in the world, but hitting someone in the face with a buckler was a nasty move no matter how you looked at it.
The axeman was just a touch slow getting out of the way and the shield-bash to his skull was enough to stun him, if not to knock him down.
Another one quickly followed, you didn't trust a snake that was still able to slither. Lya wasn't going to kill the man, but she'd happily knock his wits from him for a day or so.
And that one was enough to send a crimson waterfall out of his face and spraying onto her before he hit the dust, unconscious. "Nicely done!" Myrwin said appreciatively. "Pity about the mess." he said with a hint of a grin.
She'd need a new shirt. At least this one was dark; it'd keep the blood from showing up too much. "It'll wash," she said, stepping back out of the ring, a little grin on her face. So that was what her Father had meant all those years ago when he talked about a shield being as much of a weapon as a sword.
Even if he hadn't it was a well applied lesson she thought. Once she was back at her Knight he gave her a look. "You're cut," he said quietly.
"It's nothing. I got worse attempting to learn how to sew," she returned. That was intense. The next fight would be even more so. But she was having fun.
The next few bouts were just as intense, if not more. Myrwin kept his guard highly-trained and they were putting their skills on the line for honor and gold today. Perhaps the only set of deadlier troops would be the gold cloaks themselves. Myrwin re-descended from his judging chair to fight a young wildcat warrior. Her shrieks echoed off the stone walls like a banshee's wail, but Myrwin put her down and out with a particularly nasty set of moves with his spear.
These women fighters had sparked Lya's curiosity (and pride) at first, but the way they kept screaming changed her mind. It was a waste of breath and air to spend it screaming, especially when it did nothing to rattle who they were fighting.
Watching Myrwin and the rest of his fighters she knew that when she did get to him, she would have to really work to remove the smirk from his face. If she had to claw it off with her fingers, she'd do it. She had to admit though; the man knew what he was doing.
One of them limped over to where Lya stood with her sworn man. "You fight well, for a Northron." she said, her accent a softer, more civilized tone. "I did not think women fought in this land."
"Normally they don't," Lya said honestly, taking the compliment in stride, "I had to pester my brothers and Father for years before I could pick up a sword." It had been a fight earning the right to learn how to fight.
"It's... uplifting to see women in your ranks," she said, honestly. "You all fight fiercely." Though she could do without all the screaming.
"In Dorne, any woman - or man - can take up the spear if they choose." she said, as if stating that water was wet and the sky was blue. "But why do you make no warcry?" she asked confusedly.
Lya raised an eyebrow, "Well, I suppose since most men are distracted enough by the way I dress, that trying to rattle them even more could do just the opposite," she said. "Also, the way I learned to fight it isn't very common to cry out." Unless it was a triumphant 'Ha!' she mused. There were always plenty of those.
The Donishwoman shrugged. "No wonder you northrons always lose." she said with a disturbingly feral grin. "You come to war on great shaggy beasts and cover yourselves in metal, and the sun bakes you to a crisp." she said with a laugh. "Will you be at the feast tonight?" she asked.
"I will be," Lya said. After all, she had to make a show of fealty until they 'let' her leave. At which point she'd ride into Winterfell and strangle Kaelyn. And William wouldn't be able to stop her.
She shook that thought aside, "I wouldn't miss it." If only because her son was looking forward to it with wide eyed excitement.
"Good. You will sit with us." she said confidently. "We will show you how a Dornish-woman feasts!" she crowed. "And tell me, are all the scullions female?" she asked curiously. Her Princess's tastes may have run that way, but not hers.
Oh, no. Not hers.
Oh joy. She'd do it to give her son the experience. And miss being home with the starting snows and seeing your breath on the morning, "Most of them, but there are men too. Well, mostly boys," she said. She didn't know most of the servants and villains here. "My son would know them better." It was the way of children to friend the servants and get treats and other boons.
Like that puppy he was so besotted with.
She made a noncommittal noise. "We shall judge them and, if found pleasing, take them to bed." she said with a feral grin. "So exotic, northrons." she said with another grin. "But we will talk of boys later. We have a battle to win." she said, slapping her thighs as she stood up. "Die well, northron wolf." she said, then trotted back to her own people.
She looked back at her knight and mouthed 'take them to bed?' He looked like he was doing his damnedest not to laugh, a good thing as it would've earned him a hard elbow to the ribs.
These were, she decided, the strangest people.
"Stark!" Myrwin roared. "You're up." he said as he once again got off his chair and limbered up a little. "Ready to lose?" he taunted.
“If I were going to lose I would accept it with more than enough grace,” she said, taking care enough to stretch before walking forward, “I, however, do not plan on losing.”
"No one ever does. Yet there's always a winner and there's always at least one loser." he said, cracking his neck and reaching for his longspear. "And today it's your turn to lose."
Lya didn't snort or shake her head or disagree. She was smart enough to know this wasn't going to be an easy fight, but she had a slight to repay, and this was the way to do it. And certainly a lot more effective and less annoying than trying to slap someone. She held up her sword and watched him, ready to move the second she had to.
"We'll see about that."
"We shall." he said, taking up his spear and inducing it into a lazy spin as he studied her. He was far stronger, probably had more wind, and he definitely had more experience than she did on the battlefield. He wouldn't underestimate her based on her sex, and that was her best weapon of all. "Come, little girl, let's see how well you handle that thing. Just pretend it's a knitting needle." he jested as he slowly circled her, patiently waiting for his opportunity.
"I don't knit," Lya said dryly, circling the Dornish 'lord' for a moment before moving to get in striking range. This was a test to see how fast he was compared to this test of speed. She wa fully expecting to be knocked back, or slashed at.
Instead, Myrwin just slid backwards smoothly, staying tantalizing just out of reach of her sword - but well in reach of his longspear. "Of course you do." he said tauntingly. "Or are you just a complete failure of a northron woman?" he taunted.
Lya bristled, "Maybe I measure myself in a different way," she snapped. A woman shouldn't just only be some delicate creature hidden away and forced over needle work for hours, among other things. A shadow of her temper flickered in her eyes before she put it back where it belonged. She had to get in reach of her blade, within spitting distance to this contemptible ass, to make her point and her mark.
"You have been measured and found wanting." he taunted her, keeping his spear-point at the level of her eyes as he circled her. "So you try to play a man's game because you know you're a complete failure as a woman." he jeered. "Ridiculous. You can wear a man's clothes, pick up a man's sword, but that doesn't make you a man."
"I know I'm not a man," Lya returned, keeping his face and that spear point in sight, looking for a way in, an opening, and finding next to nothing. That vexed her as well. No real way to weave in, to pink him and be done with it, "And didn't I just best two of your people?" Men wasn't the right word, the first one had been an over confident woman.
"Go home, Stark. Go back to your son. Be a mother for him. By the Seven, I'll foster him if that's what you want. Give him what it means to be a man from a man, not from some Mummer's farce." he said, still looking for his opportunity. She was getting angry, which was good. Angry people tended to be sloppy, and sloppy people tended to get dead.
"You," Lya said darkly, "Foster my son. Not over my dead body," she said seriously. He had plenty of role models back home. Her brothers, her late father had been one. No, he didn't need a fatheaded Southeroner telling him what was 'manly.' Lya attempted to dart in, sword flashing.
Just the move he was hoping she'd make. He spear licked out like the tongue of a viper, batting her thrust aside and then, sidestepping and spinning, swatting her across her backside with the flat of the blade.
Lya's eyes widened but she bit her tongue to keep from crying out. She had some dignity, after all, something he seemed to be lacking. There had only been a couple of people she had ever let get away with something like that, and then purely out of jest. Regaining her footing, she lunged again. There was fire in her eyes.
He laughed at her. He actually paused to laugh at her. But when she lunged, he went from laughter to deadly serious. The flat of his blade whirled again and rapped her sharply on the underside of her arms, putting her in serious danger of losing her blade entirely. He spun as he struck, somehow managing to stick a leg betwixt hers, which made it difficult to put any proper movement into the lunge without tripping over him.
How it all went so... off so quickly she wasn't sure. She was confident in her skills, in her teachers and how she moved about. And she knew she was good, this was beyond that. Getting herself untangled ended up with her butt on the ground, just barely keeping her sword in her hands. The look up at him was toxic.
He stuck his tongue out at her and bowed as if they were at a courtly function. "House Stark, ladies and gentlemen!" he called out, to ribald applause from the Dornishmen.
That had Lya on her feet in an instant, lunging towards him, intent on doing some damage to him with her blade. If it was the last thing she did, she'd wipe that look off of his face.
He spun the spear again and moved out of the line of her charge, the spear-tip cutting deeply into her already-damaged shirt, cutting it almost scandalously high. He grinned at her again and held his spear ready. Soon enough it would be time to end this farce.
"You..." she couldn't think of any insults strong enough to really convey what she was feeling at that moment so she didn't try. Lya was fuming. She lunged again.
And now it was time to end this. He spun away again, but instead of a humiliating strike, he turned the spear so he wasn't using the flat of the blade anymore. Nor was he cutting cloth.
It wasn't a killing blow, nor did she loose any limbs, but as the blade cut through both fabric and flesh, she was reminded that she could have been at the feeling of the of getting cut, a nasty gash that missed her breasts, cutting above them, through shirt and bandage.
It hurt, she said nothing though, holding the fabric over her chest.
Myrwin didn't let us this time, choosing instead to press his advantage while the fool girl was trying to preserve her modesty and still fight at the same time.
It was impossible to hold her shirt in place and get out of the way, so she had to drop that, at least most of the bandages were in place. Getting out of the way though also required falling backwards with little grace. This was not right.
Myrwin pressed his advantage mercilessly, his spear flickering out again. Since she was on her back and off her balance, she had precious few options to defend herself. "Yield." Myrwin hissed at her, his spear poised to strike again.
Lya's eyes were dark as she looked up at him, "Fine," she spat.
He had to fight an almost sexual urge to give her a little something to remember him by. A pair of scars, for example. "Such a fine sport you are." he said, backing up so she could retake her feet. "A word of advice, Lya. A warrior who loses her head and gets angry is a warrior who loses her head." he said.
As she stood her man came forward and she had a cloak put around her. Saved her the staring of the others at things they simply weren't meant to see, "I never gave you permission to call me that," she said simply, coldly. It was vexing that he was right about the last. She had lost her temper.
"Right of conquest." he said blandly. "You're in a poor position to make demands, Stark." he pointed out. "I'm sure you and your man there will be taking your leave." he said, making it an order and not a suggestion.
"Let's go," Lya said to her knight, the last look she gave Martell was a dark and stormy look that showed exactly what she thought of him. And she was on her way with her blade put away, holding the cloak shut. Modesty was something she was going to keep.
He knew exactly what she thought of him. Grinning to himself, he turned to his troops. "All right, that's enough excitement for one day. As I am a generous prince, half the pot is yours. Go get stinking drunk, fondle a servant, have some fun." he said. "You get yourselves arrested you can rot in jail." he told his people.