[ASOIAF/Kushiel's Legacy] In Cassiel's Name (1/2)
Title: In Cassiel's Name
Rating: PG
Word count: 1876
Summary: Melisandre of Asshai takes on Melisande Shahrizai. Jon Snow takes on Joscelin Verreuil. Davos Seaworth takes on being awesome.
Notes: Originally posted to valyrian_forged.
"They’re sparring in the yard,” reported Devan, breathless from climbing the stairs to the king’s solar two at a time.
“Who is sparring in the yard?” said Davos.
“Lord Snow and the foreign swordsman. Come quickly, Father. His Grace is asking for you.”
It could not be said that Devan Seaworth served King Stannis and his fiery god with less than wholehearted devotion. Yet in this case, Davos suspected that the boy’s excitement owed as much to the prospect of seeing a proper fight between two well-matched combatants, as to the customary alacrity with which he did the king’s bidding.
Davos bit back a smile. “This foreigner must be good.”
“He is. But the Lord Commander is better. Come see for yourself, Father!” Devan’s brown eyes were dancing.
They went. Davos did not spare a glance for the table piled high with scrolls behind him. In all likelihood he could have guessed their contents without bothering to examine them. But I don’t have to do that anymore. I know exactly what they say. I can read now, he reminded himself. After a fashion. It was slow, painful going - the moreso without Maester Pylos’ patient prompting - but Davos did not mean to lose his letters so soon after he had acquired them. He was the Hand of the King, and certain things were expected of him. Whenever he had a spare hour he spent it in the King’s Tower, poring over the scrolls.
He didn’t do it for Stannis. Stannis hardly needed to have his correspondence read for him. Stannis broke the seals and scrutinized the contents himself, and had done so often enough even on Dragonstone, where he had had no cause to distrust the maester’s discretion.
( Davos remembered a maester’s strangled gasp as he slid boneless to the ground, a red jewel throbbing at a red woman’s throat. )
At Castle Black, all the letters were delivered by the fat steward who tended to Maester Aemon. Davos was not always present when the king and the Red Woman received the missives, but afterwards he made it his business to learn their contents by heart, with the same determination that, as a boy, had driven him to learn to steer a ship by the stars. It was not what they said but what they did not say that mattered - none of the senders recognized Stannis as their king. Oaths of fealty would not be forthcoming from the bannermen of Eddard Stark.
The sound of steel ringing on steel met his ears long before they reached the yard. There was another sound too, the sound of raucous spectators keeping up a running commentary, the sound of coppers changing hands. Davos frowned. The queen’s men would sooner have been caught praying in a sept than betting on the outcome of a sparring match. The king’s men might have been so inclined - but not in the king’s presence, not with the Red Woman so close you could feel the heat radiating from her like hot coals. That left the Lord Commander’s men. And who was there, at the moment, to rein them in? Certainly not the Lord Commander himself.
They called Lord Snow’s opponent “the foreign swordsman” despite the fact that the man had never drawn his own sword, so far as Davos or anyone else knew. He was holding off Lord Snow’s Valyrian steel now with a pair of daggers, vambraces flashing at his forearms. Warrior have mercy, he’s not even wearing proper armor!
Devan lowered his head to speak with a black brother. Davos didn’t catch what his son said, but the other boy’s answering snort was dismissive. “Lord Snow? Wear his helm against a bareheaded man? Wouldn’t hear of it.”
It was easy to see why the man with the daggers would choose to fight with neither shield nor helm. Daggers were weapons of stealth, easily concealed in a boot or under a cloak, and could be deployed to deadly effect at close quarters. His only hope lay in slipping inside Lord Snow’s guard, and for that he needed freedom of movement more than he needed the protection afforded by steel and plate. There was a lull in the fight. They circled each other, eyes sensitized to every flicker of peripheral vision, muscles tensed to spring. They were both lean of form, although the foreigner had a few inches of height and at least a dozen years on Lord Snow. His hair was the color of ripe wheat, a color seldom seen north of the Neck.
Davos wondered if the blonde man knew that by refusing armor, he had ensured that Lord Snow would refuse as well.
“Can you tell me how long this farce will last, Lord Davos?” It was Stannis. There were blackcloaks all around but they maintained a careful distance from the king and his retinue.
“No. As Your Grace will recall, I was not brought up to swordfighting.”
“Of course.” Stannis glanced down at his squire. “What about you, Devan? You have received instruction from my household knights since you were of an age to wield a tourney sword. What do you think?”
To Devan’s credit, he was not cowed by the king’s obvious disdain for sparring. “I think it’s good for the men to see this. Not just the Night’s Watch - our own men, too. When Lord Snow defeats him, it will be good for morale. ”
Stannis nodded and turned to Davos. “Devan tells me that the foreigner has bested every man who has challenged him to a bout thus far. Bested them with daggers alone. All the same, I do not appreciate it when I am seeking Lord Snow, and find that I must wait to speak with him because he is otherwise engaged in a useless exercise.”
“Hardly useless, Your Grace.”
And suddenly she was there, the foreign noblewoman who had thrown the Watch into a frenzy three nights ago when she had walked out of the forest accompanied by a lone swordsman, begging for admittance at the Gate. It was known that bands of wildlings still roamed the forest north of the Wall. Some of them were led by Tormund Giantsbane. Some of them - mostly old, spent men and young women with children - turned themselves in for the promise of food and a roof over their heads. But anyone with eyes could see that this woman and her companion were no more wildlings than Mance Rayder was a Dothraki horselord.
She was striking in appearance, with eyes the color of twilight and ink-black hair that cascaded to her hips. She was even more striking when she appeared in the company of the Lady Melisandre. And I thought one of them was bad enough. Now we’ve got ourselves a matched set. Where the Red Woman was light the other woman was dark; where the former wore a bloodred ruby the latter’s throat was adorned by a diamond on a black choker. Even their names were eerily similar - Melisandre and Melisande.
“When Joscelin defeats your Lord Commander, you will be satisfied that he can defend me against any danger your Seven Kingdoms might present,” Melisande spoke evenly.
“And why,” said Stannis, “would I need you to be well defended?”
“Because you are sending me south to win the rebel lords to your cause.”
Davos gaped. “What?”
“The Lady Melisande has a high opinion of her own worth,” explained Stannis.
The lady in question inclined her head. “The only thing of worth that concerns me is my worth to the King. In the South, I could be invaluable to you.”
“It seems to me that if you desired to impress His Grace with your guardsman’s mettle, you would have bid him draw his own sword.” Davos gestured at the combatants. Snow was pressing his advantage, forcing Joscelin back towards the wall of the armory.
“Cassilines draw their swords only to kill.” She favored Davos with a smile. It made the breath catch in his throat, and he looked away. If the woman was this dangerous just smiling, what manner of havoc might she wreak if Stannis unleashed her on King’s Landing? Cersei Lannister didn’t stand a chance.
And because he was avoiding Melisande’s unsettling smile - because he was looking away, towards the yard - he saw it happen. The foreigner, Joscelin, brought his vambraced arms up, caught Snow’s sword hand between them, and suddenly Snow’s sword went flying. In the next instant Joscelin himself was lying flat on his back. A great white direwolf rested its front paws on his chest, tongue lolling. Its red eyes glowed.
Joscelin dropped his daggers.
Three things happened at once: The Lord Commander barked a command at his wolf, which was drowned in the bellows of the black brothers. (Evidently the betting had been on when Lord Snow would defeat the foreign swordsman, rather than whether he would do so.) Stannis moved towards the knot of men at the center of the yard, where Joscelin still lay prone in the dust. And Melisandre of Asshai said, “No.”
The king heard her. He stopped, and when he turned around his expression was quizzical. “No?”
“It would be a mistake to send her south, Your Grace. The enemy - the true enemy - lies to the north. This you have always known.”
“What better way to ensure that His Grace may devote his full attention to the real threat, than to dispatch his loyal servant to deal with the southern distraction?” the other woman asked reasonably. “If I succeed, I have every confidence that the lady Melisandre will save us from the Others. If I do not … well, Joscelin and I will be no great loss to the war effort. Have you seen our demise in the flames, perchance?”
“I have seen that Stannis Baratheon is the Prince That Was Promised, the Warrior of Light, and the Son of Fire. I have seen that he will wield the Red Sword of Heroes and wake dragons of stone. He serves the Lord of Light. Tell me, which false gods do you serve?”
“There is more than one way to serve,” said Melisande Shahrizai, scion of a false god. “But tell me this: How will King Stannis wage the War for the Dawn, when he is facing a war on his own doorstep? How will he hold the Wall when the North rises against him?”
“ENOUGH.” Stannis was gnashing his teeth, a sure sign of displeasure. “I have heard enough. You, woman, will remain with the priests if it is the company of blind fanatics you desire; and you, woman, will come with me. I would speak with you.” This last was directed at Melisande.
“By your leave, Your Grace, I would speak to Joscelin first. He has fought valiantly on my behalf.”
Stannis nodded. “Then I will walk with Lord Snow first. I’ll send Devan for you when I am done.”
When the king had gone, Davos said, “Your guardsman is very devoted to you, my lady.”
Melisande’s gaze rested on the beaten gold of Joscelin’s hair, which was gathered into a club at the nape of his neck. She made no move to approach him. “He is very devoted,” she agreed. But not to me remained unspoken.
Rating: PG
Word count: 1876
Summary: Melisandre of Asshai takes on Melisande Shahrizai. Jon Snow takes on Joscelin Verreuil. Davos Seaworth takes on being awesome.
Notes: Originally posted to valyrian_forged.
"They’re sparring in the yard,” reported Devan, breathless from climbing the stairs to the king’s solar two at a time.
“Who is sparring in the yard?” said Davos.
“Lord Snow and the foreign swordsman. Come quickly, Father. His Grace is asking for you.”
It could not be said that Devan Seaworth served King Stannis and his fiery god with less than wholehearted devotion. Yet in this case, Davos suspected that the boy’s excitement owed as much to the prospect of seeing a proper fight between two well-matched combatants, as to the customary alacrity with which he did the king’s bidding.
Davos bit back a smile. “This foreigner must be good.”
“He is. But the Lord Commander is better. Come see for yourself, Father!” Devan’s brown eyes were dancing.
They went. Davos did not spare a glance for the table piled high with scrolls behind him. In all likelihood he could have guessed their contents without bothering to examine them. But I don’t have to do that anymore. I know exactly what they say. I can read now, he reminded himself. After a fashion. It was slow, painful going - the moreso without Maester Pylos’ patient prompting - but Davos did not mean to lose his letters so soon after he had acquired them. He was the Hand of the King, and certain things were expected of him. Whenever he had a spare hour he spent it in the King’s Tower, poring over the scrolls.
He didn’t do it for Stannis. Stannis hardly needed to have his correspondence read for him. Stannis broke the seals and scrutinized the contents himself, and had done so often enough even on Dragonstone, where he had had no cause to distrust the maester’s discretion.
( Davos remembered a maester’s strangled gasp as he slid boneless to the ground, a red jewel throbbing at a red woman’s throat. )
At Castle Black, all the letters were delivered by the fat steward who tended to Maester Aemon. Davos was not always present when the king and the Red Woman received the missives, but afterwards he made it his business to learn their contents by heart, with the same determination that, as a boy, had driven him to learn to steer a ship by the stars. It was not what they said but what they did not say that mattered - none of the senders recognized Stannis as their king. Oaths of fealty would not be forthcoming from the bannermen of Eddard Stark.
The sound of steel ringing on steel met his ears long before they reached the yard. There was another sound too, the sound of raucous spectators keeping up a running commentary, the sound of coppers changing hands. Davos frowned. The queen’s men would sooner have been caught praying in a sept than betting on the outcome of a sparring match. The king’s men might have been so inclined - but not in the king’s presence, not with the Red Woman so close you could feel the heat radiating from her like hot coals. That left the Lord Commander’s men. And who was there, at the moment, to rein them in? Certainly not the Lord Commander himself.
They called Lord Snow’s opponent “the foreign swordsman” despite the fact that the man had never drawn his own sword, so far as Davos or anyone else knew. He was holding off Lord Snow’s Valyrian steel now with a pair of daggers, vambraces flashing at his forearms. Warrior have mercy, he’s not even wearing proper armor!
Devan lowered his head to speak with a black brother. Davos didn’t catch what his son said, but the other boy’s answering snort was dismissive. “Lord Snow? Wear his helm against a bareheaded man? Wouldn’t hear of it.”
It was easy to see why the man with the daggers would choose to fight with neither shield nor helm. Daggers were weapons of stealth, easily concealed in a boot or under a cloak, and could be deployed to deadly effect at close quarters. His only hope lay in slipping inside Lord Snow’s guard, and for that he needed freedom of movement more than he needed the protection afforded by steel and plate. There was a lull in the fight. They circled each other, eyes sensitized to every flicker of peripheral vision, muscles tensed to spring. They were both lean of form, although the foreigner had a few inches of height and at least a dozen years on Lord Snow. His hair was the color of ripe wheat, a color seldom seen north of the Neck.
Davos wondered if the blonde man knew that by refusing armor, he had ensured that Lord Snow would refuse as well.
“Can you tell me how long this farce will last, Lord Davos?” It was Stannis. There were blackcloaks all around but they maintained a careful distance from the king and his retinue.
“No. As Your Grace will recall, I was not brought up to swordfighting.”
“Of course.” Stannis glanced down at his squire. “What about you, Devan? You have received instruction from my household knights since you were of an age to wield a tourney sword. What do you think?”
To Devan’s credit, he was not cowed by the king’s obvious disdain for sparring. “I think it’s good for the men to see this. Not just the Night’s Watch - our own men, too. When Lord Snow defeats him, it will be good for morale. ”
Stannis nodded and turned to Davos. “Devan tells me that the foreigner has bested every man who has challenged him to a bout thus far. Bested them with daggers alone. All the same, I do not appreciate it when I am seeking Lord Snow, and find that I must wait to speak with him because he is otherwise engaged in a useless exercise.”
“Hardly useless, Your Grace.”
And suddenly she was there, the foreign noblewoman who had thrown the Watch into a frenzy three nights ago when she had walked out of the forest accompanied by a lone swordsman, begging for admittance at the Gate. It was known that bands of wildlings still roamed the forest north of the Wall. Some of them were led by Tormund Giantsbane. Some of them - mostly old, spent men and young women with children - turned themselves in for the promise of food and a roof over their heads. But anyone with eyes could see that this woman and her companion were no more wildlings than Mance Rayder was a Dothraki horselord.
She was striking in appearance, with eyes the color of twilight and ink-black hair that cascaded to her hips. She was even more striking when she appeared in the company of the Lady Melisandre. And I thought one of them was bad enough. Now we’ve got ourselves a matched set. Where the Red Woman was light the other woman was dark; where the former wore a bloodred ruby the latter’s throat was adorned by a diamond on a black choker. Even their names were eerily similar - Melisandre and Melisande.
“When Joscelin defeats your Lord Commander, you will be satisfied that he can defend me against any danger your Seven Kingdoms might present,” Melisande spoke evenly.
“And why,” said Stannis, “would I need you to be well defended?”
“Because you are sending me south to win the rebel lords to your cause.”
Davos gaped. “What?”
“The Lady Melisande has a high opinion of her own worth,” explained Stannis.
The lady in question inclined her head. “The only thing of worth that concerns me is my worth to the King. In the South, I could be invaluable to you.”
“It seems to me that if you desired to impress His Grace with your guardsman’s mettle, you would have bid him draw his own sword.” Davos gestured at the combatants. Snow was pressing his advantage, forcing Joscelin back towards the wall of the armory.
“Cassilines draw their swords only to kill.” She favored Davos with a smile. It made the breath catch in his throat, and he looked away. If the woman was this dangerous just smiling, what manner of havoc might she wreak if Stannis unleashed her on King’s Landing? Cersei Lannister didn’t stand a chance.
And because he was avoiding Melisande’s unsettling smile - because he was looking away, towards the yard - he saw it happen. The foreigner, Joscelin, brought his vambraced arms up, caught Snow’s sword hand between them, and suddenly Snow’s sword went flying. In the next instant Joscelin himself was lying flat on his back. A great white direwolf rested its front paws on his chest, tongue lolling. Its red eyes glowed.
Joscelin dropped his daggers.
Three things happened at once: The Lord Commander barked a command at his wolf, which was drowned in the bellows of the black brothers. (Evidently the betting had been on when Lord Snow would defeat the foreign swordsman, rather than whether he would do so.) Stannis moved towards the knot of men at the center of the yard, where Joscelin still lay prone in the dust. And Melisandre of Asshai said, “No.”
The king heard her. He stopped, and when he turned around his expression was quizzical. “No?”
“It would be a mistake to send her south, Your Grace. The enemy - the true enemy - lies to the north. This you have always known.”
“What better way to ensure that His Grace may devote his full attention to the real threat, than to dispatch his loyal servant to deal with the southern distraction?” the other woman asked reasonably. “If I succeed, I have every confidence that the lady Melisandre will save us from the Others. If I do not … well, Joscelin and I will be no great loss to the war effort. Have you seen our demise in the flames, perchance?”
“I have seen that Stannis Baratheon is the Prince That Was Promised, the Warrior of Light, and the Son of Fire. I have seen that he will wield the Red Sword of Heroes and wake dragons of stone. He serves the Lord of Light. Tell me, which false gods do you serve?”
“There is more than one way to serve,” said Melisande Shahrizai, scion of a false god. “But tell me this: How will King Stannis wage the War for the Dawn, when he is facing a war on his own doorstep? How will he hold the Wall when the North rises against him?”
“ENOUGH.” Stannis was gnashing his teeth, a sure sign of displeasure. “I have heard enough. You, woman, will remain with the priests if it is the company of blind fanatics you desire; and you, woman, will come with me. I would speak with you.” This last was directed at Melisande.
“By your leave, Your Grace, I would speak to Joscelin first. He has fought valiantly on my behalf.”
Stannis nodded. “Then I will walk with Lord Snow first. I’ll send Devan for you when I am done.”
When the king had gone, Davos said, “Your guardsman is very devoted to you, my lady.”
Melisande’s gaze rested on the beaten gold of Joscelin’s hair, which was gathered into a club at the nape of his neck. She made no move to approach him. “He is very devoted,” she agreed. But not to me remained unspoken.