#lord give me the strength to finish this Ransom fic

[bittysvalentines]

You Shine in What I Am / Mas Brilhas No Que Sou

From: @aceinhyperspace

To: @sailorsav

Fic Summary: When Whiskey turns 18 years old, he receives his Gift. But what is he supposed to do with Love? No Content Warnings. General tags: Gen (no pairing); Asexual Whiskey; Eric Bittle; Magic Au; Message: I was so happy to see that I got your gift! Your magic AUs are some of my favourite fics and when I saw that Asexual Whiskey is your jam, I just KNEW what I was going to be writing about. I hope you enjoy!!

Connor knew what love was long before he knew he was ace. It was six year olds holding hands and twelve year olds sneaking kisses because they wanted to be grown up. It was the women in movies, pining after men and demanding roses. It was his teammates in the locker room, talking about bases and the girls they wanted to hook up with after games.

Connor knew that love was something physical and scary and frankly, he wanted no part of it.

Thankfully as everyone in his grade crept closer to their 18th birthdays, the “plant boy” jokes wound down. There was much more interesting news as people got their letters.

“I can’t believe Lauren got metal-bending and I got nothing,” Adriana complained one day at lunch, sprawled on the floor of the hallway outside their 5th period class.

“You know the Guild doesn’t actually call it metal-bending.” Whiskey said into his sandwich.

Adriana rolled her eyes so violently, her head moved as well, dragging her tightly coiled hair across the linoleum. “Ugh, you nerd. That’s not the point. Pretty white girl, I wear bows even on days where there’s no football games, Lauren. She gets to manipulate metal, Connor Whisk. Me-tal.”

“We don’t get a choice, Adri. And frankly, I’ll be thrilled when I get my letter and the Guild tells me ‘Hey, Connor, you’re off the hook. Go play hockey and don’t worry about accidentally setting your college dorm room on fire with this super exciting new superpower you manifested.’”

“Give Peder a break. He’s doing much better now.”

“Yeah, whatever, Adri.”

That evening when he got home, his mother was already at the kitchen table, Skyping her sister in Brasil, hands elegantly shaping the lump of clay spinning on the wheel.

Connor loved watching his mother work- ancient techniques interacting seamlessly with her magic. Her deep brown hands skimmed the edges of the vase, feeling for form sleeping inside the unshapen material. She once told him that her Gift was so much more than moving dirt around. From the rock beds lining the back of their desert home to the red dust she could sweep away with the movement of her hand, Ana Maria Francisca da Silva Whisk saw potential. She saw the shape of things that had been and were meant to be.

“I think I always knew,” She told him a couple years ago, combing her fingers through his hair, loose and chestnut colored, like his father. “Your avô had a farm when I was little. He couldn’t keep me out of the animal pens! He and my mother would lose sight of me for a minute, and they’d find me pelado como Adão e Eva-

“Mãe!”

“-sitting in the middle of the pigs, covered head to toe in mud.” She laughed and laughed.

That day, Connor didn’t feel much like laughing.

“Mamãe?”

“Si, meu amor?”

“Do you see anything in me?”

“O que você quer dizer?” His mother stopped the wheel and looked directly at him. Her eyes were dark, warm.

“I guess…” He stopped, unsure of the words. “I guess I’m worried.”

“Your letter?”

“Sim.”

She took a deep breath, the fine grey dust covering her hands loosening, gently floating to the floor. “Is that it?”

“I don’t know. I’m just ready for highschool to be over. Jake decided to spend all of bio making uncreative jokes about cellular reproduction. And how my gift would be to clone myself.”

“Meu amor, when we spoke about you coming out, I did tell you to be prepared. People can be cruel.”

“Okay, but I thought you meant that about the bi part, not the ace part.”

A small smile flickered across his mother’s lips. Her hand reached out to touch his cheek gently. “I just want things to be easy for you.”

“Eu sei, mamãe.” Connor sighed. “I guess I wanted to know that I’ll be something more than the weird kid.”

“Meu filho. You are so much more than I can tell you. I get glimpses of the man you will be and can only be proud.”

“Ugh, gross mom.” Connor complained, his voice rising in pitch, swatting her hand away.   

“Ah! Sem graça! Deixe seu mãe dá amor quando ela pode. Amanhã você vai ficar uma homem grande!”  

“Mom!” He ran off, and his mother tossed bits of clay at his retreating back.  

-------

Connor had to fight to open his eyes the next morning.

His eighteenth birthday. The day he would receive his Gift.

His feet couldn’t even lift off the ground as he drug himself down the hall towards the kitchen.

Please don’t let it be clones. Please don’t let it be clones.

It wouldn’t be clones, Connor reasoned with himself. His whole family had natural gifts or no gifts at all. If he was lucky, maybe he’d be like his father and oldest sister, who got to live life normally. That way he could focus on hockey and school and not worry about things exploding like Peder. His oldest brother’s pyrokinesis was the coolest thing ever for approximately five minutes.

He stood in the doorway, the glass door separating the kitchen from the rest of the house an immovable barrier. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this.

“Meu amor, vem aqui,” his mother called gently from inside. Her black eyes, sometimes so disarming, were as soft as he ever had seen them. Using all of his strength, he turned the handle and stepped inside.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, his mother stepped forward and wrapped him in her arms. “Voce ‘sta pronto?”

“Nunca.”

“Whatever it is, you can always decline, okay? There is no shame in that.” Her chin rested gently on his shoulder. When had he gotten so much taller than her? She’d always been a towering figure in the family, carrying them through.

“Okay.”

She stepped back, pulling the letter from her work apron. He took it with trepidation, carefully tearing the seal and unfolding the heavy paper.

After a few moments, most of which the words on the page didn’t register, he spoke.

“I… I think... the Guild sent the wrong thing, Mamae.”

“They’re just messengers. You know they have no control over what manifests.” His mother responded, hands already buried in the clay lumped on the wheel of the kitchen nook. “Deixa eu ver.”

His mother’s hand left gray fingerprints on the paper, but she didn’t seem to notice as her eyes scanned the letter.

“Amor.”

“Yes, mom?”

“Nao, not you amor. Amor amor.”

“I think it’s a mistake.” Connor whispered. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Love magic.

For him.

Connor Whisk, asexual extraordinaire, whose longest relationship was with the Shane Doan jersey pinned lovingly to his bedroom wall.

Love magic.

“Connor Silva Whisk.” The letter gently thwapped across the back of his head. “I raised you better than that. Now, if you don’t want it, that’s your decision to make. But what can you do with love? That is a very stupid question.”

Fast forward six years and behold: Whiskey, collegiate hockey champion, in possession of a liberal arts degree, bartending license, and a certificate in business administration, still has no idea.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day that Whiskey meets Eric Bittle, the lights go out.

No, seriously. The lights are actually out.

“I’m so sorry! That just, happens sometimes? I’m workin’ on it. Oh Lord. There is nothing worse than these delicate wire light bulbs, one short and they’re toast! I am so sorry. You know, they make LED versions of these now? Not that I’m telling you how to run your business but-”

Whiskey only stares at the man in front of him, blonde and tanned from the summer sun, already on his knees gingerly picking up shards of glass with his bare hands, words running at a thousand miles an hour.

Poetry, early readers, maybe a teacher? Needs something smoky to drink… whiskey… no, red wine. I have the perfect Zin in the back.

His quick scan of the other man’s desires only takes a second or two. His needs sit close to the surface, close enough that he was probably on his way to ask Whiskey himself.

“If you want to help, at least use a broom. I don’t need to clean up your blood too.” Whiskey says from behind the bar.

The young man freezes, hands already filled with glass. “Well, I suppose that would make much more sense.”

“Yeah, probably,” Whiskey says. He reaches out with a metal bucket. “Here.”

The glass clinks as it’s dropped into the bucket.

“I really am sorry about that. I’m Eric. Eric Bittle. I live up on the third floor. And uh, I have a gift for electricity. Well. Usually. Sometimes unfamiliar systems don’t react well to my emotions. Have you read that fantastic book by Derek Nurse? That’s what caused this whole mess in the first place.”

“Connor Whisk. People call me Whiskey.”

Somehow, even after their disaster of a first meeting, Eric becomes a staple of Whiskey’s bookstore-slash-bar. Most nights find Eric in the corner sofa, a glass of red wine in hand, grading papers for the kids he student teaches.

On a slow night, Whiskey sits next to him, reading through new releases he wants to stock.

Eric’s head hits the back of the sofa.

“Why can’t I just become an electrician?”

Whiskey snorts. “That’d be too predictable. Also, you clearly adore children. You’ll make a great teacher.”

“You’ve never seen me with a child in your life, Connor.” Eric groans.

“Trust me, I just know.”

Not that Whiskey was ever planning on telling him how.

------

The day that Whiskey meets Jack Zimmerman, the lights go off again.

This time metaphorically.

It’s a busy Wednesday night, which puts it right between a quiet Saturday and an overwhelming Monday. Ford and Tango from upstairs are arguing over a game of scrabble; Ransom laughs at them from above his post-rotation beer, hand on Holster’s knee. Dex and Bitty are finishing a diagram of the best way to rewire the bar lights to save energy while still providing ample lighting. Nurse helps stack chairs after his poetry reading. A couple other folks float in and out of the store, occasionally stopping to ask a question. And Whiskey is hovering around all of them, making sure everyone is satisfied.

The seating area is small, so when a stupidly handsome man wearing a godawful black tracksuit walks in, everyone notices.

Grad student… maybe? He’s here for history? Queer Theory? Well, he’ll get more of the latter, but he’ll see that out soon enough. No alcohol. I’ll make some tea in the back after I check in with everyone.

“Excuse me?” Eric leans forward, bridge of his nose crinkled in interest.

“What?” Whiskey asks, picking up the empty glasses on the low coffee table.

“You just started talking about Queer Theory and tea?” Eric says. “I wasn’t hallucinating was I?”

Dex shakes his head. “Nope, I heard it too.”

Whiskey’s stomach drops. “Uh, nothing, just restocking the shelves.”

“If you say so.” Eric is completely unconvinced, but is too polite to push the subject in public.

Yellow.

The echo of desire floats from among the shelves. The new customer’s hands rest on a book, the cover a bright canary, and Whiskey smiles.

With that, he leaves Eric to his drink to help the customers that are reclining against the bar.

About 5 minutes later, the customer had taken a seat at one of the couches in the reading corner, setting the book on the coffee table between him and Bitty.

“Do you mind?” Whiskey, hears him ask. Bittle’s face is flushed.

“Not at all! On second thought, let me move my mess so you don’t have to be competing with… whatever this book is-” Eric waves animatedly at the pile that had been forming in front of him.

Whiskey barely restrains himself from snorting.

Bittle hurriedly shoves his work into a stack and then escapes to the bar counter, “Good Lord, it’s a good thing that man dresses like a russian mobster because if he paired his face with nice clothes, it’d be over for the rest of us.

Ford, two seats down, snorts into her coffee mug.

“This is a small shop, Bits.” Whiskey laughs, “Careful with the volume.”

“Honey, this is New England. I travelled 3,000 miles to be unabashedly loud and gay. This is a queer bookstore for God’s sake.”

“You can say what you want, just know that the object of your unabashedness can probably hear you,” Whiskey says.

They look over to the man in the corner and sure enough, his eyes are on the both of them, a deep furrow in the middle. The intensity of his gaze and the concerned frown on his lips seem to indicate anger. But Connor feels something else.

It hadn’t been the book.

Oh.

OH.

Yellow.

It smells like Quebec in the summer (had he ever been to Quebec?), and feels like a long car trip, singing into the wind, stealing ears of corn from the farmer’s field, grilling it over a campfire at night. There is expensive whiskey and cheap beer on his lips, elation.

Yellow like the afternoon sun reflecting against the pond in winter. Blinding and exhilarating, flying with no sense of direction and no hope of stopping.

“You.” Whiskey whispers.

He can’t hear if Eric responds, his head still filled with desires not his own. It takes him another moment to come into the present, shaking his head subtly to remove the extra noise.

“Connor? Are you alright?” Eric says, gently laying a hand on his arm.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just caught up for a moment.”

“You sure?”

“Just a side effect. I try not to go that deeply but some people suck me in.”

“Oh I knew it! You are a telepath!” Eric whispers excitedly. “Did I tell you my PawPaw once-”

Whiskey cuts Eric off, running an embarrassed hand through his hair. “No, no. I definitely can’t read people’s minds. But, uhhh. I can see what they… love?”

Eric’s eyes widened. “My Lord.” There’s a reverent sparkle in them that Whiskey can’t explain. “You have a Love Gift. That’s something special. Much more special than electricity.”

Whiskey rolls his eyes. “Sure. Really special. I can’t do anything but tell what drink someone wants before they order.”

“It’s a real shame you think that way, Connor.” Eric shakes his head. “Well, now I know how you’ve managed to draw us all here like flies to a sty.”

“Isn’t it flies to honey-”

“Think about it. All of us were floating around, not from the same place or backgrounds. Some with gifts and many without, but now we’re here. Together. That’s because of you.”

Eric saunters back to the couch, oblivious to the distress rising in Whiskey’s chest.

“Hey, Ford. You mind watching front of house for a second?” Connor manages to say before he loses his breath completely, slipping into the back room before receiving a response.

The phone is clammy in his hands, but, like clockwork, she picks up on the second ring.

“Amor?”

“Mom.

“Que está acontecendo, filho? Você ‘tá no trabalho?”

“Mom, I did it again.”

There’s no sound on the other end of the phone for a brief moment. When his mother’s voice comes back on the line, he feels his breath release.

“Okay, I can talk now. Tell me everything.”

“Well, there’s a group of people that come to the store a lot. And I like them, mom. I like all of them. But Eric-”

“That’s the Southern boy, right?”

“Yes Mom, but Eric found out about my Gift today. And he said that everyone is here because of me. It’s my fault. It’s like college all over again.”

“Did he say he didn’t want to be there?”

“No but-”

“Did he say anything about being in love with you- romantically I mean.”

“No, that’s not-”

“Then this doesn’t sound anything like what happened back then.”

Connor takes a few deep breaths. “Mom, I don’t know what to do with this Gift,” he barely whispers into the phone.

A few more seconds pass.

“This may not be my place. You are a grown man now and can make your own decisions. But my love? You need to get your head out of your ass.”  

Whiskey stops, shocked. “What?”

The voice on the line is firm, like the earth she manipulates. “I am your mother. I would give you the world, make it kind and easy. But I can’t. You told me, all of seventeen shaking years old that you were bisexual and ace and I let you make the choice to tell others on your own. You received your Gift and kept it on your own. And then when you transferred out east and graduated and started your own business- you did that on your own too. If you want to live the rest of your life away from others, separated by your fear, that is a choice you also make on your own.”

A deep sigh breaks the tension across the line and when his mother speaks again, her tone is gentle.

“I am here for you now, whatever you need, but that won’t always be true. What happened in college was awful, amor. Love magic is a powerful, dangerous thing. But you are not that scared young boy anymore. You are building a new home with new people. And that requires you to love, filho. Love. Love yourself and others and let them love you too.”

Whiskey feels the wet lines running down his cheeks before he realizes he’s crying.

“Thank you mom. I love you.”

“Eu te amo também. Agora, faz uma decisão. E chama-me mais frequente, eu sinto falta da sua voz.”   

When Connor comes out of the back room a couple minutes later, he does so with his Gift wide open. And the hearts of the people in the space are so bright, he can’t even see the lights.

#whiskey #fanfiction #bittysvalentines #bv2019 #omgcp

[jitolibido]

Asha I Battle of Ice (entire chapter)

For convenience, I just post the whole thing here so it’s easier to read.

The following is a speculative fan fiction based on the facts established by The King’s Prize chapter in A Dance with Dragons, the Sacrifice chapter in A Dance with Dragons, and Theon I preview chapter in The Winds of Winter. The Night Lamp theory was initially created by BryndenBFish on reddit I believe. Also there’s Asha fragment, a paragraph decoded from an enhanced image of GRRM’s computer. I wrote this fan fic, and ahhhh... follow me on instagram @truestannis

The day was cold, and the white winds bit harder as Asha inhaled. Ser Justin Massey, the freckled knight of summer, had left with the banker Nestoris and Ned Stark’s daughter. She did not desire him, a southron knight who wore a pretty blonde beard could hardly be her Lord husband in the days to come, were she to live. And yet, she thought of him. The other queen’s men, Farring and Suggs, thirsted for her blood like a pack of jackals. The knights of the greenlands would pray to their queer god of fire, but the North was of the old, and the old gods were more punishing and severe than R’hllor could ever be. Doomed, she thought, doomed men on a death march.

         The ice lakes at the crofters’ village were caked with snow. When Asha walked outside along the camps, the snow seeped into her boots. The hill tribes, the southron knights, and the Glovers had been working day and night felling the trees. Catapults, she thought. Why would Stannis want siege weapons when the enemy were to meet him in an open field?

         The king walked out of the tower. She had last seen him when she was pleading for her brother’s life, or a quick death, rather. “Your Grace. My brother—“

         “He will live, for now. I have better use for him, because he knows the layout of Winterfell. Which walls are the strongest, and which gates the weakest. It’s not me you need to worry about, Lady kraken, it’s these northmen. Norrey and Wull would not hesitate for an instant to bloody their axes with Theon’s head.”

         The queen’s men escorted their prisoner outside. Arnolf Karstark was accused of conspiring with Lord Bolton to turn on Stannis’s rearguard once the battle began. The queen’s men prepared a pyre for Lord Karstark on the weirwood island. Next to the pyre was a chopping block. The Wulls, the Flints, and the Norreys gathered around the king and his men.

         “Lord Arnolf Karstark, you have been charged with treason and the conspiring with the enemy. I, Stannis Baratheon, the one true King of Westeros, sentence you to die. You are a northman. I do not wish to tamper with your old gods or your tradition in front of the brave men who stand beside me. Confess, and I shall grant you the swift death with my sword. Lie, and you will meet a warmer end. Choose wisely, Ser Clayton Suggs has much and less patience than I.”

         “Aye, I confess. What of it! Lord Bolton has seven thousand strong. You will starve, and freeze, pretender. The Frey host alone is like to shatter what’s left of you and yours without breaking a sweat!” The old man spat onto the snow. He turned to the Wull, “Hugo fucking Wull. You support some southron fool now? Much is the pity! You are dead men! Do you hear me? Dead! Dead will be your false king, and dead your sons. Be cursed!” The old man coughed and grinned.

         “Very well then,” the king pulled his magical sword from the scabbard. It was bright, and red, and orange. The light was as blinding as the sun.

         The old man quivered before the sword and squinted his eyes. His cracked lips nonetheless widened into a hideous grin, “All hail King Tomm—” The old man’s head came falling before he could finish his words. Thirty yards away, amidst the cold winds, Asha could still hear the king’s teeth grinding as the name Tommen was mentioned. Baseborn abominations, he’d liked to call the children of Cersei Lannister. The king would not risk the allegiance of the northmen, so even a treasonous schemer such as Arnolf met his end in the ways of the weirwood. Arnolf’s sons, Cregan and Arthor, as well as Arnolf’s grandsons were still kept in the cells, except the one who’d lost his arm. Stannis had need for Karstark’s strength, four hundred spears, two score archers, and a dozen mounted lances.

         “Eddard Karstark, step forward,” the king commanded. A boy, no more than twelve, walked forth to Stannis. The clansmen and the knights made way for the boy who bore the wolf’s name. The lad was of neither Rickard’s nor Arnolf’s line. The Tallhart next to Asha told her that the boy was kin to the Hornwoods and the Manderlys. Harrion, the rightful heir to Karhold, was Lord Walder’s prisoner still. Stannis needed not an heir to Karhold, but a man who could command the Karstark forces in the battles to come. Boys have been conquerors before. Mayhaps little Ned will surprise us yet.

         The boy knelt before the king dutifully as he swore his allegiance. The queen’s men, once again, began singing the only song they knew, “One realm! One god! One king! One realm! One god! One king!” The clansmen sneered at that.

         Morgan Liddle rode back to the islet with a group of scouts. He climbed off his palfrey and walked towards the king. Ser Godry soon followed.

         “Your Grace, the Freys will be upon us soon. Mostly mounted knights, followed by the baggage train,” the Middle Liddle brushed the snow from his warhelm. “The Manderlys are yet to be seen.”

         “The turncloak told the truth, it would seem.” Stannis smiled at that. “Lord Wull, give the order, we will march forth to give them battle. Get the men in formation now. It’s time.”

         “Men!” The Big Bucket Wull walked forth to his men. The clans gathered and began forming the van. He brushed the ice off his long, thick beard with one hand, and raised his huge battle axe with another. “We’ve been through many battles, aye, and this is like to be our last. I remember the days when I dreamt of glory, listening to the songs and tales of great heroes and their greater deeds. The first battle is like fucking for the first time. You are afraid, so afraid that you may foul your breeches. We all shit ourselves. There’s hardly shame in that. We are marching towards almost certain death. We may never return again to embrace our wives, or cradle our babes as they draw breath for the first time. And yet we must fight, and we must die, for the Ned, his house, and all he’s done for us. Let the Freys know the wroth of the old gods. Let them scream as our axes bite deep into their skulls. Let them know that winter is here, and the North remembers!”

         “The North remembers!” The clansmen chanted in unison. The king’s knights joined as well. “The North remembers! The North remembers! The North remembers!”

         The king gathered his knights, as Ser Richard Horpe, his second-in-command, gathered whatever horses they hadn’t eaten.

         “Fifty horses we have left, sire. Adding to the dozen from the Karstarks, two and sixty.” The knight said grimly.

         “The mountain clans will ride forth with whatever few garrons they have. The snows will halter even the finest breeds. It’s spears and shields we need to face Ser Stupid. The night falls early this time of year. Use it to your advantage. Attack their train and gather whatever loot you can gain. Ride back when you see the men from White Harbor or the Bastard. You are far too few to engage them as yet.”

         “Your Grace,” Asha walked towards the king. “Free me from these chains and put an axe in my hand.”

         “You are in no position to make demands.” Ser Richard intejected

         “The kraken’s daughter has no lack for courage, it would seem. The banker ransomed your lot from Lady Glover, it would seem only fit that I put you under her men’s command. Ser Richard, bring Lady Asha to Ned Woods and unchain her. Give her a bow and an axe. Keep her close to the Liddles as well. The Liddles know their lands. Let them guide the sixty horses you have. Tristifer Botley and his men, we need more bows. Go, now.”

         Asha climbed onto Ser Richard’s horse and they rode to gather the queen’s men, the ironmen, the Liddles, and a dozen Glovers. I am the daughter of the Lord Reaper of Pyke, and yet here I have no ships, no seas. Only an axe and bow. I am fighting alongside the men who want me dead. I am sure to die here, but I’m no craven. I will die with a war cry and blood on my face and hands. Asha thought as she looked on the lay of the land.

         Asha squinted her eyes as she turned her head to the north. The enemy emerged from the snows. The leader of the enemy wore silvered plate and mail, inlaid with details of lapis lazuli. The crest of his warhelm was tall, fashioned in the shape of the Twin Towers of House Frey.

         Before him rode three banner bearers, One bore the stag and lion standard of King Tommen, another the Twin Towers of House Frey. The third brandished a bloody head impaled upon the point of a tall spear. An old man’s head, white-bearded and one eyed. The spear was made from a pale wood, almost white. Its upper shaft was dark and red with blood. Crowfood Umber, Asha knew. The old northman had fought to his death, it seemed. Perhaps the foe had thought the sight of severed head would strike fear into Stannis’s men. They rushed together as Hugo Wull raised his shield wall. The Karstark men remained at the longhall. The Karstarks are meant to defend against Manderly’s knights, Asha thought. The twin lakes provided the king with some advantage, it would seem. One narrow passage. Stannis does not wish to be ambushed again as he was at the Blackwater. He has no lack for caution. Robert was always the bold one. Ser Justin once told her that Tyrion Lannister’s mountain clans from the Vale had attacked Stannis’s forces at the kingswood, thus preventing him from knowing the Lannister-Tyrell relief force in advance. No trick will work against him twice. Good.

         “Will they hold?” Asha asked.

         “The clans are not meant to hold,” Ser Richard replied, “they’re meant to retreat.”

         “Where do they retreat to? The longhall? The weirwood islet?”

         “Stop asking questions and mind the surroundings. If a dozen Frey knights are to follow us, or if the fat lord appears, I want to know. You’re wanted for your axe and your eyes, not for those prattling lips that irk me so.” Ser Richard was less harsh a man than the likes of Godry the Giantslayer and Clayton Suggs, nonetheless his patience wore thin as ice in such conditions. The winds came slashing against Asha’s face, each cut harsher and more ruthless than the one before. She felt her lips crack, but refrained from licking them, as she knew it would soon turn to ice. She pressed her cheek against Ser Richard’s cloak. The cold winds and the snow are foreign to these southron knights, and yet they fight for their king as they always did. Does the faith in R’hllor warm their hearts, or the faith in Stannis? The promise of a northern castle, or the glory in the battle itself?

         It was not long before Asha saw the baggage train. Ahead of the train were twenty riders, all clad in heavy armor and the surcoats of House Frey. Ser Richard drew his longsword from the scabbard. “Men! With me!” Asha raised her axe as the enemy rode forth to them. Richard gestured the men to spread out the flanks to envelope the enemy. He raised his sword and charged against the enemy leader. The foe was no craven, and his sword nearly cut off Asha’s head. Her battle axe had shorter reach than the long sword, but there were more than one way to engage a mounted enemy. As the Frey’s sword clashed once again with Ser Richard, Asha cut off the palfrey’s leg with one firm swing of her axe. The loss of balance had Ser Richard’s horse founder into the snow. Asha was tossed some ten feet away. As she pushed herself up from the damp and cold ground with her axe, she saw the unhorsed Frey knight walking towards her. His helm was gone. Asha readied herself, as the man put both hands on his the hilt of his longsword and lunged forward. Before he could reach her, Tristofer charged forward and lopped his head off with his axe. The Liddles finished off the rest of the enemies soon enough, and seven Frey horses remained alive. The majority of palfreys and destriers in Stannis’s army hadn’t survive long in the march, but more horses were better than no horses.

         Ser Richard lead a captured Frey destrier towards Asha, “Now you have your own horse, my lady.”

         “I’m not a lady.” Asha took her gift gratefully.

          Richard pointed at a few Glover men, “take these Frey armors and bring the train back to the king from the south side of the lakes. Rest of you, with me. It’s getting dark, we must return and give them battle.” Ser Richard commanded.

         Asha looked towards the village, the snow was blinding, and the darkness was soon to come, and all she could see was the faint lamp light from the watchtower.

         The night fell as the king had promised, as the sky shifted to grey, to a dark blue, and then black, in contrast to the white of the never ending snow. Asha could scarce make out the sound of cold steel clashing amidst the punishing winds. Her back ached from the fall, as she could hardly keep the lance straight. I’m more fit for an axe, she thought. The Frey soldiers were more like to use long swords, spears, and crossbows. Asha had slung the dead Frey’s crossbow onto her back. She thought of her uncle Victarion who would cut through scores of foes with his battle axe. Had I not pressed my claim, would he have won the kingsmoot then? Anyone in Westeros would be fitter to sit the Seastone Chair than Euron Greyjoy.

         She could almost make the Frey banners as she rode forth towards the light. The Frey rear marched slowly whilst the van was engaged with the clansmen. The two flanks of the Frey army attempted to envelop the clans but arrows flew from the king’s position, halting their formation. The fire arrows provided little or less light as they were extinguished as soon as they hit the snow.

         “We’ll lure out their rear,” Ser Richard commanded, “separate them from the main force. Ready the men!”

         Asha and the rest of the ironborn loosed the crossbow bolts onto the Frey rear. A few Frey horses fell into the snow. The rearguard turned, and they outnumbered Ser Richard’s men two to one by sight. However, by the time that their luxurious and yet impractical southron breeds managed to turn around, Richard’s cavalry already jammed their lances into a row of Frey knights. The rest of the foes remained ferocious, however, and they retaliated. The right wing, commanded by Liddle, began to retreat, and the freshly aggravated Freys ate the bait and then some. As the left wing of the rearguard rode forth towards the Liddles, Asha, Tristifer Botley, and the men under Ned Woods’s command went to engage them. We have the element of surprise, and their numbers matter but little so long as they can’t maintain the formation.

         Asha drove her spear into the back of a Frey’s neck. The man wore chainmail under his warhelm, but the sheer impact broke his neck. In a matter of moments, the left wing of the rearguard was all but annihilated. There were many left still, Asha realized that as a man cut her spear in half with a sword. She drew her axe and engaged, but her arm was growing weak. The initial blood rush from a battle would make one forget the very concept of exhaustion, but soon or late, fatigue always set in. In that instant, she grew thankful of Ser Justin Massey, who had urged her to devour more horse meat despite her lack of appetite. She gave all the strength she had and swung the axe upward, and the blade almost touched the enemy’s warhelm. Her body was left defenseless, and the foe lowered his sword to his chest level for a killing strike. Oh, fuck me.

         The foe’s head came flying towards Asha before his sword could land a killing strike. Tris? she thought for an instant. As the headless body rolled off the horse, the man who appeared was Qarl the Maid. Asha remembered the night she had spent with Qarl in Deepwood Motte, when he’d sucked her breasts whilst driving his firm cock into her wet cunt to release his seeds. Asha had loved the rough play. Quiet, mind, she reminded herself. She gave a nod to Qarl. It may be that I shall never bed you again.

         The Freys were no meek foes, the rest of the rearguard were not to submit without a fight. Thirty men or so they had left, perhaps fewer, got in formation, and charged forward with a chilling war cry, as the Liddles turned around. Ser Richard’s men engaged them, and Tris was on the left wing, attempting to surround the Freys once again.

         Qarl rode close to Asha. He sees that I’m weak, Asha thought begrudgingly, I’m not some princess who needs a flowery knight to shield me from danger. And yet she seemed to be surrounded by men who’d die for her, and a precious few who’d love to see her burnt alive. Almost forgot that.

         “Thank you.” It took a deal of reluctance for Asha to express her gratitude. She had affection for the pink-cheeked boy once in a while. Asha rubbed on her right shoulder to make sure that she could still swing. When she turned her head it was too late.

         A spear went through Qarl’s back and protruded out of his chest. Qarl had worn only jerkin, fur, and light armor, and the blood rendered the back of his white horse crimson. He held onto the tip of the spear with his right hand, and coughed out blood. The enemy tried to pull the spear but Qarl would not let go.

         No time to grieve, Asha turned her horse towards the Frey. The man loosened his grip on the spear to draw his sword, but Asha killed him with a single swing before his sword could clear the scabbard.

         “Don’t forget me.” Qarl smiled with blood around his lips. It was the sweetest smile he ever gave. Asha fought her tears, and she fought them hard. A few managed to drop, however, and they froze onto her cheeks. she pressed her hand against her cheek to break it. Qarl almost fell from his horse, and she held him.

         “Go.” He planted one last kiss upon Asha’s lips before he fell into the snow.

         “What of our losses?” Ser Richard cut down a Frey and rode forward to Middle Liddle.

         “A dozen or more,” the Liddle replied.

         Richard ordered the men to ride towards the light of the watchtower. When they rode close to the lakes, Asha realized that the light was not from the tower at all.

         The tower was all in darkness. Instead, the light that they saw was on the weirwood islet. Asha remember the tales of the night lamp of Sisterton, where the sistermen lure ships with false beacons.

         The mountain clans fought the Freys on the surface of the ice lake. Already Asha saw a few horses sinking their limbs into the ice as the knights fell off their backs. When the Frey knights got on their feet, the clansmen cut their throats.

         Asha heard one blast from a horn, coming from the longhall. The mountain clans began to spread out and retreat. The Freys either chose to dismount, or struggling to hold still. One Frey who was larger than most, dismounted and cut down two clansmen. He was freakishly huge, althought not as big as Gregor Clegane. The big bellied chief Hugo Wull raised his axe to engage him. The old man struggled, as the Frey was much stronger. The old man blocked the Frey’s blow with the hilt of his axe, but the knight kicked him in the belly. The old man rose and lunged forward, raising his battle axe. The knight got on his feet and parried the attack and drove his sword into the old man’s throat. Two of the queen’s men began fighting the ferocious Frey. And then came the second blast. Stannis’s men moved farther from the islet, and the Freys struggled. The holes were not only for fishing, Asha thought. Ned Woods had made a remark about Stannis’s men drilling holes into the ice.

         When Asha heard the third blast of the horn, large rocks were flung into the lakes from the north and the south. Catapults, Asha noticed. large portions of the ice began to crumble and crack. two dozen Frey knights sunk into the water as the rest attempted to retreat. The king’s knights and the mountain clans lined up along the east side of the lake and held a shield wall. Another hail of rocks were launched with the next blast of the horn. Dozens, or hundreds of horses fell. Asha could barely tell as the snows were blinding. The heavy cavalry were mostly sunk as the barding on the destriers added more weight. The king’s archers got into position as well, two dozens at the north side of the lake, and another two dozesn at the south side.

         “Nock! Draw! Loose!” A hail of arrows were loosed onto what remained of the Frey van. Some arrows found their way onto the clansmen’s shields as well. Most of the Freys dismounted and drew their swords to engage in melee with the mountain clans. The horses were spooked and began running in all directions. The Freys’ castle-forged steel were still an advantage. The Frey men got into formation in an attempt to fight their way out of the mountain clans’ envelopment. They concentrated their forces on the right wing. Stannis’s archers were lightly armored and the Freys cut through them with ease. The Freys began pushing south as they were no longer surrounded. The large Frey fought in the frontlines and cut down half a dozen of the tribesmen. Asha had seldom seen such ferocity. The man reminded her of her uncle Victarion. Stannis’s knights went towards the Freys. Asha could hardly see faces, but she saw the winged pig and the purple knight sigils. Suggs and Farring, she thought. For a split moment Asha wished that the bloodthirsty queen’s men would fall. She hoped that the fearless Frey knight would cut them in half. She soon regretted that thought. She wondered why she grew to hate the queen’s men a little less. Perhaps it was Ser Richard, she thought, nothing in this world turns foes into friends faster than comraderie born amidst a bloodbath.

         The fire-crazed knights were indeed a fearsome lot, as their steel clashed against the Frey armors. The knight of the winged pig, Ser Clayton Suggs, stroke the helm off the tall Frey. A husky man with a jut-jawed face thick with beard and full of rage. He blocked the blows from both Suggs and Farring, and pushed forth with his freakish strength. Godry the Giantslayer lowered his sword and cut the Frey’s leg, and as the Frey went onto his knee, Clayton drove a dagger into the brawny man’s throat.

         Asha heard a horn blast from the north, but a deal farther than the one before. More men? She thought. By the sound, Asha judged them to be a few hundred horses at least. Asha looked towards the north and could almost make out the banners. Green, she thought, a white figure on a blue-green field, a merman. The knights wielded tridents instead of spears. The Manderlys. The Karstarks came out of the long hall to engage the White Harbor knights. She could almost hear the laugh of relief of the Freys. Their saviors finally came for them, and we are fucked.

         Except, the tridents went through the necks of the Frey knights, not Stannis’s men. The clans soon understood the situation and surrounded the Frey knights completely. More cavalry came pouring through the woods onto the helpless Freys. The trumpets were blowing, as the knights continued to charge and trample through the deserting Freys, and the words they cried were “the North remembers! The North remembers! The North remembers!”

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