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Sweetrobin's Fan Fiction Project: Asha
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4,500 words by November 10, 2024
She was the blood of the kraken, daughter of the Lord Reaper of Pyke. But that mattered little today. There’s no sea for a hundred leagues, Asha thought as she took a moment to gauge the lay of the land.
That land was white. The snow was still falling and had blanketed the village, the lakes, the camp. For now, all looked empty, clean, like a fresh sheet of paper waiting to be filled. History is writ in blood. Her nuncle Rodrick had told her something like that, but Asha doubted anyone would ever read of her. How could they? Whatever blood was put down in the morning light would be buried by midday.
Most daughters are forgotten, she knew, but she was not most daughters. Most daughters wouldn’t be here, axe in hand, waiting for battle. Fighting for a demon, drown me for a fool.
The southroners were given the right wing. The enemy had cavalry, Benjicot Branch reported, so the men had been armed with spears, forming rank on rank of steal hoarfrost. Under a fiery heart banner heavy with snow, Ser Richard Horpe commanded, the knight mounted atop a grey palfrey. As thin as the horse was, it was one the healthier ones, taken from the lot the Braavosi banker had brought in the night. The moths on Ser Richard’s shield were caked over with ice, but Asha could make out of some of the other men’s heraldry: the fox head of Florent, the pod of Peasebury, the spucetrees of Fell.
Big Bucket Wull led the left. Behind his shaggy garron stood hundreds of spears from his own clan, clad in fur and mail, with bear-paws lashed to their boots. Farther back were Norreys and Knotts, Harclays and Liddles, Burleys and Flints — this morning, the quarrelsome northerners almost looked orderly. But will they stay that way? Ranks of spears require obedience and discipline, yet each of these northmen no doubt wanted glory for themselves. It could be their undoing.
The middle was Arthor Karstark’s. Stannis had given the traitor’s son a chance to prove himself, against the council of his second. Banners with a white sunburst sprouted up amongst the twelve hundred spearmen, though only one of every three soldiers was truly sworn to Karhold. Let no man call Stannis unwary. Clansmen were the bulk of the army, one on each shoulder of the Karstark men. Beneath the snow, however, the men all looked much alike.
The king led from the rear, as green land kings were wont to do. There, the paltry reserve gathered around him: a cavalry of two score knights and a dozen northmen. Asha and her six ironborn were mounted with them, though only Tris and Roggon looked comfortable ahorse. From their islet, they would see the carnage unfold on the flat land before them, and ride to where they were needed. If our mounts don’t die when spurred.
And in truth, they couldn’t see that far. Their hill was scarcely higher than a stage, and the falling snow curtained much and more of the world. The woods beyond the Crofter’s village were hidden, as too was the farside of camp and the king’s tower. Even the flame atop it was gone. The foe might have marched right by them and no one would be the wiser, like a reaver overlooking prey on a starless night… if it weren’t for the pyre.
To the right of the reserve, the fire still roared, its garish flames matching the heart inlaid on Stannis’ breastplate. To his helm, two weirwood branches had been affixed, giving him what looked like a stag’s antlers. The wood had come from the tree on the left, its face as pale and stern as the king’s. Between two gods, and neither of them mine.
True to his word, Stannis had swung the sword himself. It was as a Stark of Winterfell would have done , she reminded him. The blade danced with blinding light as it sliced through the scrawny neck. Before the weirwood, blood sprayed out, as red as summer cherries. The show made the northmen roar with delight. Then, Ser Godry and Ser Corliss fed the body to the flames, the king himself tossing the head on the pyre. To that, the southoners cheered.
It was not long before the snow by the weirwood was white again. It’s still hungry.
A trumpet sounded somewhere in the east, harsh and angry.
“Fight hard today, cunt.” Ser Clayton Suggs said as he rode up beside Asha. “Like you’re mad with moon blood.”
“I can give you a bloody gash, if you’d like strength to your arm.” She spun the axe in her hand.
Suggs laughed, then grew serious. He closed his visor. Asha knew to do the same.
Out of the falling snow, she spotted a horse. Then five, then fifty, then five hundred. And with them: a thousand men-at-arms. They were here.
The leader of the enemy wore silvered plate and mail, inlaid with details of lapis lazuli. The crest of the warhelm was tall, fashioned in the shape of the Twin Towers of House Frey. His shield bore those same towers, quartered with the snakes of Paege and the tree-and-ravens of Blackwood.
Before him rode banner bearers. One bore the star and lion standard of King
She was the blood of the kraken, daughter of the Lord Reaper of Pyke. But that mattered little today. There’s no sea for a hundred leagues, Asha thought as she took a moment to gauge the lay of the land.
That land was white. The snow was still falling and had blanketed the village, the lakes, the camp. For now, all looked empty, clean, like a fresh sheet of paper waiting to be filled. History is writ in blood. Her nuncle Rodrick had told her something like that, but Asha doubted anyone would ever read of her. How could they? Whatever blood was put down in the morning light would be buried by midday.
Most daughters are forgotten, she knew, but she was not most daughters. Most daughters wouldn’t be here, axe in hand, waiting for battle. Fighting for a demon, drown me for a fool.
The southroners were given the right wing. The enemy had cavalry, Benjicot Branch reported, so the men had been armed with spears, forming rank on rank of steal hoarfrost. Under a fiery heart banner heavy with snow, Ser Richard Horpe commanded, the knight mounted atop a grey palfrey. As thin as the horse was, it was one the healthier ones, taken from the lot the Braavosi banker had brought in the night. The moths on Ser Richard’s shield were caked over with ice, but Asha could make out of some of the other men’s heraldry: the fox head of Florent, the pod of Peasebury, the spucetrees of Fell.
Big Bucket Wull led the left. Behind his shaggy garron stood hundreds of spears from his own clan, clad in fur and mail, with bear-paws lashed to their boots. Farther back were Norreys and Knotts, Harclays and Liddles, Burleys and Flints — this morning, the quarrelsome northerners almost looked orderly. But will they stay that way? Ranks of spears require obedience and discipline, yet each of these northmen no doubt wanted glory for themselves. It could be their undoing.
The middle was Arthor Karstark’s. Stannis had given the traitor’s son a chance to prove himself, against the council of his second. Banners with a white sunburst sprouted up amongst the twelve hundred spearmen, though only one of every three soldiers was truly sworn to Karhold. Let no man call Stannis unwary. Clansmen were the bulk of the army, one on each shoulder of the Karstark men. Beneath the snow, however, the men all looked much alike.
The king led from the rear, as green land kings were wont to do. There, the paltry reserve gathered around him: a cavalry of two score knights and a dozen northmen. Asha and her six ironborn were mounted with them, though only Tris and Roggon looked comfortable ahorse. From their islet, they would see the carnage unfold on the flat land before them, and ride to where they were needed. If our mounts don’t die when spurred.
And in truth, they couldn’t see that far. Their hill was scarcely higher than a stage, and the falling snow curtained much and more of the world. The woods beyond the Crofter’s village were hidden, as too was the farside of camp and the king’s tower. Even the flame atop it was gone. The foe might have marched right by them and no one would be the wiser, like a reaver overlooking prey on a starless night… if it weren’t for the pyre.
To the right of the reserve, the fire still roared, its garish flames matching the heart inlaid on Stannis’ breastplate. To his helm, two weirwood branches had been affixed, giving him what looked like a stag’s antlers. The wood had come from the tree on the left, its face as pale and stern as the king’s. Between two gods, and neither of them mine.
True to his word, Stannis had swung the sword himself. It was as a Stark of Winterfell would have done , she reminded him. The blade danced with blinding light as it sliced through the scrawny neck. Before the weirwood, blood sprayed out, as red as summer cherries. The show made the northmen roar with delight. Then, Ser Godry and Ser Corliss fed the body to the flames, the king himself tossing the head on the pyre. To that, the southoners cheered.
It was not long before the snow by the weirwood was white again. It’s still hungry.
A trumpet sounded somewhere in the east, harsh and angry.
“Fight hard today, cunt.” Ser Clayton Suggs said as he rode up beside Asha. “Like you’re mad with moon blood.”
“I can give you a bloody gash, if you’d like strength to your arm.” She spun the axe in her hand.
Suggs laughed, then grew serious. He closed his visor. Asha knew to do the same.
Out of the falling snow, she spotted a horse. Then five, then fifty, then five hundred. And with them: a thousand men-at-arms. They were here.
The leader of the enemy wore silvered plate and mail, inlaid with details of lapis lazuli. The crest of the warhelm was tall, fashioned in the shape of the Twin Towers of House Frey. His shield bore those same towers, quartered with the snakes of Paege and the tree-and-ravens of Blackwood.
Before him rode banner bearers. One bore the star and lion standard of King
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