Chapter Text
Gyselle could not decide if this was the best or worst that she’d felt since before the war. She had always hated and feared the dangers of wandering the realm, looking for work wherever it was found. She had always longed for some sort of safety, familiarity, even just a bit of steady coin. Then she had gotten what she wanted, but the cost had been appalling. If she had known what she would have to endure to keep her freedom, she would have remained at House Tart with Ser Rick Merzer and his lover, Lunz.
Regrets were a waste. That was what an old prostitute had told her once, back in Oldtown. Your concern is misplaced. What can you do to change the past? All you can do is change the future. Accept what happened, move forward . It had been brave advice for a drunk woman dying of the pox, and Gyselle had simply gone on resenting the present. Now she wanted to weep whenever she thought of that woman.
Since that dreadful night, she could not count the number of places where she had attempted to go. First Duskendale, until she was recognised as Penny Jenny, or Redgrass Jenny as men had taken to calling her. She had barely been able to escape the town, especially given her pregnancy.
From there, she’d gone west, to Brindlewood, then southwards along the border of the Reach and the Riverlands. Dozens of little villages whose names she forgot as soon as she left them, if she’d even bothered to learn them in the first place. All the while, the child was growing inside her belly.
At first, she had offered herself to men who rode carts, taking payment in the form of food and a chance to rest her feet instead of coin. She also begged in the streets, too desperate even to feel ashamed.
It was freedom, that which she had missed so deeply whilst imprisoned by Quentyn Ball. Not a day went by that she didn’t curse her fate, bemoan all that she was suffering, or wonder why the gods were punishing her so cruelly.
Then, nearly two months after her flight from the Blackfyre camp, she found herself in a familiar place.
Penmore was a shadow of its former self. Half the houses seemed to be empty, and the people that remained bore sullen or fearful expressions.
House Tart still stood, but she doubted very much that it was still called by that name. It was a haunting experience for her to walk through the door and see it more or less unchanged, except for the men who ran it.
The shaggy-haired man whom Gyselle had last seen here was gone. Now it was a swarthy man who stood behind the bar. A large birthmark covered one cheek, giving him a blood-spattered look. He started when he saw her walk in, then he smiled as she approached. “Did you come to the wrong place?”
“I hope not,” Gyselle murmured. “I need a place to stay.”
“No doubt,” the man replied snidely.
“I used to work here,” Gyselle explained.
“Oh?” The man smirked. “I doubt you’ll be able to work here now. Least not until you get that sorted.” He nodded to her belly.
“I can cook too,” Gyselle answered defiantly. “I learned to cook in the kitchen here.”
“Did you? Well, since you know the way, how about you make me something to eat.” He swiveled his torso in the direction of the kitchen and called out in a loud voice. “Oy! Alarra! You’ve got company!”
Thankfully, the kitchen had not changed a great deal since Gyselle had last seen it, though it was not nearly as well-kept without Lunz in charge.
Alarra turned out to be a grey-haired woman with a wooden leg. She limped her way around the kitchen as Gyselle entered. “What do you want?”
“Work,” Gyselle replied. “The innkeeper told me to make supper.”
Alarra frowned. “Not sure what Ossifer’s playing at. But go on and dance this mummer’s farce if you must.”
Grumbling to herself, Gyselle went through the supplies and got to work, ignoring Alarra as much as she could.
Alarra kept her distance whilst Gyselle had worked; no easy task in a kitchen that size. When Gyselle finished making a small cauldron of mutton stew, Alarra waited for her to work on other things before distributing most of the mutton stew to men outside the kitchen. Prostitutes descended from the upper level to sneak food for themselves.
By the time Ossifer finally stopped into the kitchen to eat supper, Gyselle had prepared a bowl of mutton stew, along with an assortment of boiled vegetables, a side of roast partridge, and a rash of bacon that she’d fried at the last minute.
“Oh ho,” Ossifer exclaimed, eyeing the meal as he sat down. “You really do want to work, eh?”
Gyselle felt sour as she watched him tuck in. She had snuck a few bites during the process, but she was still hungry. No matter what I do, where I go, I always come back to this same place.
“What’d you do to these?” He gestured to the green beans, broccoli, and carrots.
“Boiled them,” Gyselle answered curtly, “and I made sure to put garlic cloves in with them first, let them sit whilst I made the stew.”
Ossifer nodded as he took another spoonful of stew. “Very good, this,” he mumbled as he chewed. “I’ll give you room and board.””
“I need more than that,” Gyselle protested.
“Don’t we all,” Ossifer laughed. “I would have thought we paid you enough coin at the Redgrass Field, Jenny.”
Gyselle felt her insides freeze. He laughed at her expression. “What? You forgot me already? Suppose I ought to be insulted.” He continued to eat as he chuckled to himself.
She often dreamed about that terrible evening. She could never recall the faces of those men who had used her with wild abandon. The sensation of them inside of her, crowding around her, taking her, that had been bad enough to make her wake up with tears in her eyes.
Desperation and exhaustion alone stayed her wrath and her desire to leave. I will endure this until the babe’s born, then find some other place.
Room and board was agreed upon whilst she cooked. Once her baby was born, she would return to her first profession and begin saving.
Wearily, she made her way up the stairs to the sleeping quarters. Alarra had taken the small room behind the kitchen, and she was in no mood to share.
As she plodded down the hall, she heard a soft sobbing.
One of the doors was ajar. The moonlight revealed the silhouette of a girl, huddled in a shaking heap on the floor.
Gyselle might have passed on, but something kept her in place, leaning against the wall as she poised indecisively. She still hadn’t made up her mind when the girl looked up and saw her.
She made a small noise of surprise, then went silent, gazing at Gyselle with wide, suspicious eyes.
Gyselle felt compelled to speak. “What’s wrong?”
The girl looked away and crawled to a makeshift bed in the corner, ignoring Gyselle until she gave up and walked on, feeling foolish.
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She saw the girl again the following day when she came down to sneak some food from the kitchen. Gyselle made no mention of it to Alarra, and certainly not to Ossifer.
Days went on, and the girl seemed to realise Gyselle was trustworthy when no repercussions fell upon her. Whenever Alarra went off to eat or use the privy, the girl made her way into the kitchen and took something for herself.
Each time, she said nothing to Gyselle, who pretended not to notice her when she arrived. But on the ninth or tenth day of this, Gyselle was busy making an eel stew when the girl spoke to her.
“Is it true what they say?”
Gyselle paused, then gave the girl a wary glance. “What do they say?”
“You’re Redgrass Jenny?”
“That’s true,” Gyselle confirmed curtly, turning back to her food.
“Then the babe is Fireball’s?”
“Supposedly,” Gyselle answered dryly, this time without turning around.
“I’m sorry about before.”
There was something about her tone which compelled Gyselle to face the girl again.
“I was saving up some coin,” the girl explained, “and someone found my hiding spot. I don’t know which of those bitches took it, and even if I did…” She trailed off, gazing at Gyselle.
There was something about the way she spoke, and the way she looked at her, that made Gyselle feel strange. “Where was your hiding spot?”
“Loose floorboard in my room. There was a space underneath it. I kept my coin in a small bag.”
“Does Penmore still have a gong farmer?”
The girl frowned. “Aye, but what of it?”
“You ever been near his home?” Gyselle resumed preparing the stew as she spoke. “It reeks! No man or woman ever robs a gong farmer’s home. And he only comes out at night, so he won’t notice you hiding your loot on his property.”
“Oh…” The girl shook her head. “That’s a brilliant idea!”
Gyselle shook her head. “I wish it was mine, then.” She gave the girl another glance. “What’s your name?”
“Kya.” She might have said more, but she bolted as the stumping gait of Alarra signaled her return.
After that, Kya found other moments to slip into the kitchen and speak to Gyselle. Gyselle soon learned that she was only sixteen and had been born to a prostitute in the Riverlands.
“My mother worked in a brothel called Pussywillows,” she explained one evening whilst she helped to clean the kitchen. “I left when the war was being fought. I didn’t want to end up dead by one side or the other.”
“Wish I was as smart as you were,” Gyselle remarked. “Why didn’t your mother go with you?”
“She died of pox when I was twelve,” Kya explained.
Even Gyselle was struck by how little feeling there was in Kya’s voice as she spoke of her mother’s death. But she had no wish to pry. “Will you go back to Pussywillows now that the war is over?”
“I meant to,” Kya answered, “until I lost my savings.”
“You can make them again,” Gyselle answered. “And in the meantime, I’ll try and find them for you.”
“You will?” Kya was so thrilled that she embraced Gyselle while she was still stained with blood and entrails of a lamb she was butchering.
Privately, Gyselle doubted that she would ever discover who had stolen Kya’s coin. She had another idea in mind, and it was best to keep Kya ignorant until the plan was carried out.
Whenever she had a moment to herself, Gyselle slowly scoured the establishment for Ossifer’s wealth. The search was not an easy one. Ossifer was notoriously greedy, with an unfriendly and mistrustful disposition. She didn’t doubt that he’d chosen a very careful place to hide his gold, but she was determined to leave as soon as she could.
Kya slowly rebuilt her own fortune, taking Gyselle’s advice by hiding it outside the brothel beneath the shingles of the same roof which Gyselle had used the year before.
“Tell me,” she asked one evening as they sat together in their quarters. “Did you ever enjoy fucking?”
Even after more than four months of her acquaintance, Gyselle was astonished that she answered the question honestly. “Never.”
“Never?” Kya was surprised. “Are they all that bad?”
“Nay,” Gyselle shook her head. “Some women enjoy fucking men, some enjoy fucking women, and some don’t enjoy it at all. More than you would think, too.”
Kya nodded slowly. “Takes me a lot to enjoy it properly, but it’s happened. There’s a man near the Pussywillows who used to be a squire. He guards the brothel sometimes. He’s a right looker, and takes his time too.” Kya giggled, then her face fell. “I hope he survived the war.”
“Maybe we’ll find out someday,” Gyselle answered.
It was a strange feeling; she had not felt this way in so long, and it frightened her. Always she felt as though Kya might betray her, or run off, and it was a constant surprise when that did not happen.
“Mayhaps? Of course we will!” Kya drained her cup and went to refill it from the jug they’d snuck upstairs. She handed it to Gyselle, only for her to suddenly gasp in shock.
Gyselle followed her gaze downwards, only to see the lower front of her dress turning wet. “Oh gods…”
She was only half-aware of Kya shrieking for help, and two other prostitutes hurrying into the room to half-carry her outside. The pain had already begun, and it was all she could do to remember how to breathe. She fought the urge to scream as she hobbled to a humble midwife’s abode.
Her name was Morra Wise, or so the other women called her. She urged them to lay Gyselle on a pile of straw which lay in a corner. By that point, Gyselle was sobbing from the pain.
It seemed to last an eternity. Her world was agony, feeling it more viscerally than anything she’d ever experienced before. Other pains returned to her as she writhed and wailed for help. The cruelty of the septas in Oldtown, the cruelty of crones who sneered at her in poverty and the prostitutes who envied her when she was a captive of Quentyn. So much cruelty from men, all her life. Their words and deeds returned to her recollection, reminding her how alone she was in this cruel world.
“Hulla!” Gyselle wailed. “Hulla!” She stopped herself from screaming that name again as she remembered the truth, and it was enough to break her heart along with her body.
“Almost done, Jenny! One more push!”
Gyselle screamed again, so loud that she felt something in her voice break. Then she heard another voice screaming with her.
“A boy!”
A boy. Just what you wanted, Quentyn. She began to laugh through her tears, trembling with agony, mirth, and relief as she held out her arms.
The babe’s cries were cut off as she guided him to her breast. She felt his little mouth clamp onto her nipple, already hungry.
“A boy,” Gyselle murmured, awash with emotion. She was scarcely aware of the tears running down her face.
“What will you name him?”
She had thought to name him Rickard or Lunz, after the two best men she had ever known. For one mad moment, she had considered Ennis Dudley’s name, until she recalled how he had hero-worshipped Quentyn Ball. Then, as she lay on soft straw half-soaked in her own fluids, she remembered another man of House Dudley who had known Quentyn for the man that he was. He had been repulsed by Quentyn, and strove to undermine his attempts at glory. He’d died for his insolence, forgotten whilst Quentyn had cemented his legend across the Seven Kingdoms. Let that man live on too , Gyselle suddenly thought. Let him live with your name, Quentyn, and see how you like it from down in whatever of the seven hells you’re sitting in now.
Gyselle looked the midwife in the eye. “Glendon. That’s his name.”
She nodded. “Glendon Flowers, then.”
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Even at such a tender age, Gyselle swore that she could see Quentyn’s features on her son’s face. Sometimes the resemblance was fleeting, captured only in a single glance or a twitching of that little mouth.
Regardless, Kya and several of the others adored Glendon, playing with him every chance they got. Ossifer resented it, but Gyselle’s cooking had only improved with practice, and he was not so stupid as to drive her away.
Sadly, he was also not stupid when it came to hiding his fortune. Gyselle had searched for more than five months, and still hadn’t found it.
One day, as she held Glendon to her breast, she admitted the truth to Kya. “Wherever Ossifer’s hiding his loot, it’s beyond my ability. I can’t imagine where he’s stashed it all.”
She expected Kya to abandon her, dismiss her as a failure. Instead, the girl leaned forward. “Mayhaps it doesn’t matter?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mayhaps we can leave with what I’ve already got,” Kya explained. “Might be it’s enough.”
“It isn’t,” Gyselle insisted. “I’ve travelled across the Reach from one end to the other and I know how far we’ll get. That’s before even mentioning how we’ll be traveling around with Glendon. I’ve got months to go before I can earn my own proper coin again.”
It was infuriating to admit, even to herself. She had come to loathe Ossifer and Alarra, and though the other women were reasonably friendly, Kya was the only bright spot in a sky full of mottled grey clouds. It made the words choke in her throat all the more fiercely, but she forced them out all the same.
“Go without me,” Gyselle urged. “I’ll make my own way.”
Kya paused, then shook her head. “I can’t go alone. I barely made it here in one piece. And now they say the woods are full of broken men and rebels turned outlaw. I can’t travel alone.”
“I’m only holding you back,” Gyselle remarked angrily, tired of this argument.
“I don’t mind,” Kya retorted. “I’ll wait for you. The three of us will go north when we have the means.”
Gyselle felt herself start to weep, but she couldn’t contain herself. She said nothing as tears slid down her cheeks, and Glendon suckled blissfully onward. Kya was alarmed and confused, but Gyselle assured her it was nothing. When the younger girl left, Gyselle held her son close.
“Your father was a monster,” she whispered softly, content that Glendon would never remember her words. “But the realm remembers him as a great warrior. Half the realm even thinks he’s a hero. If his reputation and legacy can help you in life, then you’ll take it for your own. It was the best of him, and that’s all you’ll ever take with you. Maybe then you won’t be trapped in such a place as I’ve been all my life.” She gave his soft crown a tender kiss. “Your name is Glendon Ball, and you come from hero’s blood.”
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End of “The Black Dragon”
Titus, Jena, Cassana, and more will return in “The Vulture King”