Deep Den, 75 AD, 12th Month

There was a satisfying crack as the dull boy hit the ground, and a collective gasp from the audience. Blood slicked the cobbles, and he gurgled gently as the hair he’d grabbed finally drifted from his hand. A dark haired young woman, bronze of skin and well built for her size, leaned over and regarded him casually.

“Vaegaz. Better get the Maester for that one.”

They regarded her with wild eyes, half scared and half enraged. Kerrah had been dealing with boys like this since she was first summoned to Deep Den. In the dim training area deep within the cave, this latest group had thought to take advantage of her while she cleaned up the sparring ring. Worse, they’d called her a ‘Tall Man’ again. She hated that name, that Westerosi laziness. She’d spat at them, “Pigfuckers, it’s Tagaez Fen,” and now a boy was bleeding out on the floor. Her father would have chided her for the violence, but it was the spirit of the thing. Kerrah couldn’t let lazy people get away with calling her a man. That’d make her lazy, too. Where would it end?

“That’s a head wound, you know. Very dangerous for a boy his age.”

She glanced around at them all, and took a step back, as a boy with golden hair pulled out a blade. He was one of the Goldfields, she thought. She remembered when she was first asked to Deep Den, their shouts echoing through the caverns. They wanted her to hear. Her hand found one of the weapon racks, so she grabbed a training sword and whipped it between her and them. Some of them cackled at the sight, but not that gold haired shit. He was a squire too. He knew.

One of them took a step forward, and Kerrah swung hard. The boy fell to the side with a scream as another rushed her, slamming into her chest and knocking her back. She brought up a knee into his face as he grasped her arm, and tried to bring the sword back around, eyes darting rapidly back to the blonde with the knife. He was patient. Damn the Gods.

He saw his chance and moved in, stepping over one of the others even as she tried to wrest her arm from that damned foolish kid hanging off her with a broken nose. The glint of metal in the torchlight flashed towards her. She threw herself aside, letting the weight of her grappler pull her sharply away from it’s point. He grunted something foul before her teeth sink into the pale flesh of his exposed arm.

THUD THUD THUD

The echoing noise rung through the melee as the gold haired boy pulled back, looking desperately over his shoulder. Kerrah released his bloody arm, and beat the dullard still hanging from her till he had the sense to let her go. Wiping her forehead and getting a safe distance, wooden sword scraping the ground, she took a moment to collect herself.

The sound of a sword being drawn drew her eyes immediately. A knight, sword at the ready, stood in full plate and helm opposite the boy. The golden shit dropped his knife and raised his hands, “I- I’m sorry! Please!”

The knight motioned to the exit, and the boy made a run for it.

Kerrah put the training blade back in its rack, and approached cautiously as the Knight sheathed his weapon and watched the injured boys drag their bleeding cohort away. His helmet turned to her direction, and they share a look. She glanced over the armour, and her mind finally clicks. “… Ser Hugh?”

The figure nods. She immediately fell to her knee, eyes down. “I’m sorry, Ser. I wasn’t aware you were…” Kerrah hesitated, then chided herself for it. “Alive. I wasn’t aware you were alive.”

The impassive helmet provides no solace, so she continued. “I’ve been waiting since I arrived, a year ago. I’ve been practicing. With the dummies, not with the boys. They just got in the way. Again.”

Her lowered eyes flickered left and right in the silence. She glanced up, once, uncertainly. She raised her head, and looked up at him properly. The helmet of Ser Hugh stared back. Silent. Unmoving. She glanced around, but the boys had finally gone. She turned back, and raised a cautious hand towards him. “Are you well, Ser?”

A sigh rumbles from within the helmet, and he reached into a pouch by his waist. Come to think of it, he was wearing a satchel, several packs, and riding boots. Ready to travel, she thought as he offered her a sealed letter, poking it with a finger.

Unfurling the note, she couldn’t help but offer a silent prayer to her mother. As a child she used to boast how she was the best reader in the world, because her mother taught her to read twice. Not all of the Maathar children were so lucky.

Kerrah read the letter.

Blinking, she read it again, just to be sure.

She looked up at the unflinching gaze, and back at the note.

“What a load of pigshite.”

A strange clanking noise drew her furrowed brow up to where Ser Hugh had placed a gauntlet on his chest. She relented, briefly. “Oh! I’m sorry, Ser. But ...disinherited? What kind of father does that? To his son no less? Wasn't that your 'birthright' or whatever-”

Ser Hugh reached up and removed his helmet, revealing cropped brown hair, a young but fatigued face, and a gentle smile. A ring of scars encircled his neck, and for a moment she couldn't help but stare. He put a finger to his lips, even as his eyes grew damp, and his free gauntlet on her shoulder.

They shared a smile, and he gripped her shoulder gently before putting the helmet back on.

“Alright then. So Ser, what… what is the plan? I can fight, I’ve been practicing!”

He shook his head and held out another letter. Kerrah raised an eyebrow at the seal, a Lannister Lion broken in twain. “I’ll fetch my things.”