Stelsa, the girl crafted from the broken leftovers from the Gods, is far from the expectations of a normal lady. Her father, Aaeron Meryls, and her uncles sought to train her in the way of the blade. Many whisper about her origin - is she bastard li...
"Yet she clung to this feeling while the hands that held her were RAW AND BLEEDING."
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THE CROWD SAT AT THE edge of their seats — some screaming at the tops of their lungs while others quietly watched in anticipation. Horses dove for safety from the clouds of rage that threatened their lives. Squires stood around the edges of the field with bated breath as they watched on, some even lifted their arms to cover their eyes from the dust cloud that they found themselves surrounded by. Yet through the dust and chaos of the crowd, Stelsa's gaze remained firmly on the man in the field. Her fingers wove themselves between Aemond's as she watched this man, blanketed in the colors of her own House, fight as a Northerner would.
Arrwell's helm went flying over, sweeping across the battle arena but it did not dissuade him. There was a hushed murmur surrounding the royal arrangement — Stelsa could feel their eyes burning the back of her head. It had been only a simple command from her that had led to this. Arrwell had strode in on his horse, carrying a direwolf emblem, and come to stand before the royal suite. She had not given him some floral arrangement as her favor. He had been sent against a man standing in for House Lannister.
She merely commanded him to bring her his helm.
Arrwell released a yell as his gloved hand came to strike the other man. It was similar to how a wolf would snarl before it sunk its teeth into its prey — his northern blood shone through the rage filling him in that moment. Blood splattered across the arena and made the young boys cowering on the sides flinch, but the crowd went wild. As the blood splattered across the dusty field it was as though the crowd was a pack of hounds. One drop of blood set them off.
Aemond glanced at Stelsa from the side. She could see him in the corner of her own eye. His fingers tapped against the wood of her seat. For a dragon was not set off by the drop of blood. Aemond did not say a word. Nor did Stelsa. No one around them dared to speak. Some did not even dare to breathe.
There was a sudden silence for the briefest moment. There was no breeze. No inhale of breath. The crowd seemed to peer over the banisters as the fight came to a halt. Arrwell remained on his knees before his opponent. Even from a distance Stelsa could see the way his shoulders lifted with every quick breath. Arrwell moved slowly as squires hesitantly inched forward.
He crossed the arena, bloodied from the fight and exhausted, to stand before the royal podium. Arrwell lifted the helm of the other man towards the sky — towards where Stelsa resided. "As you commanded, mi'lady." Arrwell's voice echoed through the seats. The crowd erupted with those words, chanting for the young man as Stelsa collected the helm as though it was a trophy. Perhaps it was, Stelsa considered, as she nodded to her faithful guard.
The smirk on Stelsa's face was lethal. To the eyes of the realm she seemed to be exchanging pleasantries with her father and uncle just hours later, but her grin held a story of its own. One that even her own father could not make out. "Arrwell did well today." Her uncle complimented as they moved through the crowded gardens.
