[center][b]Hills of Norvos, Essos | Edwina Sarwyck[/b][/center]

[i]It was thirteen years ago, a return to a time that the westerosi woman dreaded with all of her heart. It was here as the sun rose from the hills of the Crownlands to bring a bloody rebellion to a harsh end. The bastard Targaryen revolt that prepared to siege King’s Landing itself to bring themselves to victory, a victory that they themselves would lose on this day. On a field the core of the Blackfyre forces found themselves at siege themselves by the last breath of the loyalists to the crown—to the southwestern side of the fields is where she was. 

The woman was but a girl of four and ten disguised as a boy. The young girl known only as Raynard stood in the far back of a camp dedicated to bannermen of the Westerlands. Even with the damage at Lannisport by Ser Quentyn Ball, these were men who refused to allow the Blackfyre Rebellion to go further after they could not stop Ball from doing the damage done to Lannisport and damaging Lannister pride. She remembered it so—the banners towering as the sun began to rise, its light catching them: the broken sword of House Sarwyck, the coins in the checks of House Payne, the three crossbows of House Drox, the ten stars of House Peckledon, the red diamonds with the bronze halberds of House Yarwyck, and the blue rooster of House Swyft.

“The Blackfyre won’t survive this day, we can’t let them, and we shan’t let them. They will fail.”

The voice of Arthur Drox spoke out amongst the youths and young adults that she had hid herself with—few of them were squires, but most of them were simple men who were loyal to their liege—whether they be Payne, Sarwyck, or what-have-you. It was true that she at her young age back then had more intent than to hide amongst the soldiers to escape her betrothal to be on these to-be Redgrass Fields. It was at Lannisport where Quentyn Ball had killed her brother Selwyn Sarwyck and deserved to be brought to Sarwyck justice. It was true that the Sarwyck were not the only ones who felt similarly but the emotional resonance was strong in her young self. She speculated that she could’ve confided in her brother to make a plea to her father to break the horrid betrothal she was doomed to have. 

It was true that the Blackfyre rebels were resilient and ruthless, something that would come to her ears later in the battle as it became evident that her cousin, Kevan Sarwyck, was stricken down by Tobin Strickland—the man leading Quentyn Ball’s forces in his stead. It was saddening to hear as this rebellion seemed to keep taking the lives of her kin and throughout the day only more would fall. But the house would persevere as it always had. At the time she hoped that the Seven would intervene and save more lives—the highlight of the conflict was saving her brother from afar with her skill with the bow when a Blackfyre soldier came from his rear flank while he was engaged in combat with another.

All… distant memories.[/i]

The smell of coal-enriched copper filled the air as the woman of twenty and eight finally opened her eyes—parting ways with the memories that befell her in her dreams so often even after it had been so long. It had been the beginning of her journey on those Redgrass Fields and now she felt that she wanted to be near its end. In the present there was no rally of soldiers nor was there a command by Arthur Drox compelling her to remove her sense of fear. There was only herself and the small innhouse settled in-between the towering mountains and crumbling hills of northwestern Essos. Thinking back on her life it was fairly surprising how it all led here far from Westeros and far from everything that she had known. She had fought in many disputes and traveled as hiresword as well as guardian—yet the stigma still followed her and announced itself every day, a stigma that told her that this was man’s world and she should accept her fate… a fate she refused to acknowledge. 

Moving to the side of her bed she reflected on the last few nights where she had been aimlessly pushing away from the forests of Qohor, a place she had previously found herself comfortable in. The accommodations in the innhouse she had taken to were…pleasant enough, but nothing grand; which was expected of the locale it opened business in. Settled in the rugged hills of Norvos, this innhouse—the Bellowing Rooster—found itself tucked in this hamlet that offered three main businesses, one of which being the Rooster itself with the other two being mining and hunting. However, she remembered not the hamlet’s name nor how far she was from Norvos itself at this point in her travels. Though to the town’s credit, the westerosi woman had not remember much of the places she had been to in the process of traveling in Essos for the last several years—especially since she crossed blades with the horselord’s themselves, the Dothraki. 

That was a tender subject—the dothraki. 

They had been spoken of like demons with a taste for savagery and she would not disagree. The companions she had met and traveled with throughout the Dothraki Sea were the closest she had ever come to being at peace with herself. She of course still remember their names…. Velasco, Alcaeus, Ernakh, and Gellid. They were all men who were forged from conflict and from different cultural paths. She remembered the braavosi, Velasco, the most as he was her most trusted friend and the most skilled with a sword out of the assortment of her allies. These had been the only men she personally had confessed her story and gender to, confiding in them in a drunken stupor and in the end none of them cared. They all treated her as an equal and respected her and her ability like her eldest brother had. When she discovered that sort of kinship it made it all the worse when she eventually lost them to dothraki iron. 

‘If all women from Westeros are like you, then I am very glad I am in Essos.’ – The words brought a sort of duality to them as she recalled them. Why had the seven damned her to suffer through such an unbearable life? To see every man she cares for to perish and for her to survive with her heart barely intact? Was it because she refused to follow her original fate in Arthur Lydden’s court? Why would they punish her for abandoning such a cruel and disgusting man? Or was this all because she was not strong enough to receive more of a blessing from the seven? Why did her god have to tease her so? Despite such questions however she found herself never truly bitter with her faith and kept the seven close to her heart.

Running her left hand across her face to shield any tears she decided to stand up and get moving, she would not cry like a little girl. As she moved from her bed to the lone window of the room she took a glance outside to see the day haul of miners and hunters begin to take shape. She needed to take their lead and get moving—to leave and keep heading on her path. She had after-all decided that a return to Braavos was something she had to do as she had a personal reason to return to the most notable of the Free Cities. It was also far from the Dothraki Sea, a place she did not want to even think about let alone be physically near. She knew it would only bring a self-destructive path if she attempted to contain herself. She knew that Velasco would want her to move on and find strength in his failure rather than dwell on his death at Dothraki hands. 

It was then closed the window and pushed the ratty curtains together—as she looked down to her equipment that she had placed on the floor as the room didn’t have much for anything outside of an old wood bed that had seen better days. Her gear comprised of bandages to suppress her female features, her weaponry that included a bow and sword of westerosi make, padded leather armor, and a braavosi scarf to obscure her appearance… a scarf that had much significance to the westerosi woman. Those who met her eyes on the road would only catch her charcoal hair tied in a rough ponytail and her dulled blue eyes. The innkeeper who took her coin had jokingly called her the “silent westerosi” due to the fact she bore westerosi gear and appearance whilst speaking no words. 

Perhaps it was poetic? However she did not think much on her next “idenity”—in fact she felt maybe it was time to not bear one at all. If she could take anything from her thirteen years in Essos perhaps it was this: maybe it was time to stop caring if people knew about her gender or not, maybe it was time to embrace it. As a female she stood and fought Dothraki warriors—a feat few people from Essos dared do. As a female she killed dothraki and survived. Her eldest brother had told her it once before: she had the possible talent to become a better swordsman than any male in the House Sarwyck—and perhaps the realm. Perhaps he was right?

“It’s time.” She muttered underneath her breath as she moved for the door as she tightened the braavosi scarf.

Edwina Sarwyck. The girl who ran away with the talent of the sword.