gxred-of-house-forrester:
Gared hadn’t thought much about what the pit fighters thought of life in Westeros, though he’d heard that Asher was one of the few people that they somewhat respected. It was true when the other said that a Lord sounded much like a master, though only being a squire for Lord Forrester, he couldn’t pretend to understand what it must be like being in their position and dealing with such a thing. Part of him knew it would be smart to keep his distance from those people that had traveled from Essos—he did not wish to anger them, and more importantly, did not wish to fight one of them. He’d heard of the skill that they had, and the things that they’d needed to do to survive. Though he’d fought monsters that had rose from the dead, he was smart enough to not test his skills with those who once killed for fun. Still, part of him still wanted to see the pit fighters in action against the Whitehill’s—the ex-squire was never one for enjoying bloodshed, but after everything, they deserved everything that came to them. “Name yourself a sellsword Lord then, it’d suit you more than just a Lord.” And, well, it’d make a nice chance. After everything Asher had been through, he could hardly be put down as just another typical Lord. Hell, many thought the man would never return to Ironrath in the first place, and instead live the rest of his days in Essos, exiled from home. Gared was glad to see his return.
Amused at the others fake stories of heroism, the ex-squire couldn’t help but think back to Norren and his stories on the battlefield of Jaime Lannister, and how people laughed because they knew that not one word coming from his mouth was completely truthful. Even during a war, things seemed so simple then, and silently he wonders if Norren even survived what happened at the Red Wedding. Last he’d seen him with Bowen, but it would be foolish to think that they both managed to escape unscathed. Of course, all of that felt like a lifetime ago, though the events that night still damaged House Forrester presently. Gared would’ve been sadder in that moment, if the ale and Asher Forrester weren’t keeping his spirits up. In truth, the boy was just glad to have survived everything that had happened since, even if it left him a little less stable than beforehand. He wished he could be like Asher—just kill someone and be done with it. Part of him had always wished to be like the other in that regard, though as he was still alive, Gared knew he must’ve been doing something right. “Hopefully one day you’ll be tellin’ this in front of the masses. A’can tell you’re goin’ t’be popular.” Ramsay dead? One could dream. Eventually, that bastard would get what was coming to him. The North knew as much. “Certainly have the skills to do as much.”
Eyes looking toward the other as he felt fingers along the back of his neck, the lowborn couldn’t help but wonder what the others intention in doing that was—it felt strangely good, of course, but perhaps he’d just forgotten what human contact meant and how it worked. Soon, he felt his collar being pulled at lightly, and he couldn’t help but chuckle lightly. Asher, strangely enough, was one of the few people he felt comfortable around at Ironrath anymore. Most men and women he once considered friends were either dead or deserted when the situation at Ironrath worsened, and with his Uncle now gone due to Rodrik’s punishment, he realized how important choosing the right friends now was. Was it bad that he wished for more contact with Asher?
“A’haven’t had any sun, Asher! And a’thought just the North was bad. You should see what it’s like up there.” One thing he certainly did not miss was having to be near a fire just to avoid freezing to death. He thought of Fire and Ice again, and smiled. “Sounds like it was made for you.” The women and men? Interesting. “And now you’re back here. What’re you goin’ to do without all those men and women to keep you company? A’m not so sure a Sellsword Lord will have the time to go out findin’ them!” Setting down the now-empty goblet, he shook his head. Was it strange for Asher to be in Westeros again? A culture shock? Or was it like being back home?
Arriving at Westeros, though he’d not shown in much to public, he’d been concerned for the pit-fighters well-being; well as concerned as one could without appearing strange to them. He’d almost grown weary of Amaya’s comments towards him when he acted to help, becoming tiresome to reply with the same old general message; ‘I’m doing this so you don’t die’ or rather something similar to that. The truth being that he greatly cared for the Essosi fighters, he held an affinity towards them and determinations to make sure they thrived here. Helping them had not gone without benefit, more respect had been gained and it was comforting; Beskha had told him so. Respect or not he wanted to be like them, many would argue a highborn could never fall so low like an ex-slave, Asher would prove to them that there was no fall; no cliff where a house made of gold sat upon it, and no jump down to the depths of poor and violence. They were just as equal to he and vice versa. He’d almost became a slave once, a simple lick of what it was like serving under a Master in his drugged state– it had been awful. A large piece of him wished to see other’s or rather Gared approach them, if he could hold a decent company with them then perhaps other would not see them as violent, mindless killers. He supposed the front was intimidating, perfect for the encroaching war; but they were men like any other, holding different values and morals than here. He liked that.
As far as Asher knew, no one else had proved a semblance of worth in Amaya’s eyes, so there’s a danger in it all; he knew that far too well and not everyone held a mind like himself, a shame. Overall, he wouldn’t lie in saying he wasn’t glad to return despite the circumstances. “Do you think I can add handsome in there? I wouldn’t want to lie, of course, I am quite handsome. Wouldn’t you agree, Gared?” Considered to be used in simple passing time, faked or not; stories brought men together and could easily fill them with an arrangement of feelings. Joy, anger, sorrow, seething revenge, bringing a laugh to their lips or a frown by simple delivery; a good story teller could do all as he wished, in the end it was meant to uplift something. Currently, it was Gared’s spirits.
“Takes more than just skills Gared, needs good ale, meticulous planning, and extraordinary friends.” The statement is slow to be delivered, Asher bringing a hand to tug gently at his beard as if that would emphasize his words; would the other understand his meaning? There’s a quick thought, hoping he wasn’t seen as just a ruthless killer. Granted many he killed there was little consideration to their death, no spare sorrow-filled thought towards them unless he had know them well; as a child he had questioned Royland about this…skill. He desperately grasped at the concept when younger, fitting he held in now. “Did you have any friends at the Wall?”
At his question, he looked over Gared for any hints of sorrow and grief, old friends he’d know too well. Doing this he noticed the way he’d reacted to his simple touching; perhaps he shouldn’t do that? Returning to Westeros and being declared Lord meant there were certain things he was prohibited from doing, not that he really cared much to stop it. Who’s right was it to say he couldn’t do what he’d grown accustomed to, what he knew deeply was right? There’s a retaliation in his action, and a wanting to play it off as simple comfort, reaching out he took hold of Gared’s hand and squeezed. As they continued speaking, he just held his hand.
“Ha! You’d have a lily-white ass then, more than me anyways, Beskha can finally drop it.” He grinned softly at the joke which Gared knew nothing about, to him it must have been crudely lax– then again it was Asher. “Have plenty of men and women around me now, many with that Essosi charm. I think the handsome sellsword Lord will be fine.” There’s a glance to his half-finished goblet, reaching with his free hand to take it. It was strange to be back in Westeros, he thought, setting the now emptied goblet down. It didn’t feel like home, not yet anyways.
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