White Harbor, 280 AC in The North, Westeros

Two years before the birth of Daenerys Targaryen

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The doors swung wide open.

Brynhildr made the choice on the fly. As soon as it was confirmed that House Manderly of White Harbor was interested in buying three of their ships and that other Northern houses wished to purchase some of their weapons, she prepared her people to sail there, leaving those who stayed behind under her captains' watch.

The open sea felt wonderful. A salty breeze caressed her face as she shouted for her women to slow their ships to a stop, White Harbor ahead. She leaned onto the bow, looking ahead at the clean-looking city, with wide straight cobbled streets and houses of whitewashed stone with steeply-pitched roofs of dark grey slate. The smell of seafood and beer already reached her nostrils, and tents were set near the docks selling wood, wool, hides, crab, fish, and goat cheese.

An older man waited for them, dressed in a velvet blue-green doublet embroidered with golden thread. When Brynhildr hopped onto the docks, he extended a massive hand at her, fingers the size of sausages brushing over his massive belly. She'd heard talk in Braavos that they called him Lord-Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse.

"Commander Lothbrok," wheezed Lord Wyman Manderly. "I hope the sea was kind."

"It was, my lord," she said cordially. She gestured to her ships, hulls painted blood-red and sails still bearing the symbol of the Valkyries. "Three of these will be your ships, as requested."

"And your payment–" He laughed, a loud, booming laugh that made her eardrums throb, "As requested." He offered her a heavy sack of coin. "Come, your women must be exhausted. I admit, we've never hosted sellswords–" He said it in a hushed tone, as if calling them whores, "But we hope to have prepared suitable accommodations."

Brynhildr smiled thinly, "I'm sure whatever you've managed is fine." Without looking back, she called her shield-maidens, "Meda myne." (T: Follow me.) They moved their shields to cover their chests and walked with their weapons held tight to their hips, marching in clean lines behind her. Lord Wyman hobbled ahead, the lord almost-too-fat-to-walk, too.

"Many of the Northern families have arrived already," he said, toddling as fast as he must have been able to, "but we'll have our market clear for you to sell tomorrow. Lord Rickard even sent down his son, Eddard, to come and see what you have to offer."

"Your liege lord was interested," said Brynhildr, mostly surprised and a bit intrigued– Shyra told her that young Eddard was handsome, though not as much as his older brother, Brandon. "How curious."

"Yes, Commander," said Wyman, laughing again. Gods, she wished he'd stop. "It is not everyday a sellsword company comes to sell proper-made goods. We've heard talk all over telling that the Valkyries are the most trusted and honorable sellsword group in Essos. The only ones who make anything of their own to share with the world. I've heard your group is the most diverse. And, well, women warriors, ha!"

It didn't sound like a good thing, the way he said it. Behind her, one of her Myrish shield-maidens asked, "Sklad nyje kutteg zysha pars iha?" (T: Should I cut his throat?)

"Donge," said Brynhildr calmly. (T: No.) To Lord Wyman, she questioned, "Has your liege lord given you any message for me about expectations? Some of our communications were through our Commander in Dorne, and I am not entirely sure if anything further was wanted from us."

"No, no," assured Wyman. "You are welcome, Commander Lothbrok, so long as our business is conducted without any trouble. I'm told you run a tight ship, I know I've nothing to worry about. And speaking of ships, yours are magnificent!"

He went on to rant about the visible difference in ship quality, attributing it to her designs and Braavosi materials. She allowed it while he waddled them to his home, past the thick walls with a single entrance at Seal Gate, which fed right into the harbor. On the far hill, just under New Castle, it seemed Lord Wyman had bought out an inn for them to stay in, and would allow them to come into his castle for meals as needed. They weren't invited within the castle, given some young lords were staying there from the Northern houses. Brynhildr felt that best; she didn't want to be seen as interfering.

"How does it feel to be in the North?" she asked Shyra, the highest captain brought along on the trip.

She shrugged, "It feels alright. I thought I'd like it more, but then again, it's only White Harbor. I wish we could go and see Winterfell." She sat beside Brynhildr. "Will we be going to Dorne after this?"

"I don't think so," said Brynhildr honestly. "We must let Oberyn return on his own, when he is ready."

"Even if you miss him?" Shyra tilted her head. "Come now, Brynhildr, don't think we can't see it. Those of us who knew him know you miss him. You tell every new recruit about him, too."

"I do miss him," she admitted, "but it doesn't change anything. He'll go back when he feels that he needs to. Until then, the company is mine to run. That was our agreement."

"I only wanted to ask because, well, I do care if you're happy or not. Braavos is wonderful and our company does great things none other manages. But you always speak of a destiny that's yet to arrive. Perhaps the reason it's not there is because you're trying so hard to focus on what the gods want that you forget what you want. If I'm to be part of whatever Odin has in store for you, then perhaps it's time I guide you into seizing what you desire."

"You've listened well during lessons," said Brynhildr. Noticing Shyra was pouting sympathetically at her, "Go on, shouldn't you be finding some real Northern women to fuck? I surely intend to warm my bed with a Northerner or two before we go."

Shyra rolled her eyes playfully. "I will. Let us see if I find one willing to come back to Braavos with us. There is a whole new group of fighters to recruit here."

The next day, they'd gone out to market, the square filled with real Northerners. Some of those who came with her from the Company of the Rose and the Wolf Pack looked very small beside them, everyone heavily cloaked and already massive.

Shyra was right– this was a good way to look at those they might want to take back to Braavos with them. It was an untapped market they could pool from to fill the rooms in the new wing of their house. She scanned the crowd for anyone interesting, either to join her group or to join her in bed. Gods, finding Oberyn's replacement was tiresome. But Shyra was right– Brynhildr had to stop denying herself what she wanted. It had been long enough and she'd yet to find one consistent person she felt alive with. She couldn't wait around. If she wanted something, she had to seize it.

"I think that's him," whispered Shyra beside her. "Eddard."

He was handsome, though solemn-looking, sticking near the back of the crowd and waiting for his turn to come close. Brynhildr glanced up from where she was greeting the sons of other ruling lords around the North. As much as she would have liked to flirt with him and see what sort of man he'd prove to be behind a closed door, she had a feeling he wouldn't be very receptive to it– no, if she was going to look for someone, it would have to be another.

Brynhildr glanced at Shyra, who was already occupied with a female customer who wished to buy a spiked mace from them. She heard her introduce herself as Maege Mormont, and saw that she gave Shyra a firm handshake– just the sort of dominant personality her little captain would enjoy.

"Hello." Brynhildr turned her head up to Eddard Stark. He pointed down at her sword, which she'd laid on the table. "Is that for sale? It's beautiful."

"Unfortunately not," said Brynhildr with a kind smile. "That's my sword, I took it from someone in battle. But, given you are the son of the Warden of the North–" She reached for another, made to hold a similar shine, its steel hilt bearing the design of Valkyrie wings, "I offer you this one, free of charge."

Eddard took the sword, admiring its length and lightness. "It's beautiful. I will buy it from you."

"I insist, there is no need to pay for it. Please, it is a gift."

He raised a brow. "Well, I cannot let you leave with no money. Tell me, what other weapons do you have. Any warhammers?"

"I do have some," said Brynhildr. "Though, I'll need your help lifting it. The steel we use is heavy–" She guided him to one of the crates, popping off the top then having him lean in with her to place on their table a magnificent hammer designed by one of her Sarnori fighters. "It's a monster, this one is. Very few of my men come close to being able to lift it. Perhaps a poor design on our part, but it wouldn't really have been a proper hammer without being capable of shattering a helm. Are you interested?"

She made a face that he must have understood to mean she was underestimating his strength. Eddard started to smile. "Not for myself. My very best friend, you see, he just became Lord of Storm's End. I was wondering if I could buy this for him and have you deliver it. He's strong enough to lift it, I know he is. He's lifted heavier things with little effort. If there's any man in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms worthy of this hammer, it's him."

"Very well, then," said Brynhildr, accepting the coin. Together, they put the hammer back in the crate. "I'll sail down to Storm's End and give it to him before I return to Braavos. A pleasure doing business with you, Lord Stark."

"A pleasure doing business with you, Commander Lothbrok," said Eddard. "If you ever wish to see Winterfell, you need only send me a raven. I'm sure my father would like to meet you."

She kept it in mind, following him until he disappeared in the crowd. He was more gentle than she'd heard the Northerners were, though that might be because he'd supposedly grown up in the Vale. Brynhildr rather liked Eddard Stark– she hoped to meet him again, someday.

She called for her shield-maidens to take the crate back to the ship they were keeping with them, the damned crate too heavy for anyone to want to steal, anyway. Apparently, the sight of Eddard Stark walking away with his sword and reserving a crate had been enough for more customers to flood towards them, everyone curious as to the quality if someone like him had liked it.

She noticed a serious-looking man watching from further away, eyes dark and cold as he stared at their tents as if finding everything beneath him. He wore a suit of dark grey plate armor over a quilted tunic of blood-red leather, not entirely unlike what Oberyn's Dornish armor looked like.

Brynhildr turned to talk to Shyra about it, but Shyra was no longer there. Probably gone off with Maege Mormont, she imagined. She chose to ignore it, though the man lingered, looking at her and only her as she dealt with the other customers. It became harder not to pay him attention, as her shield-maidens kept nodding at him, wondering if he'd stand there glaring the entire time they'd be here.

Finally, Brynhildr called out, "May I interest you in something, Ser?"

"Lord," he corrected, voice soft, as if to force her into complete silence to hear him.

"Lord," she repeated. "I see you've both a sword and dagger. Care to replace them?" She flicked up one of her knives, tilting the blade to show its shine and shape.

As he stepped closer, shadows leaving his face, she saw his eyes were rather strange, paler than stone yet darker than milk, almost as if she was looking at a blind man or a ghost. He extended his firm fingers out to grasp the hilt, and turned it over in his palm several times. Up close, he was handsome, though he did not cease his attempts to intimidate her. All the same, he intrigued her, and she wondered if he'd still be that serious lying naked on his back– she wanted to find out.

She decided to put on the same serious face, placing one hand over the hilt of her sword while he looked at the blade. She recognized the sigil on his cloak when he turned his head, "You're a Bolton," she said. "That's the flayed man."

"Roose Bolton," he said simply. "We say a naked man has few secrets, a flayed man none." (A/N: Imagine a young Hugh Laurie because all I could find of Roose Bolton's actor when he was younger was a picture with a terrible haircut lol + I think because of Hugh Laurie's portrayal of Dr. House, I can picture him as the sort of cunning/sinister man that Roose was.)

"I like that," agreed Brynhildr, lip curling at the way his voice had hung on the word 'naked.' Perhaps he was alluding to the same thing she was already thinking about. "The Vikings would agree with you."

"I hear your company has tortured other sellswords. Even here we know of the Blood Eagle, though I'm not sure what it looks like." He gave her a pointed look, as if inviting further commentary. He nodded his head away from the tent, and she assumed it an invitation, either for a talk or a quick fuck– she wasn't going to deny him either, considering she was happily interested in both.

Brynhildr glanced at one of her shield-maidens, "Orgon seted tistali kser. Blasg oni horva mort hvilo dekir iker simre." (T: Hold the market here. Blow our horn if there is any trouble.)

As soon as she nodded, Brynhildr reattached a belt that held both her knives and ax, though she left behind her quiver of arrows and her bow as well as her spear. With her hand still gripping her sword hilt, she followed Roose Bolton into the town, questioning lowly, "I assume this conversation cannot be had in broad daylight?"

"The Warden of the North would not take kindly to it," said Roose. "And his son lingers nearby. House Bolton has been careful since the outlawing of flaying."

He led her into an inn outside the walls of the city, within the last neighborhood next to the harbor. She followed him up to his room, and as soon as he closed the door, he admitted, "You are more beautiful than I was told. I want to take you to wife and I want you to teach me the Blood Eagle."

Brynhildr gave him the same look of incredulity as she had when Oberyn told her he wished to have a child with her the first time. "Take me to wife? What brought that on? I surmised as much about the Blood Eagle and I imagined we'd ride each other, but marriage was not one of my predictions."

"I am twenty-two," said Roose. "I am lord now that my father has passed. It's time I marry and produce heirs. I've heard things about you that I like. I hear you fight like a true Northerner, not like the gentle pups being brought up in the other houses. You'd share the values of House Bolton and you'd give me strong sons."

"I'm the Commander of a sellsword army," said Brynhildr bluntly. "I could not marry you even if I wanted to. You'd have to abandon your seat to come with me to Essos, for I will not abandon my Valkyries in favor of a man I've just met, no matter how much you may try to appeal to me. I can offer you a lesson, Lord Bolton, and at most can give you a bastard son or daughter, but not a trueborn. Even if your Warden allowed it, I would bring only physical strength to your child. I have nothing else to offer as a sellsword. I have no true house."

If he was disappointed, he didn't show it, face ever as serious. "Know that I'm not the first Lord of Westeros who wishes to marry you, nor will I yet be the last. I've heard talk that if you weren't foreign, even the Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock would gladly take you to wife. His eldest children are eighteen, the younger sixteen– and that one is a dwarf."

"As I said, I have no true house. Only my sellswords, who I will not abandon. But, I do say this... I can still teach you the Blood Eagle. Though, if what you say about your Warden is true, you'll need to be very careful not to be caught. I can only explain it to you, for if I do it with my own hands at your side... no one will ever buy from me again in Westeros."

"Fine," said Roose. "How is the Blood Eagle done?"

She slowly began to remove her weapons, laying them on his breakfast table. "Take off your clothes and I'll show you."

Only when he was undressed did she lay him on his stomach, sitting bare on his legs and running her fingers down his spine, hair falling around her face as she explained to him how the Blood Eagle worked. She turned him onto his back and began grinding her body against his as she explained the way the victim would look at the end, eagle-sprawled in mid-air if one hung them as she and her brothers did King Aelle.

He sat up to kiss her, holding the back of her head fiercely. They wrestled for control for a moment, until at last he lifted her off her bed and pinned her face-first into the wall, yanking her hips back and holding her head down as he drove into her, kissing her shoulder and moving about as harshly as she would have expected him to. She let it persist until she grew bored, then fought for control again until she'd sat him on an armchair and straddled him, gripping its back and the walls to hoist herself up as she rode him.

She left him sweating and staring at her with that murderously hungry glare, the sort she knew she would have enjoyed if she'd stuck around. Surely, he would have enjoyed hearing about Viking practices, would have enjoyed sparring with her. But Brynhildr knew that a man so violent would only ever want this rushed and intense sort of relationship. He wouldn't be tender with her and even less so with their children, if they had any. He'd probably seek excitement elsewhere if she was pregnant and unavailable.

For a day, Roose Bolton was fine. For her imagination, he worked perfectly for the image of a predator wanting to think of her as prey, only to find out she was a predator, too. In reality, they'd never work. She hoped he'd remember her any time he did a Blood Eagle. She wished she'd been able to learn to flay a man.

(More importantly, she wished Oberyn would come back. No man or woman had proven the one that excited her so. Roose Bolton would have come closer if he wasn't so cold.)

Some days later– when she'd entertained Roose up until their limits– her shield-maidens followed Brynhildr with their remaining ships down to Storm's End to deliver Lord Robert Baratheon's warhammer. She'd been tempted to try and pop by King's Landing to see if she could sell her weapons there and perhaps meet the Dragon Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, but had decided against it, thinking it could potentially lead to more trouble than it was worth.

Storm's End was an intimidating fortress, surrounded by a massive outer curtain wall and composed of a double course of pale grey stone. On the seaward side was a one-hundred-fifty-foot drop into the sea, and Brynhildr saw no safe anchorage. It had but one tower, a colossal thing that looked like a huge, spiked fist thrusting towards the sky.

Robert Baratheon was glad to host them and she was glad to be there. He was perhaps the biggest man she'd seen up to date, over six-and-a-half feet tall, incredibly muscular, and as Eddard predicted, capable of lifting that warhammer without much effort. The first thing he'd done when her shield-maidens opened the crate and let him see it was laugh heartily and scoop it up like a mere toy, raising it over his head and thanking the gods for his good friend and brother, Eddard Stark.

He'd held a feast that night in gratitude, though perhaps the purpose was to see how many of her shield-maidens he could get into bed. The answer was: many. She'd sat and dined while her girls had fun, entertained by Lord Robert's tales of hunting and his visible show of strength. Brynhildr might've entertained them if Roose's words weren't swimming in her head about lords wanting to marry her– Robert was unwed and she didn't want any part of that. Instead, she went to sit with a young maiden who was helping a nine-year-old boy eat his shredded meat, and the girl explained the boy, Renly, was Robert's younger brother.

Robert had become lord this past year when his parents died, having been sent to Volantis the year Brynhildr arrived in Meereen. King Aerys Targaryen had wanted them to find a bride for his son, Prince Rhaegar, given Lord Steffon had been Aerys's cousin through his mother, the Princess Rhaelle. Apparently, before their return, Lord Steffon had written to Storm's End Maester Cressen, a man who doted heavily on Robert and Renly's brother, Stannis, that they'd found a fool in Volantis who would delight Robert and Renly and might even teach Stannis to laugh, in time.

Both Robert and Stannis had been standing on the balcony overlooking the cliffs beneath the castle when they saw their parents' ship smash into the rocks in Shipbreaker Bay. Robert had assumed his seat, Renly had cried for weeks wanting his mother and father, and Stannis now kept to himself. The maiden said that Stannis no longer believed in the Seven, the religion that a great part of Westeros believed in. She said Stannis had always been in Robert's shadow, and now, had nothing to truly call his own.

"There he is now," said the maiden, gesturing to another tall man that'd entered the room. He was only about an inch shorter than Robert, his dark blue eyes scanning the crowd of shield-maidens and heavy brows furrowing as if he regretted coming down just to surround himself with strangers. He wasn't as visibly muscular as his brother, and he had a stubborn look about him, but Brynhildr still thought him interesting despite being visibly less charismatic than Robert and overwhelmed by all the people there.

Deciding to try and entertain herself, Brynhildr walked over to him, curtsying even with her weapons hanging over her body, "Lord Stannis, I am Commander Lothbrok of the Valkyries. Thank you for welcoming me to Storm's End."

"My brother welcomed you," he said pointedly, still appearing uncomfortable in the face of so many women. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was inexperienced despite appearing at least her age. "I do as my lord commands."

Even as he spoke, he reminded her of her brother Sigurd. Someone who felt set aside, unimportant. "I am not sure I am allowed to ask this of you," said Brynhildr, "but your brother has left to his chambers to entertain some of my shield-maidens, and I was hoping for a tour of Storm's End."

With a light sigh, he beckoned her to follow him, though he didn't seem all that annoyed having to leave the feast. He began to walk her through the halls, hardly decorated and reminding her more of a gigantic dungeon than a castle. She felt little life anywhere but the great hall, at least until they passed Robert's room and she heard one of her shield-maidens squealing in delight. She'd be sure to brew everyone the tansy tea Oberyn taught her to make, to ensure none of Robert's bastards would be born in Essos.

Brynhildr started to talk to Stannis even if he didn't seem interested in saying anything back. She told him about the ships she built, the weapons she made, and her impression of the North. She explained that this land reminded her of Northumbria and Wessex, and told him more about her gods and her family. She figured it couldn't hurt to tell him about her religion, given he seemed to follow none of his own now.

At any rate, he was interested enough to not shut her up, and offered at least some talk in return. He, too, liked ships and was good at manning them. He was a good fighter and patient enough to be the strategist even Robert could never hope to be. He liked to read and seemed to enjoy books that were about other worlds– whether he admitted it or not, he wanted adventure.

"What will you do now?" asked Brynhildr at last, when they stopped at a balcony overlooking the godswood of Storm's End, bearing a weirwood heart tree carved with a solemn face. "Will you be made to marry?"

"Perhaps," said Stannis. "I don't know what my brother has planned for me."

"Would you like to see the world before you are wed?" she questioned. "Perhaps you'll accept an offer to come with me to Braavos. You could captain my ships, train with my shield-maidens and Einherjar. You wouldn't need to kill anyone, you'd need only see what there is out there for you."

He furrowed his brows, suspicious. "Why are you offering me this?"

"You remind me of my older brother, Sigurd. I think he, too, craved more than what the world was offering him. I thought you might appreciate a chance to escape this. Leave behind a brother who you aren't close to and see what's waiting out there for you."

"I have a duty here, even if it has not been decided for me," said Stannis honestly. "I cannot accept your offer, Commander. Thank you for your generosity."

Brynhildr half-smiled, "Well, if you ever wish to see if what you read in your books is true, you know where to find me."

She had a suspicion that if she ever saw Stannis again, they'd not speak like this. They'd never be friends even if she tried and tried to learn what it was that made him tick.

At long last, their company sailed back to Westeros, once Robert had told her that Elia Martell would be marrying Rhaegar Targaryen in a matter of weeks. She knew Oberyn would not be in Dorne if he was attending the wedding; perhaps he'd take Obara, Nymeria, Tyene, and his youngest daughter, Sarella, with him. Robert offered for her to accompany him to King's Landing, but she politely declined. Even then, he insisted that she come, for there were those who would want to meet her.

She declined once more and sailed her company back to Braavos. With the money they'd earned in Westeros, they began to construct the new wing of their house to allow in more recruits, and she put a call out to all of Essos for more female warriors, shipbuilders, and blacksmiths who may wish to join her. As sad as Brynhildr was that she'd yet to show Oberyn what she'd managed with what he'd given her, she knew it would be all the better when he did finally come and saw the company larger than he ever imagined it could be.

The more she thought of him, the more she missed him. If she was to be asked for marriage by any Westerosi lord, she'd only truly consider it if it came from him.

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A/N: Happy 200 pages! I hope you are enjoying this :) Comment for more!