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The Swiftfoot Maid | Chapter 1, a snippet
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“You’re a good dancer,” she said suddenly, eyes darting away too quickly as he startled and missed a step.
Edric caught her gaze, then swept them back into rhythm. “Thank you, my lady. I spent many years in King’s Landing, where even squires are expected to know their steps.”
“Grace-footed, then,” she acknowledged with a lift of her sharp chin. “But does that make you swift-footed?”
“No, my lady. I have never been the swiftest, nor the strongest.”
A crease came between her dark brows. “Then how is it you expect to defeat me?”
You were right, he scolded himself. You are a fool. But he only smiled lightly. “Fortune, perhaps.”
“I’ll not be shamed by defeat at the hands of fortune,” Arya scoffed. “No, I’ll not be shamed by defeat at all.”
Edric didn’t speak for a moment. He only moved in time with the music, with her. For all her steel and storm, she felt rather slight in his arms. It was almost enough to forget she’d speared a man through the heart that very morning. Up close, he could see the faintest powdering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Soft, like a kiss the sun forgot to take back.
He imagined she liked to spend her days beneath the sun.
“If I may be so bold,” he said at last, pivoting them through a swell of harp strings, “if fortune fails to favor you, how could it shame you to be bested? There are many great men vying for your hand. Sons of the kraken and the flayed man—warriors in their own right.”
“Courteous of you, to call them great,” she muttered. She searched his face, curious and sharp, her stormcloud stare pinning him in place. “And what of you, Lord Dayne? Are you a great man?”
“I…” Edric faltered, searching himself for the answer. The hearthfire roared at his back, swallowing the clangor into its molten breath. The moment nearly slipped—but he caught it. Remembered. Fallen and Reborn. He straightened. “I am Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall. Descendant of the Kings of the Torrentine. Kin to the great Ser Arthur Dayne. Blood of those named Sword of the Morning, wielders of Dawn.”
Just for a heartbeat, he thought he saw a flash of surprise cross her eyes. But it vanished quick as lightning. Then she struck with a smirk.
“Ah, but you are not Dawn’s wielder, are you?”
Aegon (VI) & the Apple of Discord
Cast: Aphrodite!Shiera, Hera!Rhaenys, Athena!Visenya, Paris!Aegon VI
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Undaunted now, Aegon turned his face to look upon the deathless goddesses: Rhaenys, gilded in splendorous regality; Visenya, ablaze with noble might; and Shiera, sweet with tender blooms and all the foliage of spring.
The fated son of Rhaegar lamented that not all could win. But still, one pleased him more.
“Of winning all are worthy,” began Aegon the shepherd-prince, before turning his clear-eyed gaze upon the goddess of love, “but—”
“Young Aegon.”
Bright-eyed Visenya, swift to sense the shifting tide, stepped forward before the offending verdict could fall. She took the youth by the hand, smiling. “Leave Rhaenys, and heed not Shiera—but look toward me, who aids the prowess of men. Come, and I will bestow upon you battle wisdom unrivaled and immortal skill in war.”
Aegon moved to speak, but Rhaenys the Queen claimed the moment for herself.
“Dear child of fate,” said the queen of gods, “elect me, and I shall make you king of the Nine Free Cities. Pentos, land of your false father. Braavos of the Hundred Isles. Myr, where art and learning flourish, and Qohor, where iron bends to no one. Norvos, Lorath, Lys. Proud Volantis in the south. Tyrosh, the city of color.”
White-armed Rhaenys raised her scepter high, a golden crown glittering in her gaze. “War is the burden of the ruled. A king commands with but a word. Elect me, and you shall stand above all thrones.”
Great was their desire for victory, Wisdom and Queen plying the Judge’s favor with the wondrous gifts of their domains. The Judge wavered, uncertain—for how could one choose between the valorous heart and power over men?
Sweetly, Love smiled.
“Forget weary war, sweet Aegon. Cast aside your thoughts of crippling crowns. Do not let such gifts ensnare you. I speak not of Rhaenys nor Visenya, for mine own realm is greater still. For what is conquest without beauty to inspire it? What is kingship without a woman’s heart to share it?”
Shiera Seastar reached forward and brushed a stray curl from Aegon's brow, her rosy fingers feather-light. Her touch lingered like a promise. Behind her, the Charites and Horae sang a song of love and doom so sweet it ached.
“It is naught but ash, dear one. And so my gift shall be of love."
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Snippet from Godspun, Prologue.