Lyanna Holt looked down the length of her sweat-slicked body, past the heavy rise and fall of her breasts, and saw the man beneath her gone slack. His mouth was hung open, eyes rolled back to whites and chest heaving in shallow, unconscious breaths.
A faint, stupid smile was still clinging to his lips. It was the last thing his mind had managed before pleasure and exhaustion completely dragged him under and took his consciousness away from him.
Lyanna sighed. She did not feel the ache in her thighs as the man had lost consciousness a few hours into their sudden sex. She felt or hoped to feel no triumph or tenderness in this act of intimacy, after all, the slickness was just the quiet recognition that the body's hunger had been fed, nothing more.
With one fluid motion, she stood up, lifting herself off him without ceremony. His spent cock slipped free and fell against his groin. The man did not stir even when Lyanna stepped on his sprawled limbs and crossed the small chamber to the basin of steaming spring water that waited on the stone hearth.
The air smelled of pine soap and spent seed, as it should have.
Lyanna hastily scrubbed herself clean with quick strokes.
She started between her thighs, that were strong, lean muscles corded tight from hours in the saddle, the kind of legs that could lock around anyone and break their bones with ease, the ridged plane of her stomach that was as hard as packed snow and drawn so taut you could bounce a coin off it.
She then lifted her heavy breasts one by one, cleaning underneath the firm weight before letting them settle back with a small, soft bounce. Since her breasts were so well-toned, they rarely moved too much.
Down the long sweep of her back, muscles shifted like cables under her pale skin, and finally over the round, powerful swell of her buttocks that were big, tight, and carved from years of running the hills and swinging steel, the sort of rear that made a man forget his own name when she ground back against him.
She had taken her mother's beauty with her father's ferociousness.
The hot water clouded the area briefly and then cleared.
She did not linger, at all. After all, there was no need to savor what had already served its purpose. Love was not here, in this act, ever, and she had not come looking for it, not even once.
People of Nordhavn were not as conservative as the ones in Aenglarc. And that applied to the nobility and royalty as well. Of course, Lyanna would make sure not to hook up with slack-jawed people who could not keep their mouth shut. People of Nordhavn, while quite debauched, were keen on keeping promises.
However, while Lyanna also participated in this practice, she never really found any source of attachment in this act, nor could she understand the stories of other noble girls who would harp about how they fell head over heels for someone they slept with a few times.
She had slept with fair share of men, and they rode her or let her ride them hoping to find devotion in the clench of her thighs or the scrape of her nails, however, unfortunately for them, they never did.
Lyanna took what her body demanded the way she took a whetstone to a blade or a draught of strong ale after a long watch. It was a necessary maintenance, not something that needs to be cherished.
She had never sought love, especially not after what she did.
Once Lyanna was clean, she wrung out the cloth, draped it over the basin's edge, and dressed in silence. It composed of thick wool tunic dyed charcoal that was close-fitting but flexible, layered beneath a sleeveless jerkin of boiled leather reinforced with small overlapping iron scales across the chest and shoulders.
A wide belt of dark leather cinched her waist, hung with pouches, a whetstone, and the scabbard of her sword. Over it all went a short cloak of grey wolf fur, pinned at one shoulder with an iron brooch so it wouldn't snag in a fight. Leather breeches tucked into high, sturdy boots laced to the knee.
Her long, silky brown hair, still damp at the ends, she gathered swiftly and braided into a tight warrior's plait that ran down the center of her back, thick as a whip and ending just between her shoulder blades.
A few thinner war-braids framed her face on either side, each bound with a small iron ring. There was Nothing loose to grab, nothing to whip into her eyes when steel would meet steel.
Lyanna looked at him one last time and clicked her tongue. She had wanted a little more on the day of The Descent, but this was the best she could lay her hands on while all the other abled ones were busy with preparing for it.
She buckled her belt, checked the sword that was strapped to her hip, and left the chamber without a word. The corridor outside was cold and the wind off the island's edge found every crack in the stone.
She stopped and welcomed it. She loved the cold ambiance of Nordhavn. She never understood why her younger brother would want Tianqiu's warm plains and resplendent hills. All she could ever want was all here. The snow, the freezing temperatures, the few ravaging monster species that existed to the west of The White Knife, the hunting zone in Delft and so much more.
How could a Holt not like all that Nordhavn had to offer?
Yet the thought of Gregan, curled in some sun-drenched garden and chasing butterflies instead of direwolves, did not spark the irritation it should have. It settled in her chest like a dull and unfamiliar ache.
She resumed walking.
Lyanna was surprisingly light-footed as each boot-fall was really silent on the worn stone. Baby brother, she called him still, though only a few rotations separated them. The name had begun as mockery when he was small and soft, crying at the sight of blood on a butcher's block. It had stuck because it fit him nicely.
Lyanna turned a corner and passed beneath a narrow arrow-slit. Wind knifed through it as it carried the faint howl of the descent banners high on the outer walls. The island would drop in a few hours, and every able body would ride or march into the wilds below.
Gregan among them, if their father held to his word and did not give in to their queen mother.
She pressed her lips together until they thinned. Gregan had no rune yet and while he could swing his sword arm quickly, there was no finesse to it. He swung with hope more than hate and anger and hope died fast in the Corrupted Lands.
Lyanna believed that a fight cannot be casual. If one requires to win, they should channel their hatred, and their anger. Channel it all in their strikes and strike it with conviction. And strike with conviction she did.
Despite being a family that represented "Cups," the Holt children were taught the way of sword regardless. Lord Holt would spend quite a lot of Marks to hire someone from Aenglarc to come and teach his children the way of the sword, as they do in Aenglarc. Of course, being the despotically controlling nation they were, the "knight" they would send were usually second rate.
However, even second-rate swordsmen from Aenglarc were a cut above other swordsmen amidst all other Floating Islands.
Marks was the currency used in Nordhavn. The worth of the coins, as opposed to other islands, was measured by its weight. It came in the denominations of 1 Mark (10 grams), 2 Marks (20 grams), 5 Marks (50 grams), 10 Marks (100 grams), 1 Goldmark (10 grams), 5 Goldmarks (50 grams) and 10 Goldmarks (100 grams). Marks were made out of silver while Goldmarks as the name suggested were made out of Gold.
Both of these metals are usually taken as trophies after plundering and scavenging the Corrupted Lands. Marks had a pine-ice tree etched on both sides, while Goldmarks had an extremely embossed Cup etched on one side and a crown made out of twigs made on the other.
The crown of twigs was a symbolic gesture towards the rule made by the first ruler of Nordhavn: All are Fed, All are Remembered.
In Nordhavn, the titles such as king and nobility were decorative. Rickard Holt, his father, and his father before him often feasted with common people, sitting on the plain ground and eating what they do, drinking in their pitchers and often time sharing their accommodation and vice-versa.
There were many a common people who had spent quite a lot of time at Castle Holt and were treated the same as their Lord and Lady.
A memory suddenly hit Lyanna. She remembered Gregan at ten rotations, standing in the yard while she drilled him with a blunted blade. He had flinched from every strike, eyes squeezed shut at the last moment, every time. She had pinched the soft flesh of his upper arm until he yelped, then forced his chin up with two fingers.
"Keep them open," she had said at that time, "The world will not wait for you to be ready."
He had glared at her through tears, but the next blow he met with open eyes. Afterward she had ruffled his hair before walking away. She had felt really happy after that. She offered no apology, of course, apologies taught nothing. However, after that, the incident happened.
Lost in her thought, Lyanna suddenly paused at a heavy oak door banded with iron. Beyond it lay the family wing, where Gregan would be sharpening his blade, praying to Gods or pretending to sleep. She rested her gloved hand on the latch, then let it fall.
Tonight, he needed to sit alone with his fear. If she went to him now, she might soften, might offer comfort instead of correction, and comfort was a lie which never went unpunished. Her heart ached and she wanted nothing more than her baby brother in her arms as she comforted him and told him that nothing was ever his fault, and he should stop blaming himself.
She wanted to tell him that everything was going to be alright.
However, she believed, that it was enmity dressed as love. And restrain she did as she turned away and headed for the battlements instead. She believed the wind would scour her clean of the chamber's lingering warmth, of the unwelcome tenderness that thoughts of her baby brother dragged up like old blood from a half-healed wound.
As she saw the men and women alike grunting and getting into formations, she saw her Lord Father and Queen Mother.
Rickard had the longsword Holt strapped to his side and Meilin was shouting orders as she sorted all sorts of people in different groups and formations. Squires and other castle servants ran here and there, handing out bags of food and newly forged swords to people who did not own one.
Beside Rickard and Meilin was Theon. He looked as eye catching as ever: tall, wide-shouldered, handsome, and radiating an aura of power that made Lyanna's own rune enter suppression around him.
Suddenly, she felt her heart drop to her knees.
Theon's eyes landed on her as he smiled, his teeth pearly white. However, what made her heart drop was something else and unexpected. It was the sight of her younger brother—Gregan Holt, standing right behind Meilin. He towered over her and was standing awkwardly, holding the medium-sized sword by its scabbard instead of strapping it to himself.
'Was mother unable to convince father...? How could she not...' There was an instant feeling of betrayal in her eyes as she looked at her mother. Her long brown, braided hair whipped in the air as she started between Meilin and Gregan.
As Gregan's soft, pale grey eyes landed on her, Lyanna touched the place on her own arm where she had once pinched Gregan all those years ago.
Seeing her standing there, Gregan waved his hand to her awkwardly before looking away. Lyanna's lips suddenly pursed into a thin line and she instantly composed herself. There were more pressing matters right, matters that took precedence over her worry for her brother.
People from all over Nordhavn had gathered in front of Castle Holt. The people from more northern areas had inflated and drummed chests due to the thin air. While Nordhavn and other Floating Islands were said to be blessed and had ideal conditions for humans and animals to live, some regions were not as fortunate.
Some of these unfortunate areas were the ones surrounding The White Knife. It was given the name because just living there felt like a blade of ice was being constantly stabbed in a person's heart and lungs and their skin orifices.
When Lyanna looked around, she saw all sorts of weapons being wielded by people. Some wielded axes, some shields, hammers, swords, short swords, broadswords, great swords and so on. Her mother was dressed in the leathers of Nordhavn and had a dagger strapped to her side. Other than that, she had an extremely rough cup fastened across her waist with a golden chain.
Triangular banners comprising of the family sword "Holt" inside a wolf's chest fluttered heavily in the biting, cold air. As more and more people began to notice Lyanna, they took quick steps back, opening up a path that led to the pedestal where her family was standing, and people were shouting cheers and prayers at them.
As the crowd parted for her in a sea of shining steel and warm fur, Lyanna ascended the stone steps toward the pedestal. Her boots made no noise against the frost-rimed flagstones. Cheers rose in waves as they chanted Nordhavn and Lord Holt's name.
She looked at the crowd behind her, stopping before she fully reached the pedestal. A lot of familiar faces came into her sight.
Old Jorgen One-Eye with his double-headed axe, still grinning through the scar that split his brow, the twin sisters from Delft, Brynja and Brynhild, each cradling a round shield painted with wolf-bears, Harlon Hull, broad as an oak, standing apart with his remaining sons, There were new ones too, boys barely old enough to grow proper beards and girl-turned-women with fresh rune-scars out in the open for everyone to see.
Then, her gaze landed on Ragnar Snowbeard. The boy was often referred to as a "Ginger Giant" due to his ginger hair and giant stature. He had been a minor only last rotation. He stood near the front of the Vanguard line, towering even among tall men, his freckled arms thick as most men's thighs and a massive great-axe balanced across his shoulder.
He caught her eye and dipped his chin in solemn and respectful greeting.
Lyanna's gaze kept drifting, until it landed to her side and stilled.
There, at the king's left hand, stood Ser Calen of Cups, master of the Black Swords. He was nearly as tall as her father, perhaps an inch shy of six-eight, but where Rickard was built like a war-forged battering ram, Ser Calen looked lean and nimble.
He had black scale coat over black mail, black leather and black boots. Only the silver cup sigil at his throat broke the dark feel to him. His hair fell straight and night-black to his shoulders, framing a face sharp enough to cut glass. He had high cheekbones, well-defined jaw, mouth set in a perpetual half-shadow of thought and eyes the color of storm clouds over deep water.
He held his war-hammer planted before him like a standard, one gloved hand resting lightly on the haft. The head was lethal with spikes on one side and flat crushing face on the other. When his gaze found her, he dipped his head until his locks fell and suspended from his head.
Lyanna's belly churned a little. She took the final few steps and walked to stand beside her family. Ser Calen's eyes tracked her the whole way, then returned forward as if nothing had passed.
Then, he took a step closer and bowed his head. "Vanguard forms in the first wave," he said quietly, voice low and smooth, sultry even, pitched for her ears alone amid the clamor. "I ride with them."
A breath of relief left her lungs. She opened her mouth, the words already forming—Watch Gregan's left side, he favors his right too much—but she closed it again. No. The boy had to learn to guard his own gaps. Asking protection would only teach him he needed it.
If something were to happen to him, she would torture herself in silence and mourn him for an eternity, but that would be the end of it. It was better than physically bounding and mentally crippling him into a coward.
It was the way of Nordhavn.
She gave the Ser Calen the smallest nod instead. It was an acknowledgment and dismissal in one. Ser Calen accepted it without comment, though his gaze flicked to her once more from the corner of his stormy eyes before settling on the host again.
Lyanna was somewhat happy. Ser Calen was leaving with the Vanguard, which meant that Gregan would not totally be left alone with people she could not trust. While people of Nordhavn were all like one single entity, human nature had proved time and time again that they would always put themselves above the rest.
Lyanna never blamed others for thinking like that. There is scarce honor in death. Sure, you have stories written about you, but you would never be able to hear them, relish them, live them and have people treat you like the hero you sound in those stories and songs and ballads.
Ser Calen's presence meant not only would he put the blood of Holt above his own life, but it also meant that there was amount of danger in the world that could befall Gregan. Well, for the most part.
After all, few knew of Ser Calen's his story, but none dared say it in his presence. Everyone was afraid that they would awaken it... Ser Calen's true side. And this was also why he was so isolated from others. A subject of fear, as one would say.
Many rotations ago, when Lyanna was sixteen and he the same, Calen had ridden with a scouting party into the deeper Corrupted Lands during an early frost. The island had risen without them as the Greater Beasts began to close in. Lord Holt had to make a difficult decision to raise Nordhavn back into the heavens, lest all would be doomed.
Weeks turned to months and months into years. All assumed them dead or even worse, twisted into something that wore human skin.
However, against all odds, on the next scheduled Descent, Rickard's Scrouging party found him. He was alone, alive and uncorrupted.
He had survived on melted snow and the raw flesh of lesser corrupted beasts, killed greater ones with broken spears and, when those failed, with his bare hands. His armor was gone, his sword was lost, and his body became a map of claw scars and frostbite. However, he kept pressing and kept killing, tying a giant boulder to the trunk of a young tree and using it as a makeshift crushing hammer.
He walked out of the wilds carrying the head of a horned thing twice his size and laid it at Rickard's feet without a word when he found Calen.
The king had knighted him that same night, named him Ser Calen of Cups, and given him command of the Black Swords. No one asked where he had come from before the Descent. There were speculations amidst some that said that he had been a runaway from Aenglarc, others that he was Nordhavn-born but the king's bastard-raised in the White Knife.
He was twenty-three now, same as Lyanna.
Amidst the uproar, a sudden lull fell over the place as King Rickard raised one gloved hand. "Hear me, Nordhavn!"
His voice carried over the thousands like rolling thunder. "Much like every year, we shall follow the same plan of attack. The Vanguard shall split in two. Team One, the Attackers, will ride foremost with our finest stallions. You strike, you wound, you drive deep and keep moving. Do not stop."
He did not wait for people to cheer and shout at his words. Instead, he continued.
Team Two, the Scrougers, follows in team 1's wake. You finish what was begun, strip the corpses of Shards, meat, bones and hide, burn the nests, scour the ground clean of lesser spawn. No threat should be left breathing, no matter how trivial.
My daughter, Lyanna, and Ser Calen shall lead the Attackers of Team One and young Gregan shall ride with the Scrougers of Team Two.
The Flankers, under Lord Harlon Hull and Lady Brynja, will guard our wings and harry any horde that seeks to circle us.
The Reavers, led by young Ragnar Snowbeard and his father Robert Snowbeard, will range wide and burn the burrows too distant for the main host.
The Cleanup part will consist of old Jorgen and the White Knife veterans, will sweep last, salting the earth so nothing corrupted ever roots again."
Only when Rickard was done explaining the formations did a low rumble of approval rolled through the ranks as steel clashed on steel and fists on shields.
Rickard turned to the royal pedestal. Theon stepped forward first, clasping forearms with his father, then his mother, then Lyanna.
Theon had a different role. He would ride out beyond the island's edge and hold the ground against anything that tried to climb the cliffs while Nordhavn fell. It was the most intense and dangerous task, and Rickard Holt had decided to spend his eldest and most capable child well. However, he was not alone. A bigger portion of Black Swords was sent with him.
Rickard and Meilin would remain at the front part, fulfilling the same role as Theon Holt.
The king lifted his left hand. On his smallest finger gleamed a heavy silver ring etched with the Cups sigil. He pressed his lips to it once and then drew a small dagger and nicked the pad of his thumb as a single drop of blood welled crimson against the pale metal.
"I, Rickard Holt, King of Cups, Lord of Nordhavn, bearer of the twig-crown and keeper of the old oath—All Are Fed, All Are Remembered—do hereby initiate the Descent."
He pressed the bloodied ring to the great rune-stone set into the pedestal.
And then, the entire world dropped, however, surprisingly, there was no lurch, no wind rush upward, only a sudden, impossible silence as the entire floating island of Nordhavn plummeted toward the Corrupted Lands far below.
Stone did not crack, banners did not stream upward, men did not stagger. It was as if gravity had bent its knee to the king's will, carrying them down smooth and swift, like a drawn blade.
The world went silent. For a long, agonizing second, the world stayed silent. Then the sound of thousands of swords clearing scabbards at once filled the air so loud that everyone's ears rang, however, that excited everyone even more.
Lyanna felt the corners of her mouth lift. It was akin to the smile of a predator scenting blood. She glanced sideways. Gregan had already sat his horse a few paces away in the Scrouger line with his blade already naked in his hand, knuckles white on the grip. His face was pale, jaw tight, but his eyes were forward and steady.
He was nervous, yes, but he was also committed. 'Good,' she thought.
Ser Calen rode up beside her, black armor drinking the sickly green light of the corrupted lands. He inclined his head. "I will be in your care, princess."
The words were courtly, almost gentle. His dark grey eyes held hers a moment. She gave him a curt nod and mounted her grey colored stallion, directing it towards the front.
'Gods... please, let Gregan live.' She prayed silently before turning her head to Ser Calen. "And I will be in your care, again."
Ser Calen turned his head away as a wave of dust rose up in the distance. The ground to the far south of Castle Holt was opening, paving a way for the giant army to go through. It opened like a hatch, and the snow-covered path led all the way to the Corrupted Lands.
Ser Calen lifted his ridiculously giant war-hammer with one hand and flipped it around with an ease that it made it look lighter than paper. His white colored stallion breathed laboriously as he lifted the hammer.
Out of courtesy, he made his stallion step to the side as Lyanna rode forward. With her face towards the opened hatch, she unsheathed her sword slowly. The sword gave an eerie, scratching sound as it was unsheathed.
Her sword was thin and sharp, and it looked like it was made out of thin, blue and cyan colored ice. And hence was the name being of her sword, Ice. Rickard, Meilin and Theon watched with a content look on their faces as Lyanna pointed her sword's tip towards the hatch.
Gregan gulped a dry lump of saliva.
"Vanguard!" Lyanna roared like a beast. "Attack!"