My Fanfic Stash and Favorite online quests

An asoiaf fic idea thats very interesting and could flourished into something much more sadly it remained a one-shot fic

Words: 4.2k+

Link:

https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/14896

https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/immortal-wraith-asoiaf-si-oc.934660/

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31226153/chapters/77180996

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/13879412/1/Immortal-Wraith-ASOIAF-SI-OC

(A parasitic wraith, armed with foreknowledge and ambition, descends on Westeros. It will pass from vessel to vessel, from generation to generation through a curse in it's blood, granting it's mind and soul immortality. The wraith will carve it's name on the pages of Westeros' history - from the century of blood to the long night.)

Vessel 1: Nott "The Nothing"

Honeyholt - 102 BC (Before Conquest)

It woke with the Doom of Valyria. A soul of another not from this world latching on like a parasite and usurping the flesh of a child. A wraith.

The child, simply called Nott, would be the first vessel. Through his blood, the wraith will live forever. From father to child and beyond - the soul shall pass on like a disease whenever it so chooses. An immortal.

Aegon's conquest was over a century away. The histories the soul knew had ages yet left to happen. It was an opportunity rife and ready for abuse. Or would have been, had the soul anything to his name but nothing - and so that's what they called him. Nott 'The Nothing'.

A child of six born to a Honeyholt gate guard and his scullery maid wife. Both dead of course. The guard lost his head on patrol to a mere bandit, and the maid followed him not long after in her grief.

Though Nott's luck was poor, it was still on his side. The servants of the keep were kind - they didn't clothe him or feed him freely, but in a keep as large as Honeyholt, there was always work to be done and never enough hands to do them. Nott was allowed to earn his keep with any and all menial tasks available to him.

Fetching and disposing of the keep's many chamber pots - still warm and reeking, scrubbing the dirt-caked floors of the kitchens, dusting the musty tomes in the library, cleaning armour and arms, helping the washerwomen launder sweat stained clothes in the Honeywine river; even scooping the manure from the horse pens, cattle barns, and duck coops, Nott did it all.

Had the wraith any choice, the obvious vessel would have been anyone except a servant of a barely known Reach house like the Beesburys. But, life's not fair is it?

Yet, Nott capitalized on his situation. The kitchen maids would be sweet on the orphan and provide the best cuttings for meals. Old clothes no longer fit for the lord's family were repurposed for Nott's growing body, combine rags with duck down and Nott had some fairly comfortable bedding too. The library was left alone and empty more often than not, so Nott learned this land's numbers and letters - and when the Beesbury maester would stumble upon the seemingly erudite child, Nott would only naturally charm his way into more advanced studies.

Scullery maids and stable boys - the lowest workers in any household earn twenty copper pennies a day, the equivalent of two copper stars. Enough to feed yourself for the day with some bread or grain, a bowlful of fresh vegetables and a pint of milk. Though the privilege of being part of the hold's staff meant the food was taken care of from the daily leftovers.

But not everything could be optimized. In a land where might makes right, the song of steel is vital for survival. Ser Richard Beesbury, Lord Beesbury's inconsequential third or fourth cousin - but more importantly, one of the principle trainers of Honeyholt, presented a near insurmountable hurdle.

Can't have dirty little serfs mingling with the highborn boys and proper soldiers. They didn't call him "Ser Dick" as a cosy pet name after all.

Nott once more attempted to peek in on the martial lessons for the day, sitting at the threshold of the armoury, an old breastplate and an oiled rag in hand, Nott polished away while surreptitiously trying to glean even an ounce of sword skill via osmosis from the young Beesbury heir.

At least until Ser Richard Beesbury decided to put him back to task with a sharp rap to the back of Nott's head. "Eyes down, boy. Don't be glaring at your betters, get back to polishing my steel 'fore I decide to tan your hide."

Nott facetiously began scrubbing the piece of armour with renewed vigour, his nose almost pressed to the cold steel. "Of course, Ser Dick!"

Ser Dick did not like that given the sneer on his face, a swift kick sent the breastplate clattering on the floor. "That's about enough out of you. Mouthing off when it's not wanted." Ser Dick took Nott by the back of his shirt and hauled him off the mustering field. "I don't want to see your face near my grounds again, boy. The castellan will know by this evening not to find you here either. Get your sodding rear to the flower fields."

Regardless of time and space, bees freaked people out. And true to their name, the Beesbury's kept large fields of blooming flowers dotted with hundreds of apiaries to raise bees to collect both their wax and honey.

Having Nott spend the rest of his days extracting sweet, delicious honey from relatively docile bees seemed to be a most terrifying punishment for Ser Dick. Aside from having his head lopped off by a rusty blade of course.

As Nott was yanked away by his collar, he planned to ask the castellan to appoint him to the poinsettia fields. There was a nice little shed there where he could set up his cot, and it was right by the river so he could even catch a frog or fish for dinner whenever he pleased. But most importantly, he'd be able to bathe himself daily in the fresh waters - minus the soap of course, Nott swore he'd make that some day.

Once Nott was handed off to the head beekeeper, Ser Richard "Dick" Beesbury dusted his hands in satisfaction. "Maybe a few stings and a swollen tongue will teach you to keep it from wagging."

Nott stared right at him. "I'm not afraid of bees, Ser Dick."

Honeyholt - 99 BC (Before Conquest)

Lord Beesbury had decided to hold a tourney this week. This was unusual as he was actually very fiscally responsible; though the other lords would call him miserly. But then again, he had lands and a household mere fractions of the size of other houses in the Reach, yet had wealth exceeding theirs. Honey, flowers, and wax flowed far beyond the Honeywine.

However, given the recent news that the old master-at-arms had very recently passed away in his sleep, it was clear the tourney wasn't a mere frivolity, but rather served a practical purpose.

Ser Dick was decidedly unhappy about the situation. Expectations and all that.

Nott sat atop the parapets with a warm glass of honeyed milk and a slice of well-buttered toast and cheese, still hot and melty from the ovens. He watched the small army of hopeful hedge knights and squires signing up for the tourney.

Even from up where he was sitting Nott was able to hear the near constant grumblings coming from the disgruntled knights. The tension made his skin itch; or that could just actually be the near constant rash he had from the poinsettias breaking and spreading their sap on his skin.

He certainly got his own private little hovel in the fields and his own section of the river, but turns out even a happy little flower patch must have downsides in a place as grim as Westeros.

It was rather funny watching the more prideful ones get turned away. Lord Beesbury was not keeping the entrance fee cheap, but the winning purse was fairly reasonable too - along with the opportunity to become a leading part of the household should you win; this was the real prize.

"Five silver moons!? Just to enter the damn thing?" A distinguished, elderly looking knight demanded of the unflappable attendant. This was likely the twentieth time he'd heard the same sort of question in the same sort of disbelieving tone.

"Just so, Ser…" the attendant read through the sign-up sheet, "Gerald. If you would be so kind to pay the fee, I shall put you down on the lists immediately."

"I've ridden in tourneys from Oakhart to Old Town. Not-a-one of them charges more than three silver moons for even the most prestigious event." Truly it was an extravagant price to ask a lowly hedge knight to pay. Large enough to buy a fresh rouncey or one good castle-forged weapon.

The Lord also didn't want too many entering, it would take too long to conduct the tourney that way. No more than sixteen for the jousts is what he reportedly wanted. That equated precisely to eighty silver moons, or two gold hands - at forty moons to a hand of revenue for the thrifty lord. Nott had seen the lord's ledgers while sitting with the master and knew that easily covered the cost of the entire two day tourney and subsequent feast.

The only real cost was the ten gold hand purse for the winner - which was enough to buy two war-bred destriers or a couple of palfreys. Should one be clever they could even buy a large comfortable manse of their own.

The attendant countered with a simple. "Then I suggest, good Ser, that you ride to Old Town as it is merely a day away. If you're lucky they might be holding a tourney there too."

Nott analyzed this knight carefully as he left the stand. "C'mon, Loach." A large, muscled destrier trotted alongside him. His armour was largely unadorned, but it looked strong and well-smithed. To Nott, this knight seemed like the most promising of the entire bunch.

Nott stuffed his cheeks full with the last of his breakfast. Quickly ran down to the main gate to catch the knight before he could get too far away, luckily he caught him right as he was mounting his horse. "Ho! Old knight, wait!"

Ser Gerald the hedge knight dropped his foot from the stirrups and turned towards the call, the old knight watched bemused as the young boy, with crumbs around his mouth halted in front of him. "Yeah, boy. What is it?"

As he faced Nott, the wind whipped his white mane from his face showing a gnarly set of scars littering his face. "Why aren't you signing up? I was planning on betting my wages on you."

The knight scoffed. "This piddly little tourney's too rich for my blood. Not a knight here worth his spurs and their charging us as if we're Argos Sevenstar come back to life."

"You look wealthy enough though. Judging by your horse and armour at least." Nott patted the massive warhorse.

"Loach and I have been together a long time. He probably feels as old as I do at this point. and don't forget, boy, I'm a hedge knight. What coin I don't spend on my arms and mount is sucked away by food and shelter. I've enough to put me into the tourney but not much else; not willing to starve should I not win the purse."

Nott folded his arms and challenged the knight. "Not confident you'd win?"

The old knight scoffed and made to remount his horse. "These no-names? I'd have them all on their backs quicker than a nine penny whore." He made to boast further, but stopped himself with a grimace. "No… I can't guarantee that. I'm not a young man anymore."

"What if I paid your way through? Would you compete then?"

"I'm sure your parents would be overjoyed that their young son stupidly wasted a lot of their money."

"Don't have any, they're dead. My coin came from my own sweat."

"That's worse! I'll not take alms from an orphan." Ser Gerald refused vehemently. "And neither will I share half my purse for it if that's what you're after."

"Well, I won't lie and say I'm not after your prize, but it's not the gold I want, it's your position. I'm assuming that's why you're here, isn't it? To become master-at-arms?"

"I've spent near forty years sleeping in hedges, ditches, and trees. Of course I'm going to take any chance to live in a nice warm keep with a nice warm stable for Loach, a nice warm bed for myself, and an even warmer woman. Neither of which I'm willing nor able to share."

"Not where I was going with this, but good to know. I've been trying for the last few years to get some arms training from the local garrison here, but the Lord's cousin happens to be the knight's captain, who has explicitly barred me from any training. However, should the new master-at-arms for the keep have me as a squire, it makes it terribly difficult for anyone to gainsay my training. So, very simply, by investing in you, I'm really investing in myself."

Ser Gerald stared at Nott as if he was suddenly speaking to some strange creature inhabiting the body of a child. "Investing… You've learned some big words."

"I know bigger. What I don't know is how to fight. Do we have a deal?" Nott stuck out his hand.

"The septons often said bastards grow up quick, didn't realize we should count orphans among them." Ser Gerald shut his eyes and took a deep sigh. He enveloped Nott's hand in his own large paw. "We have an accord, squire."

"I told you… I'd have them… on their backs!" Nott chose not to comment at the wheezing old knight and proceeded to untie his pauldrons.

Ser Gerald had successfully fought through the melee to make the top sixteen. From there he rode three rounds in the joust to reach the finals which were to take place after a brief recess. "Didn't doubt you for a moment Ser Gerald, but it sounds like the next knight you'll put on their back is yourself."

He shrugged off the armour and groaned in relief. "Well, I'm sorry I'm so fucking old! Thank the bloody Seven I can rest for the next hour, then just you watch, I'll have Richard Beesbury rolling in horse shit." The old knight continued to puff away much to Nott's growing worry. "Jus-just get me some wine. Well-watered. And a carrot for Loach. We'll be fit to ride in no time."

"Alright. You rest for a bit, I'll be back soon." Ser Gerald's eyes were closing even before Nott could fully exit the tent.

Nott had gotten his knight, but it seemed like the knight was about to keel over any moment, and as much as he wanted to disparage Ser Dick, the Beesbury knight was in much better knick than the hedge knight at the moment and would likely win.

Nott couldn't let that happen. Nott ran by the food tent to grab the food and wine, he saw Ser Dick there with his squire, already toasting to his victory in the finals.

Stupid of him to leave his horse unattended. Time was short, Nott had to hurry.

Leaving the tourney grounds, Nott rushed back to his shed in the poinsettia fields, he grabbed as many of them as he could and ran back to where the horses were stabled. Ser Dick's destrier was there, freshly saddled and drinking from a trough.

The horse knew Nott well, it was him after all that scooped up his dung, and didn't fuss when Nott went to touch the saddle. "Sorry about this girl, it's going to itch something fierce." Nott squeezed as much sap as he could from the broken leaves, petals, and stems of the poinsettia, and rubbed the itchy liquid deep into the horse's hide beneath the saddle. The creamy, white substance was burning his hands already - it would only be worse for the horse when it was mounted and sweating.

After a quick detour to the nearest fire, Nott returned to a nearly unconscious Gerald's tent to get him ready for the final joust.

The herald began his long, meandering speech; announcing both the hedge knight Gerald, and local favourite Ser Dick. The aforementioned knight's squire nervously handed over the reins of the horse. "Ser Richard, the horse… she's more jittery than normal." Nott noticed Ser Dick give his destrier a disinterested glance.

The horse was shaking its mane aggressively, snorting and hoofing at the ground. "Nothing to worry about lad, she's just out for blood like any good warhorse ought to be. She'll run roughshod over the competition. Ha!"

The first tilt began and ended with a groan. A floppy knight clashing against an unsteady one, lances barely glancing shields.

The second tilt, worryingly for Nott, Ser Dick just barely got his horse under control. His lance smashed into Ser Gerald's shield, shattering on impact. Ser Gerald bent almost fully back, only just holding on with his thighs to the saddle.

The third tilt would be the last. The horses charged at each other, hooves thundering with the crowd. Ser Gerald had his lance coached under his arm, but it still lolled. Ser RIchard was moored firmly to his seat. The clash approached, but just as they were about to meet, Ser Richard's horse bucked. Gerald seeing the last chance he would get, mustered every ounce of strength he had left and thrust.

It struck just beneath his gorget and Ser Richard went flying. The crowd went wild and Nott ran onto the field. The day was won.

Later that night - more towards the early morning really, Nott shouldered Gerald into his tent. The pageantry and pomp of being sworn-in as Honeyholt's new master-at-arms went off without a hitch and was followed by a raucous feast.

Gerald sighed in relief as he was put down on his bedroll - for what would hopefully be the last night he would sleep outside the walls of a stout, cosy castle. Tomorrow his responsibilities began, not the least of which was Nott's squiring.

"At long last. No more hedges for this knight."

"Close thing too. I thought I'd be sleeping in a thorny bush myself. You got lucky Ser Dick doesn't know how to ride properly." Nott replied.

Gerald stared straight into Nott's eyes for a moment. "That wasn't fortune, lad. That was enemy action." The air felt still and thick to Nott's throat. "What'd you do? Stick nails under the saddle?"

"… itchy sap." Nott reluctantly responded; he also presented both his palms to the knight, showing him the bright red rashes. "It melts off with the sweat, won't leave any trace behind. At most it'll look like saddle-rash."

Gerald nodded. "That's good. I won't complain about a free barrel of wine fallen off the back of a wagon, but don't do it again. I'll not have my squire dishonour himself." Nott nodded back. "Now get going, you're helping me lug my possessions into my new chambers first thing tomorrow. Need help finding my way through this bloody big castle, maybe if my luck continues I'll find myself a comely young wife hiding beneath my covers too."

Nott sensing the scolding done and over with, quickly switched topics. "If you're serious about finding yourself a wife I know a few great kitchen maids looking out for a husband. One in particular comes to mind for a fossil like you."

"Hm. What's she look like?"

"I personally think she's the prettiest one. Dark, thick curls, striking eyes, and full figured. Her name's Jen."

"Sounds like a dream. Though if she's all that great why hasn't she already been hitched? What's the matter with her?"

"Honestly? Total bitch. We get along fine though."

"Sounds about right. Let me guess, sharp tongue?"

"Like Valyrian steel. I'm sure you'll be able to handle it though, you seem to be doing just fine with me as it is."

"….Yeah, alright. I'll meet her."

The years passed swiftly, and fairly uneventfully.

Gerald remained master-at-arms for nearly two full decades. Unfortunately, he passed away close to his seventieth name-day, and was celebrated as a much beloved member of the household. None felt his passing more keenly than his wife Jen, and his once squire Ser Nott.

Nott would remain Gerald's squire for eight years until the age of sixteen, where he would ascend as a full knight. Nott would've liked to say he'd become the greatest warrior in all of Honeyholt's illustrious history, but the fact of the matter was that the difference in nutrition, for successive generations too, played a massive role in a vessel's physical development. Despite his relative skill with arms, Lord Beesbury's son would forever remain Nott's martial superior. Not everyone could be Ser Duncan the Tall; and no matter how hard it may try, a pony cannot outrun a palfrey.

That wasn't to say Nott - as his namesake - did nothing. At the age of fifteen, seven years into his squiring, He along with a contingent of knights were sent as escorts to guard a valuable wagon of gold from the wealthiest wax merchant on Beesbury lands.

The Bleeding Years had long since begun, and violent elements from across the narrow sea often targeted the lush pastures of the Reach. The Honeywine rivers being a favourite haunt for pirates.

Word - as it always did - had gotten out about the valuable transport and the merchant caravan was inevitably attacked. The escorting knights had managed to forestall the theft of the gold, they failed to keep as much of a careful guard surrounding the merchant's family. The pirates managed to steal off with the wailing merchant's twelve year old daughter among other young women. There was never a shortage in demand for pretty slaves in Essos.

Unsurprisingly the knights had rushed to secure the gold back into safer surroundings leaving the women for lost. After all, who cares about the fate of commoners when the Lord's gold is in jeopardy? Forsaking the fumbling faction of glorified gate guards, Nott ran down the abductors. With only a handful left alive of the original band of pirates, Nott was able to put them to the sword with enough effort and little complication.

Upon the entire party's return to Honeyholt, Ser Gerald knighted Nott in front of the entire household. The greater inadvertent prize however came with the incredibly grateful wax merchant practically begging to betroth his daughter to her saviour. Lord Beesbury granted it on the spot, seeing it as a cheap and easy way of tying another source of wealth to his house without spending any of his own blood.

Nott had very little say in the matter. The girl was still young, but the day his daughter flowered the wax merchant rushed to complete the marriage, and ascended his house into a knightly one.

The wraith found little to complain about, the girl was lovely enough, the house was wealthy too, and most importantly it allowed for the next vessel to be birthed into much better circumstances than the current one.

Myles, they called the child, because Nott wanted him to go far. The child was fed, the child was trained by both Nott and Gerald during his twilight years, and the child was endeared to Nott's old friend the maester.

Though ambitious, the wraith was also self-aware to realize he was in no real position to grow here. It's vessels weren't exceptional enough, didn't have the backing of generations of nobility or prestige, nor did the vessel have the knowledge necessary to exploit the bounty of opportunity surrounding him. The citadel would be his next target.

It was time to prepare the transfer of consciousness from Nott to Myles.

The routine was important. After the wraith left the vessel, it wouldn't just become a soulless husk but a golem instead. Religiously following the patterns of it's life firmly established over years and years. How it bathed, how it spoke, where it went, when it went, and what it did; every last detail including the stroke of his sword when fighting, and the stroke of his hips when laying with his wife; all were ingrained into the very fiber of Nott's being.

Nott's son Myles had hit twelve name days. The time of departure had arrived. A shared drink on his last night at Honeyholt. The wraith once known as Nott, now held the name Myles.

The wraith stared at the missive in his hands, mottled old parchment carrying the old maester's recommendation for Myles' admission into the Citadel. He rested his head on his satchel full of clothes, his pocket full of coins jingled with the rocking of the carriage. The story of Nott "the nothing" had ended; the tale of Myles "the maester" was ready to begin.