Background (What She Says)
Senna is the daughter of the once-renowned Ser Anson Delacourt, a knight who was the toast of the tourney circuit some twenty-five years before Robert's Rebellion, and Lady Nerissa Smallwood, a third daughter of a third son of Acorn Hall. For years, Ser Anson won, including the hand of his lovely noble bride. After nearly a decade of success, though, Ser Anson suffered a series of defeats, each attempt to regain his losses only leading to another failure. Eventually, he disappeared from the tournament circuit, and was forgotten by those who had once celebrated him.
Nearly destitute, Ser Anson took up a position in a small town near Harrenhal as a sheriff. His wife died when their daughter was only six, leaving the girl to be raised largely by her father. Senna grew up there, raised to what gentle manners a knightly father could instill, until Robert's Rebellion stirred the land once more.
Ser Anson took up his sword once more, only to fall at the Trident, leaving his daughter alone in the world. By chance, she was able to apply her skills as a healer to helping a young knight in the Nayland forces, following him back to Hag's Mire. She managed to find a place in the household there, and has since served the family in whatever capacity she is able, grateful for a means of supporting herself.
Background (What Really Happened)
Anson Delacourt was born near Harrenhal, to a family of good name and little else. His good name saw him squired at Harrenhal, and his good skill saw him rise swiftly to a position of fame and popularity. He was a talented tourney knight, and in his heyday, saw victory after victory in the lists. He even managed to wed the lovely third daughter of a third son from Acorn Hall's noble family, and thought that all was right with life.
And then there were losses. And more losses. The lords who feted him suddenly had no time for him, and the loss of steed and armor ate away at his winnings. At the age of eighteen, Ser Anson Delacourt was the toast of the Riverlands. At the age of twenty-seven, he was near penniless, with rusted armor and a swaybacked steed, a noble wife who still cared for him, a young daughter, and guilt over what had happened to his young family.
When the tournaments failed, Ser Anson was forced to take jobs as a sellsword. He guarded caravans, settled border disputes, and hunted bandits as he could. It was a rough life, and though his bride insisted she was simply happy to be with him, it burned inside of him to be so much less than he was. When their daughter was only six, his wife died in childbirth, too far from any civilized holding for the attentions of even a septon.
Ser Anson, full of guilt at himself and anger at the men who had once been his patrons, took his daughter and his last few coins and went across the seas, where there was more work to be had for a man looking to sell his skills.
For the next eleven years, Anson dragged his daughter Senna all across the Disputed Lands of the east, from campaign to campaign and battlefield to battlefield. Having lost her mother, he took no chances with his daughter. She learned what it meant to live in an armed camp. There were the simple tasks, yes. Laundry, cooking, setting up camp. But her father trained her in the basics of blade and fighting as well, and when Senna began sneaking out in the evenings to practice another trade, he only thanked her for the extra coin she brought back.
Ser Anson taught his daughters the hardest lessons he could, and let her learn the others in the theater of war. Trust was not one of those lessons. He taught her that survival is first, and loyalty is subject to survival. It can be useful. But once it ceases to be, you cannot expect anyone else to hold out a hand to you. And then, whispers began to reach the East of budding war in Westeros.
Longing for home, Ser Anson set sail with Senna back to Westeros, just in time to be hired on for the Targeryen cause. The first port, the first person hiring. Anson had no pretensions of loyalty to one camp or another. Only to the one that held the purse strings. Once more, Senna set off with her father to see war.
Eventually, the war found them at the Trident. Someone's sword found Ser Anson. Looters found Senna's tent. Discretion was the better part of valor, and though she gathered what she could, it was little. Her father's death left Senna alone in the world. But she had learned her father's lessons well. Independence is key, but one should never be truly alone. It was easy enough to attach herself to the train of a noble house headed home from war. It was chance - and a young knight injured in a chance encounter along the rode - that drew her to the Nayland party, returning to Hag's Mire. She presented herself as a healer willing to follow alongside the knight, and a few smiles and a pretty face convinced the knight that even if there were better healers, most of them would make the process less enjoyable.
But Senna had no intention of being a minor knight's bedwarmer for the rest of her life. And no illusions that the knight would have any interest in her beyond the limits of his injury. A few months in Hag's Mire was enough to discern where opportunity lay. Carefully, she introduced herself to Ser Rygar, making herself useful in small ways as she could, proving herself a useful asset.
Over time, she proved herself useful in many ways, and willing to complete a task by whatever means necessary. She was quick to pick up on noble manners, and the Delacourt name was still familiar enough among the Riverlands from her father's heyday. Yet as an orphan, unattached to anyone, she could move comfortably through the various levels of society.
Adaptable, skilled, and uninterested in the details of morals, Senna made herself a place in the Nayland household and Hag's Mire. Is it all she'll ever want? So long as she's getting paid, she doesn't seem inclined to wonder.
Simplicity and shadows, Senna presents a study in contrasts. She's a fine-featured young woman, with glossy dark hair and striking eyes, the iris an explosion of amber over a field of green, ringed in deepest gray, with the whole framed by fine, arched brows and thick, dark lashes. Her skin is fair, a sharp contrast to the near-black hair that falls thick and silky around her shoulders, chin sharp and lips ever so slightly curved. Though her build is unmistakeably feminine, at five feet and eight inches tall, she has a definition to graceful limbs more common in smallfolk than those of good blood.
She dresses simply, in cotton dresses of Nayland green, her hair often pulled half back. Though they're clearly not tailored exclusively to her form, small nips and tucks here and there, or a belt or sash, do something to play up her figure. Though there isn't much in the way of obvious pouches, she does have a knack for producing needed items.
Allies and Foes
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