Even in the bleak white waste north of the Wall, many a tale had been told of the Three Queens of Winterfell—fantastic tales that brought more to mind the magnificent legends from the Age of Heroes than they did a trio of middle-aged orphans who lived and breathed and shat among mere mortals in the present day.
Time and patience had allowed Suren to hear them all, from the quiet drunken whisperings among his comrades-in-arms to the bolder stories exchanged during marches to stave away boredom. He heard them and remembered every word.
Hearing them was one thing though; to believe was a different creature.
The Stark girl they called Queen of Winter—a witch who could meet a leer or rude word with a cold enough glare from her ice blue eyes to freeze a man's blood solid. There may be some truth to this one, thought Suren as he was introduced to the rulers of the northern capital. Her eyes were as bright as those of a wight, and her skin was snow-pale as well; if he had been a bolder man, Suren would have reached out a hand to touch her arms and see if he could feel warmth pumping through her veins. Her ugly brute of a husband stood next to her though, and the freeman did not dare. It's him and his nasty face that's fucking got me scared spineless, not that I would touch her and find her skin cold… I'm not scared of Them.
If you repeat something often enough, perhaps it comes true…
Robb Stark's young widow was the Rightful Queen, a well-formed beauty with perfect round teats and a nice comely shape to her; she would steal a man's heart, kiss him and bed him, but rip his entrails from his bloody stomach and eat them raw before the morning sun arose in Winterfell, if the stories could be believed. That one seemed unlikely to the wildling. Jeyne Westerling's smile seemed sincere enough, though she was lovely and deliciously well-curved. Despite the apparent risks, Suren found himself fantasizing about sharing his furs with the woman; her full lips on his slender neck, her perfectly shaped nails raking down his spine. He shivered suddenly, remembering where he was and trying desperately not to become any more aroused.
Remember what you have to do, he repeated these words in his head like a holy mantra.
Tread carefully. Keep to the task at hand.
The third queen was the False Queen, and she was the only one not returning his smile. While Stark and Westerling were connected by blood or marriage to the Stark family, this girl (Poole, her name was?) was connected only by friendship, and by the laws of those south of the Wall, had no place among royalty. In the tales he had heard, Poole had, in her past, bedded a demon—a black, fell spirit of darkness and pain. The passion of their couplings had eventually bore fruit, and she was often accompanied around the courts by a little half-demoness with blood red eyes, that fed only on human blood. Can't tell the truth of this one yet—the little shit-faced brats are probably already in the hall, but based on her eyes, I'm like to believe it. Poole's eyes looked passionless and dull, from experience Suren could recognize them as belonging to one who had known great suffering. Like Westerling, she stood alone.
"I trust you've found your accommodations to be well-enough to your liking?" inquired Westerling politely, speaking to Suren from among his companions and meeting his eyes with her own, brown and beautiful and full of fierce northern pride. The hall was already prepared for the feast and awaiting only the return of the queens for the meal to begin.
"Of course, my lady," he answered, nodding his head, trying his best to fit in to this southern kneelers' dance, so different from his own. "So pleased that you could provide room in your great castle for my humble party."
Twenty freefolk had made the hard journey, the best of the lot that he could muster together on such short notice. Vespar of Southfang and Kiviq Snowbear stood with him now for support, but it was him, young Suren, called Icebane, that was in control of this quest, whom all looked up to as leader. Old Kiviq was wickedly strong but stupid, he lacked the cunning to pull something like this together; the Great Snowbear was the type that solved the majority of his problems with the sharp head of his axe. Vespar did seem to possess some kind of seasoned, wily intelligence—and had pedigree on his side as well, being the goddamned Lord o' Bone's whelp, but his own people seemed to despise him just as much as they had despised his idiot father before him. No, neither of them were born to lead, that responsibility was a burden only Suren could carry, and in the future his people would remember how the Icebane had saved them all.
Suren followed behind the great ladies of Winterfell as Jeyne Westerling, Queen in the North, led the freefolk leaders to sit at the high table with the children and the cream of the city.
The room was wildly beyond the scope of anything Suren had ever seen before.
If the Great Hearth in Winterfell had been more magnificent before the war, it must certainly have been one of the wonders of the world. The reconstruction and renovations had left the large dining hall simply yet elegantly decorated; huge tapestries depicting historical scenes hung suspended on walls of smooth polished stone, while high up on the walls dozens of arched windows were cut; they would be letting in light if the outside wasn't shrouded in darkness. Instead, numerous torches on the walls provided light by which to dine. Winter days were short, even here in Winterfell south of the Wall.
Table after table after table was laid out, covered with massive helpings of food and drink—whole roasted goats, complete with ripe apples in mouth, plates piled high with pickled fish, onions, and mushrooms, grouse stuffed with rice and herbs, lamprey pie, berry medleys stewed in cinnamon and fivespice, lemoncackes, huge tankards of ale, abundant wine in too many varieties to count; red and white and pink, sweet and sour, fruity and spiced. Suren felt his eyes go wide at the sight of so much sustenance, fought to control himself from drooling outright. A quick glance to his left showed a large drop of spittle making its way slowly down the Snowbear's chin; at least he wasn't alone. Winter life was more-than-a-little difficult lately north of the Wall, and the entirety of their party was half-starved and ravenous from the difficult journey south.
The next few hours passed as quickly as the memories of a good dream, fading to nothing with the rising of the northern sun. At least four courses were brought to the high table, and Suren ate every bite on every plate that was brought him; both ignorant and uncaring of whether this might seem rude to the kneelers. His hard life north of the wall taught him that few crimes were more serious than the wanton wasting of food; though he noticed that the royal children across the table picked and fussed with their plates, eating only a small portion of the great bounty before them. This alone was enough to provoke him into blind loathing.
That girl though, the oldest child—she's a right beauty in any light. Might be I could forgive her eating habits if she'd come keep my bedrolls warms at night.
Catie. Catie Stark, her name was, he could recall. Winter's Heir. Named after her fish-eyed grandmother. The Rightful Queen's only child; and the target he had come all the way from the far North to claim for the darkness. A shame really; she was too beautiful to lay to waste; freshly flowered, maybe ten and four, or perhaps ten and five? Among her siblings and cousins she stood out like a direwolf among wolves; the others laughed and played, brooded or talked, but little princess Catie Stark met his eyes with a smile. She sat upright in her chair as properly as could be expected of a young queen that knew herself to be no longer a child.
I wonder if her hand has already been promised to a fine southern gentleman; if the Stark wolf-child would be married soon. Is she even still a maid?
The though came from nowhere, quick and unbidden, and made him uncomfortably upset for some reason. Suren was never meant to understand the kneelers' concept of marriage; why would a girl want to stand behind an unproven man? Why did the southern women just accept such conquest peacefully? A freefolk spearwife would slit the husband's throat gladly if he was a coward.
The other children were, for the most part, younger, and observably less impressive. A tall, serious-faced lad with a mop of red hair (kissed by fire, this one) cuffed playfully with a small skinny blond teen; to their right, a sullen boy with long dark locks and long Stark-ish face gazed into his soup so morosely, Suren though for a second he was about to fall asleep. At the far end of the table, a dark-haired girl ignored the plate in front of her entirely, having her nose buried deep in a book—Suren couldn't read the letters on the spine to tell what the book might be about, though he was curious as to what could possibly be more interesting than roast goat. A small red-headed girl, maybe 3 or 4 years old, sat on the Queen of Winter's lap, babbling happily amid her endless smiles.
Well at least no red eyes in the bunch, if one of them's a demonness, they're hiding it bloody well.
The Queens of Winterfell made no effort to include the free folk into their conversations, which was fine enough with Suren. It would have been difficult anyways; they're all the way on the other side of the table. So instead he spoke with the Winterfell man to his right—the captain of the queens guardsmen, conjuring up pointless smalltalk to pass the time, and making every effort to ignore Vespar's snivelly attempts to insert himself into their conversation. The guardsman was very interested in everything Suren had to say about life beyond the wall, the free folks' interactions with the Night's Watch, and especially every word Suren possibly had to say about Lord Commander Jon Snow.
Snow. Why does the topic always come back to that ugly crow-face?
He was the first thing the Queens had asked about also. As with them, Suren tried to keep his answers brief and nondescriptive, lying as little as possible.
Have you seen the Queen's bastard brother Jon Snow?
Yes
How is he fairing up at the Wall?
Well 'nough; much less busy this winter than last, if you know what I mean.
Is it true he has a Valyrian steel blade?
Yes, dragonsteel, we call it; I've seen the blade myself.
Three questions and only half lies. Suren Icebane always tried his best.
The ringing of a tiny little bell signaling the end of dinner saved him from trying to skirt away from the topic of Jon Snow. Looking towards the head of the table, Suren saw that Sansa Stark had stood up, her red hair a waterfall of curls cascading down over the blue straps of her gown, down her back. Every eye in the Great Hearth feasted on her now, drinking her in as she walked, step by quiet step, down from her place at the High Table, past hundreds of enraptured eyes, until she stood tall and proud at the center of the hall, her smiling eyes meeting with those of her disfigured husband, who remained seated.
A pair of dark haired boys, so alike in appearance that they had to be twins, ran up jovially to join her from the cloud of smallfolk. One carried a lute in the crook of his arm, the other a small guitar.
Suren found himself holding his breath as Sansa Stark began to sing.
For a brief flash, the quiet guitar chords brought back the image of Mance Rayder, singing and smiling with words of giants and dragons and Dorne hot upon his lips. The image hurt. Mance was dead, tortured and murdered by a kneeler butcher. He was better than all of us. The true image itself of what a king should be. Comparing this Sansa Stark to his memory is a blasphemy.
The Queen of Winter sang of wolves.
The winter night lay long and dark; the winter night lay cold
Across the barren field was spied a wolf with eyes of gold
Around the room, some of the small folk joined in. They obviously knew the song well enough. Even the women at the High Table were singing, the False Queen and the Rightful Queen (and precious little Winter's Heir) smiling prettily as their delicate little mouths enunciated every syllable.
Alone, amid the blowing wind, the lone wolf padded through
Until he tipped his head and howled—his brothers all withdrew
(The music continued on without Sansa's voice for a moment here, as the hall broke into a cacophony of howls)
From rock and ice and brook and shore, the pack came pouring back
Back home again they chased the call
The white, the gray, the black
Back home again they chased the call
The white, the gray, the black
To Winterfell, the wolves returned; to Winterfell they ran!
To homely hearth and winterbrew, to halls of stone and man
And in the woods, the weirwood's face welcomes her children here
The people sing and laugh and dance, forgetting all their fear
From rock and ice and brook and shore, the pack comes pouring back
Back home again they chased the call
The white, the gray, the black
Back home again they chased the call
The white, the gray, the black!
For even if the lone wolf dies, the pack survives the fall
A wolf's true home is in the north, and north remembers all!
She finished her song with a smile and a flourish, and the entirety of the hall erupted in happy shouts, whistles, and clapping. The Queen of Winter bowed deeply at the waist, a display of humility towards her subjects, as both the Rightful Queen and the False Queen shimmied down from their seats at the High Table to join her at the center of the room. Queen Jeyne Westerling spoke up first, quieting the raucous crowd.
"People of Winterfell," her queen's voice boomed, "though my cousin's visit from the Wall has been delayed, I am happy with did not have to completely forego our plans for the feast. Tonight we dine with free folk heralding from the great north beyond the Wall, who only recently have forged friendship with our kin. May our camaraderie last long and bear bountiful fruits!" She raised up a glass of white arbor wine for a toast.
"To our friends in the north!"
"To our friends in the north!" the hall echoed, as a thousand sets of hand lifted a thousand glasses to a thousand pairs of lips.
The False Queen, Lady Jeyne Poole spoke up next, her voice softer than Jeyne Westerling's.
"We have prepared some foodstuffs and goods for our guests to take with them on the road back north, if they will it. Food that will keep on the road. The Greatjohn will accept you as a guest at Last Hearth should you choose to go that route. His halls are warm, and any friend of the Starks in Winterfell is a friend of the Umbers, I promise you this. We are pleased to extend Winterfell's warmest regards to you, m'Lord Suren Icebane and all your fine freefolk."
Suren, (and Vespar and Kiviq Snowbear, for that matter) visibly cringed at the word "m'Lord," but smiled genuinely enough to not let it show. These kneelers mean well, and I must stay on their good side for now.
The Queens acted surprised when Suren stood up suddenly, grabbing an object from under the table and shuffling down to join them on the floor. In an instant, The Queen of Winter's gruff husband was on his heels close behind him, hand on his swordbelt, nothing if not suspicious of the wildling's intentions. Like a trained guard dog, this one. I'd best stay on guard.
"My lady, Queen Jeyne Westerling, if you'd give me the time, I have a gift I'd like to give to your fine lady daughter. Something I've brought from my homeland, rare and wonderful. Your bastard brother on the wall wanted the girl to have it, he told me myself. It'll serve her well for many years."
Jeyne Westerling smiled, and beckoned gently for her only daughter to come down from the table to join them.
"Go ahead, good Suren."
Suren took one last hard look at Clegane, just to be safe, before taking action.
With a smile and a quick twist of his hand, the freeman pulled the thin brown cloth covering the parcel off and unto the ground. Catie Stark gasped in giddy excitement when she saw the contents.
It was alive.
Underneath the cloth were the rusted iron bars of a large birdcage, and sitting on a perch within the cage was the largest, whitest falcon any of the kneelers had seen in their lives. Eyes blacker than coal, a bright yellow beak with a dangerous notch, and white feathers broken with subtle black mottling on the bird's back, wings, and tail. Every feather perfect.
"A gyrfalcon, my lady. For hawking. In the north, they are the bird of kings, and they breed only far past the wall, in freefolk lands. It's a young bird, too; should be simple enough to train up. I reckon you'll be the only lady south of the Wall to fly a proper gyr."
"I love it," said Catie, her voice reverent and sincere. Suren could tell by her eyes that she was not lying.
My work here is done.
Suren bowed and returned to his seat, knowing that he'd doomed the girl to a fate worse than death.
A/N- We'll meet the children a bit better in the next chapter—I'm gonna try for chapter POVs in GRRM style; I'm anticipating this to be a longish work, perhaps if it's still going I'll continue work on it for NaNoWriMo come November. Thanks for reading!