He would make an excellent king for her book, Asha thought, as her eyes and mind took in the full measure of the man. A dour, suspicious king who kept his own counsel and trusted no one, she decided. The king of winter who defeated the knights of summer. His walk, bordering between an impatient stride and a purposeful gait - she would have to memorize it, commit it to memory until she could put the words on paper.
"Has Mrs Greyjoy settled in for the night?" He asked her, his eyes staring at the clock in the study, and not at her.
"She has, thank you. We're very grateful to you for giving us shelter for the night. Our carriage could not have gone much further in this snowstorm."
"It is very foolish of you to travel in such weather,"Stannis said, his tone disapproving.
"My mother insisted," Asha replied. Her mother could never stay long at their London home. The memory of her two dead sons still lingered there. Alannys Greyjoy preferred to stay at her brother's country residence, far from her husband, far from the man she blamed for her sons' deaths.
No, Asha decided, she would not think of her mother. Or her father. Not tonight. She turned her mind towards the man currently in the room with her. What would her uncle Rodrik make of this man? Asha wondered.
"I have met a singular creature, unlike anyone you have ever met, or anything you have ever read in your vast collection of books, uncle," she envisioned telling Rodrik Harlaw.
But perhaps Stannis Baratheon was not so singular after all. Perhaps it only seemed that way at the moment because he was a mystery she had yet to solve. She was going to write about him, she had resolved months ago, probing and investigating every aspect of his character in the guise of a fictional character in her novel, as she had done before with others. There was something exhilarating about the process; the feeling was indescribable, a precious treasure she could never duplicate with other activities.
Of course there was the inevitable crash and the steep come-down at the end, once she had solved the mystery and found the key to who and what the person truly was, the secret to their being. It all ended up seeming a bit disappointing, and if she was truly honest with herself, rather grubby, in fact. A puzzle solved could not help but lost its luster in many ways. But Asha was not fond of indulging in pointless regrets or entertaining endless misgivings about the past. The next step forward; that was always her prime consideration.
Her eyes took in the mountain of papers and letters on Stannis' writing table. It seemed a bit much for a landed gentry, Asha thought. He must have an estate agent who took care of most of the actual work that needed to be done. How often had her father spoken scornfully about these landlords from old families who had no notion of profit and money at all, who were at the mercy of their estate agents and their solicitors. Her father had also spoken gleefully about how easy it was to swindle these soft men who were born to titles, land and properties, who never had to work for anything in their life.
Stannis Baratheon did not seem like a man who could be easily swindled, by Balon Greyjoy or by anyone else, Asha thought.
Stannis noticed her gaze, and cleared his throat pointedly. "Is there anything else, Miss Greyjoy?" He wanted to be left alone, that much was clear.
"No," Asha replied, smiling. "I only came down to say thank you."
He nodded and turned his attention back to the letter he was reading, ignoring her as if she was already out of the room. Asha looked around, desperate to continue the conversation. There might not be another chance for them to be alone later, for her to observe him uninterrupted. There was a daughter in the house, Asha knew, but no wife. Stannis was a widower. A younger brother also lived there, Asha had learned. Her eyes spotted a book placed at the edge of a chair. Salvation! She picked up the book and read the title.
Emma.
A sound escaped her throat. "Oh."
There was no reaction from the other occupant of the room. Stannis still had his head down, concentrating on the letter.
"You do not seem the type to read Miss Austen, Lord Stannis," Asha said.
There was still no reply from Stannis.
"I know she is quite fashionable at the moment. The Prince Regent himself is a devoted reader, it is said," Asha continued, refusing to give up and surrender.
The head came up swiftly, with one eyebrow raised, the pinched lips turning down in a frown, the dark blue eyes staring daggers at Asha.
"I do not read for fashion, Miss Greyjoy."
"But you do read Miss Austen, don't you?" Asha asked, holding out the book in her hand.
"The book belongs to my younger brother."
"Ah. That is less unexpected," Asha replied with a smile, arranging her expression so that she looked as if she was relieved that everything made more sense now.
Stannis took the bait, as Asha hoped he would. "Why is that less unexpected?" He asked, frowning. "I do know how to read, Miss Greyjoy, just like my brother. I am not an illiterate." He was grinding his teeth, the sound clearly audible from across the room where Asha was standing. Her mind was filled with the words she could use to describe that sound, the phrases she would write to bring to life the way his jaw was steadily working, to show her readers with just a few words his countenance when he was displeased.
Asha made conciliatory noises. "I'm sure you do, Lord Stannis. I only meant that Miss Austen's work does not seem –"
Stannis interrupted. "Miss Austen is a sharp observer of human nature, and a careful cataloguer of their follies. The ending of her books, however, leaves much to be desired."
"The ending? So you do not approve of Emma Woodhouse marrying Mr Knightley? Or Elizabeth Bennet finally finding happiness with Mr Darcy?"
"Life does not end with a happy wedding," Stannis replied curtly.
"I'm sure Miss Austen is aware of that. But the book has to end at some point," Asha pointed out. "It can hardly go on forever."
"Then why end with a wedding? Why not childbirth, or death?" Stannis asked, his voice rising, his face flushed. He looked down quickly, as if he regretted saying even that much.
"The readers are free to continue the story in their own mind. For example, I am certain that Emma will soon grow tired of her husband and his determination to continually improve her character," Asha said. "I predict six months at the most of domestic bliss for Mr and Mrs Knightley."
"Are you mocking me, Miss Greyjoy?"
"Heavens, no. I agree with you, Lord Stannis. Miss Austen's ending is the worst feature of her work."
"Is that literary criticism, or the words of a jealous rival?" Stannis asked, gazing at her shrewdly.
Asha was stunned. How did he know?
She laughed to conceal her surprise. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Lord Stannis. My brother Theon is the published author in my family."
He was still staring at her, his eyes boring deep into hers, challenging, questioning. "I do not think so. I have met your brother and spoken to him on a few occasions. Yara is not his creation," he said emphatically. "You are a liar, Miss Greyjoy. You and your brother both," he said angrily.
Her surprise that he had actually read her novel was surpassed only by her puzzlement that he seemed to take the deception so personally. What business was it of his anyway? He had no right to judge her, no right at all.
"Did you think a novel of sea-faring adventure would be greeted with better reception and more sales if it were written by a man?" He asked, his tone scornful.
"Of course it would," Asha replied. "Is there really any doubt about that? Women are expected to write stories about the domestic sphere, not the world at large. Matrimonial adventures, not sea-faring adventures, and certainly not sea-faring adventures of a female character."
"So you admit it! You lied for money."
It was Asha's turn to sound scornful. "My father has more money than you and your brothers combined, Lord Stannis. I do not write for money."
"Why, then? Why not use your own name?"
Because of a brother who needed a purpose in life so he would not be lost to his family, and to himself. Because the book - the printed, published item sold in stores - was never the point for Asha. The process was the point; the gathering of material, the careful choosing of not just words but also people, the real living, breathing people who would form the basis of her characters. There was also the constant but entertaining struggle to come up with ingenious ways to hide her inspirations (libel suit was a concern, certainly). And most of all, the feeling of her hand writing down each and every word, fully in control of the world she had created, free to arrange things however she chose, thwarted by nothing and no one.
How could this man even begin to understand any of that? This man who by mere accident of birth was already in control of his world, every day of his life.
Perhaps it would be better to make him a defenseless, powerless peasant in her next book, Asha thought.
Better still, Stannis should be a woman in the book, Asha mused. A woman with great ability thwarted by the rules of society, her worth unrecognized, her ambition curtailed, her dreams curdled into bitterness.
"Is that what you secretly wish to do, captaining a ship and traveling the world?" Stannis asked, even though she had not yet replied to his previous question.
She knew what he was asking. Is Yara yourself? Are you Yara?
"No. It's only a story," she lied. "I am a good writer," she said truthfully. Stannis would be her greatest creation yet.