Chapter 3 - Barrowtown
It's disgustingly cold outside, the day she and Jorgen ride for Barrowton. The old smith didn't really care either way, which made it easy to suggest they go south rather than north. Winterfell might be the capital of the North, but Barrowton is closer, has better ale, and the chances of running into a Stark are much lower.
It's just… weird to think about them. She tries not to. But at the same time, Toni has slowly but surely collected as much information about the other Starks. Or is she the other Stark now? Is she even a Stark, if no one knows her name? There's a whole family of them, with centuries of history behind their name and sigil. They mean something in this world. And Toni?
Toni is terrified of being nothing.
This is why she doesn't want to run into any of them. All this existentialism is damn inconvenient.
"Oi, girl!" Jorgen barks. "Quit fuckin' around and 'elp me." He's lifting supplies onto a wagon. Toni hurries over to lift a sack of grain into the back of the cart.
"What's all this?" Toni heaved another sack onto the cart. She eyes the markings on the burlap and grows wary. "The miller's coming too?"
Jorgen notices her trepidation and grunts. "Aye, 's got business in Barrowton. Safer to travel t'gether, Tones," he reminds her. "Not too many bandits 'round here, but y'know. This is wolf country."
Toni rolls her eyes, ready to complain again about the unreasonable number of times Northerners managed to fit the word 'wolf' into common conversation, but then the damn miller stomps up to them, glaring hard at her. The man was lean and clean-shaven, with shaggy hair the color of ash. He and Jorgen were on good terms, but he hated Toni with a passion.
Jorgen is already walking back to the smithy, oblivious.
"Pill," Toni greets him cooly.
"Don't fuckin' call me that," he growls back, plopping another sack of grain onto the cart.
Toni scowls, annoyed." Everyone calls you Pill." She isn't even sure what his full name is. She just can't win with this asshat.
Some of the people in town don't trust her, and plenty of the men like to leer at her, but the miller just plain hated her. He scowls right back at Toni. "Not you, you little—"
"Pill!" Jorgen calls amicably, nodding in the man's direction. "What took you so long? Wife giving you a proper send-off?"
The miller gives him a roguish grin, forgetting to yell at Toni. "Well, I don' mean to boast, but… "
Toni tunes out the rest of their dick-measuring contest. She climbs into the back of the wagon, ending up next to a sloppily-dressed young girl trying, fruitlessly, to braid her hair. She was no older than seventeen, and clearly a prostitute. Toni feels her stomach churn
"Would you like some help with that?" She offers, gesturing to the girl's yellow hair.
The girl blinks, looking Toni up and down. "You knows how?" She asked uncertainly, eyeing Toni's hair.
Toni still has a pixie-cut, and it garners a lot of strange attention around Torrhen's Square. The current conclusion is that Toni has head lice, which is probably the tamest rumor about Toni Stark ever, so she's not complaining. "Turn around, I can braid it for you."
The girl gives her a tentative smile. "Thank yeh, m'lady," she says, turning around. "I'm Talla."
"Cool—ah, that's a lovely name," Toni corrects herself. It's bad enough that her American accent sounds sort of aristocratic here, but throwing out weird 21st-century vernacular makes her stick out like a sore thumb. "My name is Toni."
The girl giggles. "That's a man's name."
Toni scoffs. "Who cares? It's my name." She pulls Talla's hair into one hand and divides it into three sections. "Seven hells, your hair is long. Doesn't it get in the way? That's why mine is so short. I don't have time to brush it every hour."
"I don't brush it that often," Talla argues, leaning her head back into Toni's hands. "And—m'lord says it's pretty like this. Even better when it's wavy."
This is the last thing Toni wants to talk about. "Who's m'lord? " She asks anyway. Talla is young and traveling alone. "Does he live in Barrow Hall?"
"How'd you know?" Talla gasps quietly, worried. She looks back at Toni in fear.
Toni offers her a small smile, though it takes everything for Toni not to seem angry. "I'm just very clever. I won't tell no one, promise." She might punch a lord in the face, though. Talla is so, so young.
Talla's shawl slips off her shoulder, and Toni can see greenish-blue skin.
Oh, she's definitely going to punch a lord.
Barrowton is lively. Toni didn't expect it, but crowds are loud and rude enough to remind her of Manhattan. As soon as they arrived, Talla had run off to find her lord, and Toni busied herself setting up a stall with Jorgen. The miller fucked off to wherever millers go, and Toni is happy enough not to look at his ugly face any longer.
"It's busier than usual," Jorgen comments, looking eastward. "Betcha there's some lords in town, feastin' with the Dustins."
House Dustin, the seat of Barrowton. They aren't a very big or powerful house. Toni frowns. "Who would be visiting Lord Dustin?"
"Dunno. Manderlys?" He guesses. "It's good f'r business anyhow. Lookit, all th' stalls about. Pill's down that way, yeh see 'im?"
"No," Toni says flatly. Jorgen only gives her a sour look.
"'Ello there, girlie," a young man strolls up to them, looking at Toni. He grins and picks up a steel blade. "How much for this one?"
Toni looks over the knife. "That one's ten silvers."
He grins and turns to Jorgen. "No, I mean 'ow much for this one?"
The little bastard is pointing at Toni. An auspicious start. Do Northerners believe in blood sacrifice? Maybe this dickhead will be of use.
"Fuck off, boy. We're only selling the blades." Jorgen speaks first, his voice plain and loud. "Get lost before she cuts off your cock with one of them."
Jorgen, you know me so well.
The man only scrunches up his nose in disappointment, setting down the knife. "Bet your cunt's saggy anyway."
Toni stares at the man, cheerfully imagining his death as he wanders off. The smith growls. "Fuckin' cocksuckers, aren't they? Don't pay no mind to 'em, Tones." He doesn't look at her, doesn't offer any words of concern, but she can see his fists trembling.
She takes a deep, calming breath. "Jorgen, after this is over, you and I are gonna get tanked at the nearest pub, you hear me?"
He actually smiles and pats her shoulder. "I hear ya, lass."
She sells a lot of weapons. Toni looks at the coins piling up in her wooden chest, and wonders if this is any different from building warheads through military contracts.
Of course, it's different. But will she always have to rely on violence and warfare for a livelihood?
Toni sells farming household tools as well, but castles usually commission their own smith for those items, so she'll never make much of a profit off of those. It was difficult enough for smallfolk to get used to seeing a woman smithing, but highborns? Perish the fucking thought. She'd never get the chance.
The sun is setting, and the air has grown so cold she can see her breath. Jorgen claps a hand on her shoulder, making her jump. He huffs. "It's cold as shit. You promised me a drink, so what're we doing out here?"
Toni shoves off his hand, grinning despite herself. "I never said I'd pay," she objects, walking beside him.
The blacksmith scoffs. "You're paying, lass, w'th all the coin you've just earned. Seven hells, you're better at this than I thought."
They don't call her the Merchant of Death for nothing. Toni shrugs. "It could've gone better. Fewer 'fuck you, cunt's would've been nice."
Jorgen chortles. "You looked ready to geld each an' every one of them."
"I would've tried," Toni agrees fiercely. "Can't geld them all, though, so I'm glad you came along."
Jorgen chuckles when he sees the look on her face. "If you can' handle it, I could always handle th' customers for ya—"
"Never, Jorg," Toni cuts him off automatically, though he's only teasing. "Unless you think you can barter like me?"
"Can't bat my eyes th' way you do, Toni, but I could geld any fucker as easily as you," Jorgen says gruffly as they push their way into the crowded bar. They sit at the end of one table, and Jorgen calls for a server. "Ale and bread f'r us, yeah?"
"Lots of ale," Toni says sternly. "If I'm not drunk soon, what was the point of playing nice with all those jackasses?"
"No, no, no. You're goin' about this all wrong, sweetheart." Toni interrupts a young man's laments about the tavern girl he slept with. "No wonder she doesn't want to see you again!"
"Wha—what would you know about it, wench?"
Toni chuckles and takes another sip before eyeing the grouchy blonde across the table. "Because I've actually had sex, greenie, and I know what makes it good for both parties." Toni holds back a comment about using diagrams to teach him about the clitoris.
Jorgen slaps the back of her head, but he's too tired to put any force behind it. Toni ignores him, certain he'll be asleep in his soup by the time she finished her pint.
The boy splutters out his drink. "Oi, I'm not some—I'm not green, I've laid w' girls b'fore! There's nuthin' wrong with the way I fuck!"
"Hm," Toni pretends to consider it, "And did any of them come back for more? No? That's 'cause ya don't know what you're doing, ya goof." Her face screws up in distaste. Apparently, shitty ale makes her talk like a native New Yorker.
But the men simply roar with laughter, and the blonde one blushes furiously. It's too easy to rile up these guys. Someone claps her on the back too harshly, spilling her drink a little, but she doesn't mind.
"What's yer name, wench?" One of the men asks, giving her a crooked, nasty smile.
Nothing good will come of this conversation. "Toni," she calls back imperiously. "Don't you forget it!"
He slings an arm over the blonde one. "W- ell then, Toni… why don'tcha come teach me how you like t' romp, eh?"
A few men howl and slam fists on the table in glee. Toni narrows her eyes at the man. "So you admit, you don't know how?" She shakes her head. "At your age? I'm afraid you're hopeless, darling."
More men howl at that.
"Go find yerself a tavern girl, Corry! This one's too feisty fer yeh!"
Someone passes her another drink, and Toni drinks half of it in one go. "She drinks like a sailor too!"
"A woman after my own heart!"
Toni feels something sliding down her waist, and twists in her seat. "Do you want to lose that hand, child?" She scowls at an unsuspecting boy, who jumps and stutters before leaving. Toni glares at the rest of the men. "That goes for all of you. If I wanted you, you'd know!"
Three men raise their glasses to her in reverence and chorus, "Aye, wench!"
The sight makes her laugh. She points to the three of them. "I like the way you think. Next one's on me!"
She basks in the cheers that follow. Another gust of cold wind rushes through the bar as more travelers take shelter from the damnable weather. Toni sighs, rising from her seat to seek out fresher air. There are a few musicians in the far corner of the bar, playing something light and sort of Irish-folksy. Toni has tried to make sense out of this country's history, but it's mixed with all sorts of influences Toni doesn't understand.
A red-faced man stumbles up to her with a bright smile. Theo. She met him earlier, and they commiserated over the terrible beer. He's been to Dorne, and wouldn't stop talking about it.
"Tona!" He greets her, reaching out for her hands. He keeps getting her name wrong, but then again, they're all pretty buzzed. "Won't you dance with me? I would be ever so grateful!"
She snorts but takes his hands. Whatever sort of dance they're going to do, it's going to look terrible. "Ever so grateful? I'd be happy to dance with a southron lady!" Toni mocks.
He pulls a face, though he seems unoffended. "You know, in Dorne the women are warriors. You would love it there, I'm certain."
"Gods," Toni snickers, gearing up to criticize everything about Dorne from its shitty wine to its shitty horses—like a true Northerner, as Jorgen impressed upon her—but then a flash a hair catches her eye. She turns away from Theo to follow it, recognizing Talla's yellow braid.
There's a man with her. A lord, by the looks of his fur-lined cloak.
Talla is in tears.
