"The Smiling Storm?"
"Too similar to Lyonel the Laughing Storm. I need originality."
"The Thundering Storm? You can be quite loud."
"Better, but storms already thunder, yes? Something else that sets me apart from every other little stormcloud is necessary, I think."
"Perhaps we should move away from storms?"
"It may be for the best. Every good storm-themed name has likely been taken by one stormlord or another."
"Then we've exhausted all options that would honor your father's house."
"Really? We haven't discussed anything having to do with stags-"
"Stags are male deer, Roslin, male. I freely admit that I am hardly the most feminine maiden in the Seven Kingdoms, but even I wouldn't go around calling myself, specifically, a stag of any sort. The implications of such an epitaph would be most unfortunate."
I grimaced at the thought. The idea was to acquire a better nickname, not try to top my current alias in sheer irritation.
"Then what about a doe?"
"Do you look on me and think 'doe'?" I raised my arms and flexed. "Do these look like the arms of a doe to you?"
"But...," Roslin's face scrunched up in confusion. "...a doe does not have arms?"
"Do not worry yourself overmuch Lady Frey. Her Grace tends to worry not about such fine details as sense and coherence. I find it best to simply nod and smile politely in situations such as these."
"You know what I meant," I mutter as I put my arms down.
I return the subsequent nod and polite smile a withering glare.
"Perhaps Alysanne the Addled then?" Roslin asked with a small smile.
Betrayed, I turned a wounded look on the little Frey. "Why are you ganging up on me? You're supposed to say nice things to me in an attempt to curry favor. That's how this whole lady-in-waiting thing is supposed to work. You're doing it wrong."
"I think it's quite nice actually, the alliteration helps make for a memorable title, which is what you seek, isn't it Your Grace?" Commented the Reacher bastard thoughtfully.
Her lips twitched upward. "It certainly sounds better than Robert-Wi-"
"Finish that sentence and you can walk Lynesse. You can walk all the way to Winterfell." I warned flatly. "There's some alliteration for you. You can write a song along the way."
"Um, what about your Mother's house?" Roslin suggested uncertainly, glancing between Lynesse and I. "Perhaps you can find inspiration in the lion of Lannister?"
Roslin still wasn't quite sure what to make of me I suppose. Though, were I in her shoes, I'd be a bit gun-shy myself. The line between bantering and a royal order to get the fuck out of the carriage must be a fine one for the uninitiated to perceive.
Eh, she'll learn.
She's doing quite well already, took no time for her to pick up that I don't care to hear any gushing over Mother. Couldn't really blame her if she did though, fangirliing over the Queen is a pretty universal thing for the courtly types to do. Plus Mother's the reason she's got this gig, so there's that too.
The chain of events that had lead Roslin Frey to sitting across from me in a North-bound carriage started at my brother's name day tourney, not long before Grandpa Jon's death. Walder Frey was in attendance with a number of his brood, and I recalled a detail from canon, that Jon would shoot down an exchange of foster-lings with the old weasel.
Still don't know whether Sweetrobin's fostering was ever on the table, it makes the most sense as a motive if Lysa dosed Jon like in canon. A servant coming along for the trip North had brought with him my requested list, and Maester Malleon's book with the very long title was not on it. So another point towards the Incestigation not being in play, but I'd still like more definite proof before discarding the possibility altogether.
Yes, I know I'm asking for a lot in proving a negative, but whatever. Call me greedy.
Anyways.
Fostering or no, the Late Lord being there gave me the opportunity to acquire Olyvar. There were plenty of boys and young men to be found for the job, but canon noted that Olyvar Frey was remarkably adept at squiring.
Let it never be said that I don't do anything nice for my shield.
I also figured that if he's got someone to carry his shit, I shouldn't hear anymore complaints about carrying my shit.
Unearned foreknowledge in hand, I had floated the idea to Grandpa Jon. My sworn shield had a need and I had heard that Ser Perwyn, who had ridden fairly in the tourney, had a brother the right age for it. I had left it there, couldn't be too pushy with Jon, and took a wait and see approach. If the fostering offer was made by Frey and declined as per canon, the squiring gig could be readily offered to smooth over any ruffled feathers. Turned out someone liked my idea, but thought it could be even better.
I had missed them on our brief return from the Westerlands, but when the convoy caught up to us at Hayford, I was quite surprised to find half the Frey-Rosby line waiting for me. I don't have all the details, but somehow Mother had gotten wind of my idea and pounced on Jon, something about strengthening family ties, so now Guyard's got his squire, I've got my own court lady, and Perwyn's hanging around too. He's riding around here somewhere right now on security detail.
Not sure what angle Mother's working, but Walder Frey's probably got his eye on Rosby, what with sending all his free agents from that branch. The Old Falcon probably saw a lever to be used in his schemes. Makes sense, The Cougher's been hacking out his lungs all over court for years now, and he's too terrified of Qyburn to allow him to examine his condition.
Which is bullshit, because he doesn't know Qyburn enough to be justifiably terrified of him.
Regardless of what was going on in the background, the Freys I've picked up were all good eggs according to the books, and that seemed to bear out in actuality. Especially Roslin; despite her being my polar opposite in just about every way, she's made for pleasant company over the past fortnight. She's got this very sweet, gentle demeanor that will take some time to wear the edges off of, so that'll give me something to do on my off hours.
What? Guyard turned out fine.
And she is cute as a button. Slender build, long brown hair and big, big doe eyes, Roslin's like a little deer. A very small deer. Like, oh my gosh, she's so tiny. I must have more than a foot on her in height.
Yes, she is a tiny little porcaline deer.
I could pick her up and tuck her up under my arm and stoll around with her like an accessory.
Good afternoon Lady Stokeworth, how are you? Oh, I see you've noticed my travel-Frey, yes they're very fashionable right now, you should pick one up yourself before Autumn or all of the good ones will be gone!
Silly thoughts.
Where was I?
Right, lions.
"A lion is male as well, though not as inherently so as a stag," I replied. "Still, were I to go in that direction, lioness would be the proper term. However, there is only one true lioness in the family, and all others would be judged in all aspects against her."
I slump in my seat. "Do you see any of the Queen in me at all?" I ask, waving a hand up and down to indicate my long frame.
"Just a bit," interjects the Reacher woman.
I raised an eyebrow in question.
Lynesse smiles and taps her own face.
"The cheekbones."
I snort at that. Flatterer.
I grin and give her finger-guns. "And that's why you're my favorite, Lyn. Your previous transgressions are hereby forgiven until you inevitably commit them once more."
Ignoring the smile and nod I'm getting from Roslin, I put the guns away.
"No, I don't think I'd like to go down that route. Fearsome though a lioness may be, I am not one to sink and sharpen claws. I am more of a, hmm, bash and thrash kind of princess. It's a shame my house's sigil features no tumbling boulders. Aly the Avalanche has quite a nice ring to it."
"A great tragedy indeed, Your Grace."
"Quite."
"Then, where else might we look for a title for you?" Roslin asks, finding her footing once more.
I chew my lip in thought.
"There must be an element of myself in the moniker. My house, my sigil, my appearance, traits and skills. The title must be such that one can hear it and know, without a shred of doubt, that it can only refer to the one and only Alysanne Baratheon."
"Well, if we are to consider your skills, you have a lovely singing voice."
Roslin gets a smile and finger-gun of her own. "See? Compliments and nice things. That's the way to do it."
Yeah she's still pretty confused by my gesturing. But again, she's new.
"But I think not," I say, putting my hand down before she starts nodding again.
"Though I am a fair singer-" And wasn't that a nice little perk in this life? Baratheons ain't just for bellowing ya know. We've got great pipes. "-I remain only fair. To give myself the title of Singer would be too arrogant, even for me, when one takes into account all those more skilled."
"I'll leave the songs to the Flowers," I conclude with a nod to Lyn.
A pause as I tap my chin in thought.
"Although," I mutter, considering. "I could get away with it were I clever. I could be Alysanne the Steelsinger. My greatest strength is in my skill at arms, and the song of steel is one I'll never forget the tune of. Though the name celebrates my martial skill, it is a reference to my vocal ability as well."
"But didn't you say you've never fought anyone before?"
"I've fought plenty!" I say defensively. "Though yes, those fights were only in the training yards of the Red Keep or such similar venues. To hear the veterans tell it, such training is only the palest of imitations compared to actual combat."
Of course they probably haven't been smacked around the yard by Selmy lately, I think with a slight shiver.
"And though I've split plenty of blood in the Kingswood, hunting game is hardly a trial comparable with facing a man in a mortal contest."
Though that incident with Henery...
No, I resolve, that whole mess is staying in it's box.
My hand absently drifts to the side of my head.
My companions are staring at me.
Shake head, clear throat, move on.
"So I don't think Steelsinger is a good choice, at least not yet. Titles emphasizing potency in battle are best granted after one proves themselves. If I take such a name prematurely, and am crushed the first time I take the field? I've no desire to be knocked off my pedestal before ever ascending it. It'd be worse than never having a title at all! I wouldn't be Steelsinger, I'd be Baratheon the Blowhard!"
"Or Aly the Awful," quipped Lynesse.
"Are you certain you're a bard?" I deadpan, "Truly, you must be some foreign god of wit and art given flesh. Your words paint such wondrous and colorful pictures."
Spending my goodwill on such disrespect so soon after being forgiven? Reachers.
"Oh, color!"
I respond eloquently, "Huh?"
"What do you mean Lady Roslin?" Lynesse asked, similarly confused.
"My family is quite, um, large and many of my relations are named in honor of my father, Lord Walder." Roslin explains, "With so many Walders, it can be quite confusing, so some of them have extra names to help tell one apart from another, like Big Walder and Little Walder. My grandnephew from my father's first wife is known as Black Walder."
"He is...an unpleasant man. But his title is simple, it lets others know to be wary of him, and is easily memorable," continues the Frey maiden. "To name yourself by a color may be the way to go, although I think you would be something brighter than Black."
"Yes, I am quite the ray of sunshine aren't I?" I muse, thinking of a certain crow and the future he once might have had.
"Blue, perhaps?" The bard ponders. "It would go well with Baratheon, and it would match your eyes."
"Hmph, or maybe Aly the Aqua. Blue is too closely associated with melancholy in my mind, it's not a trait that I'd like to be identified with. I am a very fun person after all, wouldn't do to falsely advertise."
"Then let me preemptively strike down Brown from your choices. It you choose a color as a name, then you should wear that color, I think. If you should become The Brown Baratheon, then I imagine you one day walking onto the field of battle, clad in brown plate, and then all my mind can think of is that joke about brown pants..."
That earns a round of giggles. Lyn grants her audience a slight bow for our recognition of her wit.
"I agree, Brown shall henceforth be struck from consideration," I say, once I've got the chuckles out of my system. "Though I think dear Roslin was too quick to dismiss Black. The color could be an appropriate name for those of foul tempers and harsh looks, but it need not be only that."
"Black is mystery, cloaking what it colors in intrigue and interest. Fearsome and intimidating as well, a charging knight clad in Black is like to be as powerful a sight as a thunderhead, spewing lightning as it rolls forth. There's perhaps as much awe in that darkness as in the opposing White knight's light. There's some definite potential in Black."
"Doesn't that repeat your earlier concerns?" Roslin argues. "If you take such a fearsome title now, don't you then risk being proven false later?"
"I suppose you're right, I should prove myself Black before taking the name. I've no great deeds to my name, and my disposition is far sweeter than your kin's. My temper can tower, true, but it tends to burn hot and quick, I'm not prone to the smouldering embers that Black evokes."
"But again, I could try to be sly," I state thoughtfully. "I certainly wouldn't mind being known far and wide for my best feature."
I flick a braid over my shoulder.
Thank you for the titters ladies, you are too kind.
"But I believe we've trod this topic enough for one afternoon. Lyn, my dear Flower, if you could help us to pass the time with a song?"
"It's what I'm paid for."
"That's the spirit!"
Adjusting the lute she had been absently plucking the strings of all the while, the bard starts to play a tune, and after a moment begins to sing.
As I came down through Oldtown City
At the hour of th' wolf at night
Who should I spy but a Northern lady
Washing her feet by the candlelight
Roslin herself had some talent for music, and was very interested to hear the new song, much like all the others Lynesse Flowers had played over the course of the trip. I wasn't too surprised that much of our stuff hadn't made it to the Twins yet. These days, I'm floored when something can make it out past the doorway of Songbird Hall. One of my early successes in actively shaping Martin's world had since turned into a den of indolence and debauchery.
To be fair, the Hall has always been a shabby little hole for assorted bards and minstrils to basically just jam out at, but they've really been stretching the definition of "musical experimentation" lately. Which is upsetting; I worked hard on that mission statement. I swear, if it wasn't for my frequent visits, complete with heavily armed guards, they might just stop wearing pants altogether.
Some people (*cough*Stannis*cough*), might say that such deviant behavior is only to be expected from giving people of so little responsibility and personal worth a royal stipend to abuse. Not saying that some people are necessarily wrong, but some people also have Strong Opinions on Fun, and so some people's opinions are often given little weight.
Personally, I blame Tyrion.
[Somewhere, in a wheelhouse perhaps, a beautiful woman with golden hair unconsiously nods in agreement.]
Speaking of my shortest uncle, I hadn't seen him lately. I'm pretty sure Uncle Jamie would have made certain that we don't just leave him behind in one whorehouse or another. Perhaps he's scouting ahead for Father? Quality assurance and all, can't have anything but the best for the King, yes?
Gross thoughts.
Moving on.
A band of uniform red clad soldiers ride past, a few more in assorted colors and mixed armors trailing behind. The convoy had left King's landing with approximately two hundred people all told, and had swelled up a fair bit further along the way. Random hedge knights attached themselves to guard patrols, travelling merchants lingered in our wake for added protection and sales opportunities, and a number of higher born folk come and go as we travel along, just to say they rode with the King for a time. Lots of moss this rolling stone has picked up.
The rolling stone of course being represented by the wheelhouse. Located at the center of the formation, it dictated the pace of the rest of the caravan. It hadn't broken down yet, so it wasn't slowing our overall propgress too bad. It will though, I don't see how anything I've done in this life could have butterlied additional structural integrity into any part of that thing. The Kingsroad was still in good repair this far into the Riverlands, so that's helping our speed along. We should make Darry by nightfall going by passing chatter.
Slow ride's no bother to me though. Nothing's on fire, metaphorically or otherwise, and my plans are effectively on hold until whenever we arrive at Winterfell. Nothing stopping me from just enjoying the ride while the roads are still decent.
Who's ride was this anyways?
It's got the right colors and is covered in stags, so that narrows it down. I hadn't seen it before though. But it wasn't new. The paint was though. Hmm.
Idle thoughts.
Lynesse had since finished up with the first song and is now absoloutely killing a near-flawless rendition of Duvet. I didn't even have to adjust any lyrics for that one. Too mournful for the light mood perhaps, but she knows I like it, and my spirits won't dampen so easily. Roslin seemed entranced either way. I should request something more upbeat for the next set though.
Take Me Home, County Roads?
Yes.
It had been a chore to re-work the geography in that song, so I'll be damned if I don't take every chance I can to make Lyn play it for me.
The black and gold carriage continued to roll down the road, the melody of John Denver's carefully butchered hit drifting along with it. About as peaceful a scene one can get in Westeros. With any luck, the return trip will be just as pleasant.