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Chapter Four: What's a Girl to Do?
Jon knew how it went. An attack on a bannerman was an attack on said bannerman's lord. If a liege lord could not protect his bannermen, he had no right being liege lord in the first place. Successive lords of Winterfell had had that message drilled into them and Lord Rickard would have been no exception, nor his own children. As such, Brandon and Lyanna took Howland Reed's beating to heart. Also, it was worse than they had first realised. The little Crannogman had been kicked repeatedly in the chest, his delicate – almost childlike – hands had been stamped on and bruising was spreading across his ribs and belly. His breathing was laboured and rasping through swollen, bloodied lips. Every so often, his moss-green eyes rolled to the back of his head, showing only the whites as he lost consciousness.
"It was four on one," Lyanna snapped as she dabbed at Lord Reed's extensive injuries. "How is that even sport? What did they gain from it? There's no honour in bullying."
"Viciously beating anyone is never sport," Eddard pointed out.
He and Lord Robert had procured a makeshift stretcher and brought the Stark wheelhouse over to carry Reed the rest of the way to the tourney. He wouldn't be walking for quite some time yet, Jon assessed.
Jon helped bind some of the wounds as best he knew how from many rangings north of the wall. Out there, he had had to be quick when someone was hurt and his few skills proved valuable now. Lyanna noticed and handed him fresh bindings, gently instructing him on what to patch up next. Every so often, a jolt of pain made the Crannogman whimper, like a dog with a broken leg. Jon would apologise and work faster, getting the painful process out of the way quicker.
When Eddard returned again, he brought with him a skein of water which he pressed to Howland's lips. "Take small sips, my lord. Small sips; don't gulp it."
Once they had done all they could, they lifted Howland onto the stretcher and into the back of the Starks' wheelhouse where he could lie down and rest. Even so, when the maester finally arrived to give professional help, Lyanna continued to seethe.
"I should have apprehended them," she said as they returned to their camp. The sun was up and they had to get a move on before they missed the opening of the tourney. "Had I apprehended them I could have handed them over to their lords for proper punishment. Instead, I lashed out and now they're running scared, but really nothing will be done."
"Alas, what's a girl to do?" Brandon mock-teased her, before turning serious again. "Lya, Howland could well be dead if you hadn't stepped in. You did right by him."
"Bran has the right of it, sister," Eddard agreed, putting his arm around her shoulders for comfort. "Had we arrived sooner more might have been done. As it was, it was just you against four men."
Jon had to agree with his father, but he stayed out of the discussion. As far as they were concerned he was just another straggler picked up on their way down the mountains. Any intrusion into family territory, where he would not be welcome, could result in him being sent away. So, he turned his attention to dismantling the camp and getting the pack mules loaded up for the last mile or two of their journey.
The closer he got, the more intrigued he became. He could see Harrenhal now, just across the water where it stood on the north shore. Banners and sigils woven into rich fabrics hung from every crenel on the outer battlements. Each of the seven great houses were on proud display. Prominent among them, the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The sight of their standards fluttering in the strengthening breeze almost shocked him. He had never seen it before. In his time, the Targaryens were a dirty secret, an historical error that King Robert had staunchly corrected. Now, there it was among the other great houses as bold as brass.
Once they were all rounded up and ready to go, the Starks stuck together as they entered the castle itself. Should even one of them go astray, it would take forever to find them again. But, once inside, Jon couldn't help but stop his horse to take it all in. Although the outer walls had been spruced up, it was inside that had been utterly transformed. The stands were freshly painted and the tiltyard freshly sanded. Everywhere he looked, silks fluttered in the wind as nobility of every rank circulated freely among themselves. High born ladies passed him by in clouds of perfume while lordlings and gallant knights practised their swordplay and running at rings, in preparation for the up-coming feats of chivalry. He found himself thinking of Sansa; trying to picture her face if she could see all of this. It would be her paradise.
Although the handiwork of Aegon's dragons was still clearly visible, the castle itself was still the largest in the realm, as well as the most extravagant. Its vast towers were connected by broad open bridges, all of which had been decorated with silk flags, banners and multi-coloured streamers. Others had been draped over windowsills and adorned every battlement.
Meanwhile, on the high steps leading into what Jon assumed was a great common hall, Old Whent himself waved his guests inside with his daughters at his side. With no idea of where he was going, he soon found himself being swept along with the crowds.
Until Lyanna pulled him back into line. "Careful, Jon, stick with us or we'll never find you again."
"I've secured you a place by telling the stewards you're my squire," Brandon said, apologetically. "Don't worry about it, though. I won't actually ask you to do my squiring."
Lyanna suppressed a laugh. "Believe that, you'll believe anything. He'll have you wiping his fat arse by the end of the day."
"Gods be praised! She has her sense of humour back."
Jon did not mind being Brandon's squire. On the contrary, he had been worried about where he would be sleeping, especially with Longclaw so vulnerable to theft. A tent would have been out of the question.
"Thank you, my lord," he replied.
Brandon waved a hand at his gratitude. "It's nothing. Now come on, let's get unpacked."
"Oh, Jon, before you go," said Lyanna, stopping him with a hand to his arm. "You're accompanying me to the feast tonight."
Caught at unawares, he couldn't very well refuse. "But Lord Robert-"
"Robert won't mind, he'll be too busy polishing his hammers," she cut in, then turned away and started walking. The subject was closed.
They were housed in the Wailing Tower. Up several flights of stairs and in rooms with windows that looked out over the tiltyard. Jon had not seen them as he entered the castle and they were vast. The stands at the far end were decorated, but the centrepiece was the Targaryen sigil of the three headed dragon. Striking and bold, it caught his eye even from far above. For now, it was empty as all the guests made their way into the Hall of a Hundred Hearths for the great opening feast. But as he himself was getting ready to join them, a knock sounded at his door.
"It's open," he called out.
He turned from the window to find Benjen peering nervously into his room. "Is now a bad time?"
Jon greeted the boy with a smile. "Not at all, how can I help my lord?"
Still nervous, Benjen closed the door behind him. The room was tiny, seeing as Jon was a lowly squire for the occasion, so he only needed to walk a few steps before sitting himself down on the pallet bed. From within his cloak, Benjen withdrew a scroll of parchment.
"They think you're our squire," he said, offering up the scroll to Jon. "You would be able to get all this with no questions asked."
Curious, Jon unrolled the parchment. Breastplate, spurs, mail shirt, shield, lance…. He lowered it and smiled knowingly at the boy. "You want to enter the lists? A mystery knight, I presume."
A blush crept into his face and he couldn't quite meet Jon's gaze. "Yes."
"You're twelve, Benjen," he pointed out, but not unkindly. "Those bigger knights will knock you out of your saddle and into the middle of next week."
Indignant now, the boy tried to look affronted. "Ser Barristan Selmy was ten when he first entered the lists."
Jon did his best to remain concerned, without it looking like patronisation. "Yes, and he was knocked out of his saddle and into the middle of the next week by a much bigger opponent. Prince Duncan Targaryen, if I remember rightly."
He looked again at the equipment needed and the measurements. It was for someone small and slight. But still taller and larger than Benjen. It didn't seem right to him. Frowning, he glanced up from the scroll again. He had been around young lads his age enough to know when something was not as it seemed. "Is this really for you?"
Benjen nodded, but his blush deepened. "I swear; you will be in no trouble for doing this. If anyone finds out, I will make sure they know the blame lies with me and me alone."
"Damn right you will," Jon murmured. With a heavy sigh, he put the list in his pocket. "Leave it with me. You'll have it by tomorrow, my lord."
Benjen beamed brightly, bounced off the bed and made for the door. Presumably, beating a retreat before Jon could change his mind. Then he paused by the door. "Oh, and another thing, you're to leave it all in the godswood, by the heart tree. Someone will collect it once you're gone. Don't hang around either, just leave it and go. And don't tell anyone. Promise?"
It got fishier by the second. Nevertheless, Jon found himself agreeing. "I promise."
Lyanna was a picture of loveliness when Jon met her outside her chambers. She wore a long, flowing gown of silver and pale, forget-me-not blue silk, with brocades of samite. Her dark hair was in a plat and decorated with delicate sapphires that caught the light and winked a dazzling blue whenever she turned her head. Her bodice was laced tight, narrowing her waist so that Jon thought he could put his hands around it no problem. Meanwhile, he was wearing a formal outfit cobbled together from Brandon and Eddard's unwanted cast offs. Even Brandon's stuff was too big for him. His shirt sleeves almost covered his hands and the doublet was almost too tight.
She held up her arm for him to take and smiled. "Thank you for agreeing to do this. You look good, by the way."
He hadn't been given much choice, but he did not mention that. "It's all right. I would have been attending on my own otherwise."
"You're not alone," she said, anxiously. "You're still with us. I just needed someone to keep Robert away."
He couldn't help but wonder why. From what little he had seen of them together, he was attentive and kind. But all the time, she shied from him. Now she was using him, Jon, as a shield from her ardent suitor. As if reading his thoughts, she continued:
"Robert will never keep to one woman. He has a bastard in the Vale already. Maya Stone. I'll be the demur lady wife kept at Storm's End, and he'll be off wenching and whoring."
Jon knew what he knew. That Robert had torn the realm apart to save his lady love. They were the stories he and his siblings had been raised hearing. The Demon of the Trident, righteous in his wrath against the abductor and rapist, Rhaegar Targaryen. She was a loss King Robert had never recovered from. Cold and calculating Cersei Lannister was the woman who drove him to ruin.
"Maybe he will change once you are wed?" he suggested. "Lord Eddard seems so fond of him and I can't imagine him tolerating anything dishonourable."
Lyanna's laughter chimed down the stone passageway they were strolling along. "Once he has me and no longer has to work at it, he'll be bored within hours. Robert only wants what he cannot have, or what he thinks is hard to get. Women are sport to men like him."
Then she sighed and turned her large grey eyes to him. "Don't worry, I'm not saying all men are like that. Just ones like Robert. Actually, I don't know why our Ned is so fond of him." She paused there, bringing him to a stop also and glanced around the gallery they found themselves in. "Do you know where we're going?"
"Not really," he replied, truthfully. "I was just following you."
"Hm, I was following you too," she admitted. "This whole place is a maze."
Make it they did. The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was vast and filled to the rafters with the rank and file nobility from right across the seven kingdoms. Once more, the banners of the great houses were hanging from the rafters. Direwolves, roses, krakens and lions were everywhere he looked. The falcon of the Vale flew alongside stag of House Baratheon and silk streamers lined the length of the hall. Being with one of the great houses, himself, he found himself seated a stone's throw from the high table.
As he looked along the length of the high table, he tried to guess at the diners' identity. One man he recognised from earlier, as Old Whent. Oswald Whent was alongside him, dressed in the snowy white cloak of the Kingsguard over his silver scaled armour. The two girls could only be Old Whent's daughters, but everyone else was a mystery to him. There was a thin woman sitting beside one of the high seats with a canopy over her head. She had brown hair and sallow skin. Not pretty, but her features were soft and delicate. As she sat there another, far more beautiful, woman appeared at her side, whispered in her ear and then ducked away again. Before she left, she curtsied to a man standing behind the sallow woman. Jon could just make out his snowy white Kingsguard cloak. Then, just for a moment, Jon's gaze locked into that of the sallow skinned lady, before he quickly looked away again.
Lyanna leaned over to him and whispered: "That must be Princess Elia."
"I did not mean to gape at her," he answered.
"She must be used to it," Lyanna said. "I mean, she's a Princess and our future Queen. People are bound to look."
"She looked like a doe staring down the shaft of a hunter's arrow," he remarked.
Was it Rhaegar that had her looking so alone and so scared? He could not help but wonder, given what he knew of the crown prince. Despite himself he glanced at the suspected Princess again. In her dark brown hair, she wore a circlet of silver and gold entwined, confirming her status if not her identity. Once more, Lyanna leaned toward him and whispered in his ear.
"Do you see that man standing behind her," she said. When Jon nodded, she added: "That's Ser Arthur Dayne, the sword of the morning."
The man; the legend. Jon almost choked on the wine he had just sipped. Lyanna laughed then, ribbing him gently about his boyish hero worship. It was far from that, however. It was the sight of so many people who had shaped the fabric of their lives, all gathered under one roof. But it was his secret foreknowledge that had be kept deep in his heart. Still, he glanced back at the infamous knight, trying to catch sight of that equally infamous blade that was as pale as milk glass. Sadly, the wisp of a Princess was blocking his view of it.
While he was looking, all chatter suddenly ceased and a fanfare rang through the halls. Followed by the scraping of wooden benches against the flagstone floor as everyone got to their feet. Jon followed suit, nerves stretching badly as he knew what was coming next. Sure enough, moments later, a herald's voice rang out clearly. "All rise for his grace King Aerys, the second of his name and for his Queen, Rhaella Targaryen. Also, their most noble son, Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen."
Although risen, they all bowed and dropped into curtseys as the royal family was led out to the high table. Just then, Jon did not dare to try and catch a glimpse of them. Not until the signal for them to sit again had come. When that happened, he took the liberty of a long and detailed look at all of them. Aerys looked like his reputation – mad as a bag of snakes. His long silver hair was tatty and hung like damp rat's tails around his shoulders. His nails had not been cut in what looked like years and his skin was pale and half covered with cuts from the iron throne. Queen Rhaella was thin and taught at Aerys' side, her narrow eyes fixed on the back of the hall.
Rhaegar, however, was a sharp contrast to them both. Surprising as it was to Jon, given how inbred the Targaryen's were, Rhaegar was strong and handsome where his parents were slight and shifty. His silver-gold hair was long, but well maintained and his clothes were of the highest quality. He carried himself with confidence, rather than the deep suspicion that was dulling the Mad King's eyes. As he took them all in, Lyanna nudged him sharply.
"Take my advice," she said, softly. "Don't look too long lest the King should notice you."
Jon flushed as he realised what he had done. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. Is he as mad as they say?"
"Ssh!" she hissed. "No more of that talk, it's dangerous."
That dire warning killed what was left of his near sated curiosity. Instead, he focused on the food that was sent down to them from the high table. Princess Elia sent them fresh shrimp as a starter, followed closely by a green salad from the Queen. All of the tables were remembered, while the servants also brought trenchers and kept the wine flowing. He found himself drinking more than he ate and, as with all feasts, he quickly found himself wishing it were over.
Proceedings were prolonged, even after the sumptuous food had been eaten, as a new member of the Kingsguard had to be sworn in by King Aerys. Jon almost choked as Ser Jaime Lannister's name was read out loud. He was to be sworn in by the very same King he would go on to kill. The Lannister's table was directly opposite the Starks. He recognised both Jaime and Cersei from their visit to Winterfell. They were younger, just as beautiful and just as haughty looking. Only Lord Tyrion was absent. And Lord Tywin himself. Risking another chance to talk, he leaned in to Lyanna and asked if she knew anything.
"I've heard he's furious about the appointment," she whispered back, eyes still on the now kneeling knight in golden armour. "I think it's why he's refused to attend the tourney."
Having overheard their whispered conversation, Brandon chimed in. "It was bad enough that Aerys refused his offer of Lady Cersei's hand in marriage to the Prince. Now I hear things go from bad to worse between them."
So, the ill feeling had already begun. Jon made a note of it as he looked back to the high table. Jaime had taken his vows and the King had presented him with his white cloak. The fabric had become caught on his long, curling fingernails and every man and woman in the room had looked away. All the while, Prince Rhaegar sat stiffly beside his wife and watched proceedings with a distant look in his indigo eyes. Jon couldn't help but notice how tense everyone at the high table looked. Not one of them was enjoying themselves.
Finally, to his immense relief, the tables were cleared and pushed to the sides as the dancing began. Musicians were playing from balconies and eaves, but Jon was in no mood to sit and listen. He made his excuses to Lyanna and began making for the nearest exit. Inside the hall, it had grown hot and stuffy and hundreds of people all crowding in on him felt suffocating. He almost collided with a dancing couple, apologised hastily even though they had continued uninterrupted and carried on his way. But, as he reached the exit, a woman's voice called out, stopping him before he could cross the threshold.
"Ser! Ser!"
He almost ignored her, thinking she was addressing one of the numerous knights thronging the hall. Then a hand touched the back of his cloak, halting him bodily. He turned to find the same the girl that had been attending Princess Elia looking back at him. Out of respect, he inclined his head, not sure what to say or do next.
"You dropped this, ser," she said, handing him a scroll of parchment.
To his horror, it was the list that Benjen had given to him earlier that day.
"Thank you, my lady."
As he took it from her, he noted her appearance again. Her hair was black, but her eyes were violet and possessed of a strange, haunting quality; her skin was pale as cream. She raised a small smile, showing neat white teeth. But even that gesture did not diminish the odd, sad look in her eyes.
"I didn't read it," she assured him. "I just thought it might be something important."
"Actually, it is rather important so I'm grateful, my lady."
He realised she was making conversation, otherwise she would have given him his list back and then left. But still she lingered, held out her hand and then introduced herself. "If I could be so bold as to make your acquaintance? I am Lady Ashara, of House Dayne."
The name came like a slap in the face.
A horn blast heralded the new arrivals, followed quickly by the creaking of rusty chains as the portcullis was raised. Ser Davos broke off the conversation he was having and turned to the source of the noise. First came a large, blond haired man sat on a destrier. Moments later, he realised the man was a woman. Second, a young girl who was definitely a girl. Her mount as a sorry looking garron who had seen better days. Third and final, a young lad wrapped in a roughspun cloak perched on a sturdy mule brought up the back end of their bedraggled procession.
The girl in the middle dismounted and lowered her hood, revealing dishevelled coppery hair. Seemingly in a daze, her wide blue eyes were full of fear and confusion as she turned a circle, taking in her grim surroundings. Meanwhile, the work within Castle Black slowly ground to a halt as the men became aware of the odd new comers. When nobody else stepped forward, Ser Davos did the best he could.
"My lady, I am Ser Davos of House Seaworth. May I ask what your business-"
The big wench, who seemed to have caught the eye of Tormund Giantsbane, cut in over him.
"Ser, I am Brienne of Tarth and this is Lady Sansa of House Stark. We must speak with the Lord Commander as a matter of urgency."
Ser Davos felt his insides turn as cold as the grave. "Oh," was all he could say. His feelings grew worse as Lady Sansa turned to him, a look of resigned anguish already in her eyes.
Thanks again for reading. Reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.
Before anyone goes there, Ashara and Jon will not be a ship. No matter how tempting it is. Brienne and Tormund might, though.