Winterfell, 298 AC
Aliena
Bran's fall from the tower was no mystery to Aliena. She had seen the looks Cersei and her brother had exchanged, she knew where they met in private and she knew that the boy had never fallen before.
"There's a first time for everything." The others said but for her, that were too many coincidences.
Cersei had arrived at the site of the tragedy flustered, with hair and dress in disarray, something only few even paid attention to with an unconscious little boy lying on the frozen ground. Her state was nothing sensational for those who did notice it either, she might have run to the site in excitement and agitation. But Aliena knew Cersei, her children were gone or in the Great Keep, far away from the oldest part, the abandoned part of the castle. There was no reason for her to panic and Cersei hated walking, let alone running. Maybe she would one day start to insist that no highborn foot ever touches the ground, like the triarchs of Volantis did. So if that was not the reason for her dishevelled look, it was her brother.
The First Keep was the perfect love nest, far away from the hustle and bustle of the royal court, comfortable enough for a queen and undisturbed...well, except for climbing little boys. The boy's fall was no accident and although Aliena hoped the boy would wake up, she hoped he would have no memories. She could not use the turmoil that came with war, not now.
She walked over the snow covered courtyard, eager for the warmth of the Great Hall when she saw Joffrey and his little uncle standing in the yard, not far away from her. Behind the two of them loomed Sandor Clegane. He was closer to seven feet than to six and Aliena, who had the Baratheon height and towered over most women and quite a few men, felt small next to him.
Joffrey seemed to draw strength from his sworn shield's presence though, as Aliena judged by his facial expression. Cersei had suggested before that he felt closer to the burned man than to his own father and Aliena could understand. She herself- No. Joffrey likes the man because he shares his cruel temper. I am not cruel and neither do I like the man.
She looked up in time to see Tyrion slap Joffrey's face, once, twice. The boy's cheeks were reddened and he stormed off, past Aliena who stood in an archway. Clegane said something to Tyrion and then strode off towards the stable yard where he would no doubt vent his anger on some inept knights. Tyrion saw her standing in the archway and walked over to her on his stunted little legs.
Sometimes, Aliena allowed herself to pity him. He was ugly and malformed, without the winning manners his elder siblings had and with all the bitterness of a man who had drawn the shorter end of the stick all his life. He was not a bad man, ambitious and cunning not unlike his father, but he was too smug about his wits and keen mind. One day, he would fall right into the trap and wonder how he, the clever Tyrion Lannister, ended up tricked.
"Tell your cousin, next time he forgets his courtesies, my hand will remind him again." he said, still angry.
"What has he forgotten that you needed to remind him of?"
"He refused to let Lord and Lady Stark know how troubled and sorry he is for Brandon's accident."
"And you slapped him to make him do that? My, Lord Tyrion, you are not half as clever as I thought. Our prince never forgets a slight and there will come the day when you wish you had not tried to turn a lion into a trained poodle. And for what? A few sweet lies into the ear of a lord who detests him for his golden hair anyway?"
Joffrey hates the imp anyway. And no one, not even his father Tywin, cares a fig for him. He is as bold as a lion but he does not have the claws and fangs to pull it off. "Thank you for your warning, Mylady. You are too kind to me." Tyrion Lannister said, managing a mocking bow.
"A good morning to you, and a safe journey to the Wall. I hope you will not like it enough to stay there." She gave him the smallest of curtsies and hurried into the Great Hall.
It was too damn cold here in the North. If the wind did at least rustle the leaves and whistle through the cracks of the leaded windows. But it was as still as on a graveyard up here, no sound but the howling of the wolves in the night. And day, now that the boy had fallen.
Aliena looked forward to the heat of the city, the bustle and the sounds, the smell of food and perfume, a faint note of shit and cum always lingering in the air, no matter how much lavender the burned on the windowsills. She would love going to Storm's End before the summer ended, feeling the heat on the old stones, the fresh breeze from the sea, smell the salt and seaweed on the air and see her mother in the great chair by the window, if only as a shadow. Maybe she would ask her uncle to let her go with Renly for a fortnight. He was always reluctant to let her go but maybe, with Ned Stark around, he could be convinced to let her return home. Home. You don't even know what that is. Storm's End is Renly's castle, never your mother's. You have no home until you marry. Take Tommen or Renly and you will have Storm's End. Take Donnel and you will have Stonehelm, another 'home' of yours. Your husband's home will be yours, just like you will be your husband's, forever.
Aliena hated that little voice in her head but the emptiness of the Great Hall did not allow her to distract herself.
The few people present must have thought her foolish for running in and out like a raven in the rookery.
The cold air hit her, sharp as a blade. She went down into the yard, turned right and walked on, lost between the high stone walls and blinded by the falling snow. Not a soul was to be found here, she thought, no voice tore the silence that lay on the castle like velvet, soft and suffocating.
She had walked through gates and archways and finally saw the shape of the First Keep looming in front of her, black in the dim light that peered through bright white clouds. The entrance of the crypts laid to her left as she walked over to the wall, a snow covered stone bench in front of it. I hope we leave on the morrow. I am not made for these harsh lands, for this court of grief and sorrow, for men that are as cold and stern as ice. I am of the South, born in the storm and in the summer. I need the vanity and opulence, the false smiles and the well-orchestrated dance and studied manners of the South. I need men of flesh and blood around me, men and women filled with lust and ambition. Here, I am a harpist with an instrument made of stone. Aliena saw the beauty of these lands and maybe, if her mother was still alive, if she had lead a different life and been taught by others, she would love the purity of this place. Actually, if her uncle had gotten his way, she would spend the rest of her days up here as the Lady of this castle...she had prayed in the little sept to thank the gods for intervening on the evening of their arrival. Robb Stark would not have given her joy, as pleasant to look at as he was, he had the stiffness and sobriety of his father, with morals carved into stone and a pride in his honour that dwarfed the pride of the Lannisters. Give me a sinner over a septon anytime.
"Shouldn't you be with your flock, little swan?" A rasping voice brought her back to the here and now. Here we go. A sinner, if there ever was one.
"I don't think that swans have a flock, to be honest, Clegane. What about you, shouldn't you be with your pack?"
He wore no helmet and snowflakes landed on his dark hair, giving him the look of a dog trying to pose as a sheep.
I must look a terrible mess myself. She had not bothered braiding and tucking her hair up, a hairnet was a cage and felt just as restricting. Down in the South, she put on her finery like men put on their armour. Here, those last few grim days without colours but full of snow, she had seldom spent much time in company. Her hair was probably tousled from the walk and hanging over her back like a wet cloth. She wore a warm dress of white wool with a high neckline and without much embellishment apart from some embroidery on the hem and sleeves. Over that, she wore only a simple light grey cloak, fastened with a ribbon at her throat. And her face - it would be frozen white by now with flushed cheeks and a red nose.
Oh Gods, why do you let him see me like that? she thought and scolded herself for it almost the same moment. She rose from the bench, brushing snow off her backside as elegantly as she managed. Here for a moon and already I turn into a Northern butch.
He watched her with some barely concealed amusement. Anger and embarrassment rose in her.
"What? No pack? I forgot, you are a lonely dog, alone under lions."
He sneered. "So are you, and isn't that more dangerous for a swan?"
She had the wall behind her and could not step back when he came closer.
"Why, I just spread my wings and fly." her breathing went faster now, for some reason. He wore a black studded leather jerkin over black breeches and boots. We must look hilarious, him all in black and me all in white. He stood in front of her now, and she could not escape with the bench to one and wall to two sides.
"Spread your wings in a cage?" His rasping laugh sent shivers down her spine. She looked up at him, tilting her head back in order to do so. Grey steel met the sea until a snowflake landed on her lash and she looked down. Why is he even coming so close? To frighten me? He should know by now that he doesn't. A strand of wet hair fell into her face and before she could even lift an arm from under her cloak, rough, callused fingers brushed it behind her ear surprisingly softly. She looked up and found his face close to hers. Her heart was pounding and her gaze flickered to his lips. Dry lips, rough lips. A man's lips. Would she feel them on hers now? Part of her longed for their touch. "A snowflake." his voice was not more than a whisper. She smelled the sour stench of wine on his breath and her empty tummy turned. Unconsciously, she grimaced. She realised a second later but he had already backed off, hurt on his face for the blink of an eye and then his mask of scoffing contempt.
"When a dog is everything that stands between your little cage and a lion's claws, you will be bloody grateful." He turned away, took his wineskin out and emptied with one swallow. Aliena remained behind, still pressed to the ice cold wall, a grey and white shadow in this world of grey and white. Did he want to? Oh Gods, I wanted to. A tiny bit. A lie. There are other matters on my mind. He tries to scare me, he loathes me. I won't do him the favour and allow him presence in my thoughts as well. She sighed, still remembering his face, his burns, so close to hers, his gaze locked with hers. I wonder how it would feel… NO. Enough with these thoughts, it will be all gone once we are heading South again. These thoughts will fade once I have something to do again. Oh Gods, hopefully, I will not catch a cold. Her dress was soaked by the snow and her skin was ice cold. She hurried over to the guest house, her mind weirdly distraught.
Sandor
He sat in the guards' hall, not far from where she had stood, a wineskin in his hands and a pool of icy water at his feet. She had looked like the Maiden herself in that white dress, one with the snow around her. He had never thought he would like the look of innocence. But then again, the snow had drenched her dress and turned it almost translucent. She had only worn a shift underneath, no corset, and he had seen more than she would have wanted him to see. You must be full of self-loathing to go through this again and again and again. She does not bloody want you and your ugly face.
She was almost a princess and he was the grandson of the kennelmaster. A beautiful princess and an ugly kennelmaster's grandson, at that. Her talk about the beasts earlier had stirred something in him, he had thought it had a meaning. What a fool you are, a bloody fucking fool. At first she had not seemed repelled by him. She never had. They had talked, playfully and he remembered the warmth in his chest despite the icy cold around him. He had come closer, he knew he should not have but he always lost his head when he was alone with her. He took a sip from his wineskin. It wasn't just desire. He had desired others before and it had stopped. Well most of the times he had forced himself… - it did not matter. This was different. He wanted her to want him, he tried so hard, he swarmed around her like a bee around the honey. It was pathetic. She would pity him if she saw him like this and if there was one thing he could not stand, it was pity. Bugger this, bugger her. She is pretty enough but there are prettier ones. I will find one and have her. This has to stop. She is not so special, just a pretty little liar who makes every man dance to her songs. She almost had me dancing but she won't get me.
It felt good, the pain and glumness transformed into anger now. Anger was a good feeling, it made him stronger. He was used to anger, not to pain. I will stop. I will not meet her on her own anymore. It will not take long until I found some other way to occupy myself. If she thinks she has me at her beck and call, she should bloody well think again. He downed the wine and got up, staggering back to his sleeping quarters. Here, in the loneliness and cold of his room, his hand went down under the blanket. There had been something in her eyes, right after he had brushed her hair away and before he had started talking. He was bad with this but that had not been disgust. Her eyes had flickered to his mouth for a second, less than that even. He had wondered whether she wanted him to kiss her but he had been insecure. The humiliation of being refused by her was something he wanted to spare himself. Yer, did she want to? There was something ... Fear, probably. As if she would want your horrible face, your disgusting burns, anywhere near that porcelain skin of hers. Your dirty, callused hands on her clean body, your rough lips on her soft ones. She's a bloody little lady, she wants a knight not a dog. His hand stopped. This was no good. She ruined it. Tomorrow, he would drink less and find a bedwarmer. On the kingsroad, hopefully, not in this draughty shit place they called castle.
