Hello my dears! Yes, I'm still alive and I haven't given up on Saoirse yet.
I have added a few faceclaims to my list, just so you know. Ser Hewl is Heath Ledger, and Ser Bronson is Joseph Gordon Levitt.
Thank you for all your reviews and support and for being patient with me. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint!
Saoirse
'My Sparrow,
Your apologies for your absence upon my arrival in the piss-stenching capital were wholly unnecessary. I know that you did what you could to keep the king here until my arrival, which is truly appreciated. However, picturing you all bundled up in warm furs in the North does provide a tantalizing visual.
My first small council meeting went smoothly, and your notes on your debt reduction plan were more than sufficient to give me the information I need. My brother sends his well wishes and his condolences on the death of your father, along with the hope that you will visit Dorne again someday soon.
For now, my sparrow, the kingdom is well in hand. The king's brother and I get along better than expected. His squire seems to take issue with all of the time Renly and I spend together, bent over a table full of charts and figures. I've invited the young man to join us, but he refuses. Ah, the inexperience of youth.
In short, I await your return like a sailor waiting to see the shore. I have good company in Ellaria and Lord Renly, but I have missed you these last years. The thought of seeing you again, my sparrow, is one that excites every fiber in me. Please don't be long.
Your Viper'
Saoirse couldn't help but smile as she read Oberyn's letter for the fifth time. While speaking in generalities, she was positive he'd made a bedmate out of Renly, much to Ser Loras's chagrin. Funny, she thought, Loras had never seemed the jealous type.
As always, she made sure to read Oberyn's letters in absolute privacy. Ser Hewl stood outside her chamber door while she remained alone inside with her thoughts. Her hips and legs were still sore from the ride and she had begun to dread the ride back south when she remembered the pile of correspondence Maester Luwin had given her the previous night. Seeing the sun and spear sigil imprinted in the orange wax on one of the letters made her heart skip a beat, and she made sure to read it last.
The first letter had been from Renly, detailing the minutes of the last few small council meetings. The second was Tywin Lannister's approval of her marriage to Jaime with the assurances that they would negotiate a dowry on her return to the capital, where she got the distinct feeling he would be waiting. The thought of Oberyn and Tywin Lannister in the same place at the same time made her nervous - neither were known for their even tempers and Oberyn could hold a grudge like no other. It could lead to an explosive situation, but she couldn't worry about that now.
Saoirse stood up and leaned backward, feeling a few satisfying pops from her upper back. With a glance out the window she saw that it was nearly midday and she hadn't yet left her rooms.
"Hewl," she called over her shoulder. The door opened a second later, "Fancy a walk?"
The brunette guard smiled at her and nodded, "Of course, my lady. Might I suggest a cloak? It's rather cold here."
She let out a laugh. It wasn't often that Hewl cracked a joke, but when he did he was dry and sarcastic. All the same, she settled her fur-lined cloak about her shoulders before leading her guard outside.
Their walk led them to the Godswood, a place she'd always wanted to see. When he was fostered at the Eyrie, Ned would speak of Winterfell in surprising detail, like the smoke-darkened beams in the great hall or the shine off of the roofs of the glasshouses in mid-afternoon. His favorite place of which to speak though, was the Godswood. Ned spoke in depth about the size and the silence of the place, along with the fog in the mornings and the hot spring next to the heart tree. Many a night had Saoirse fallen asleep to Ned's stories of Winterfell, and so far she'd found them all to be accurate.
As they passed under the great stone arch, the light chatter she and Hewl had shared came to a stop. The air around them was thicker, still chilled but more humid. She supposed it was due to the hot spring, and followed the thickness of the air right to it, Hewl a few steps behind her.
Saoirse settled next to the steaming pond, her eyes fixed upon the weirwood's face. Sap dripped from its eyes and gave the impression of tears. What a strange thing, she thought, to have a god who weeps.
From behind her she heard Hewl sigh. Looking back at him, she noticed how he nervously shifted his stance from foot to foot, one hand flexing on the pommel of the sword at his hip.
"Is something wrong, Hewl?" she asked, genuinely concerned for his well-being.
"My lady, there is something...something my brother overheard last night that we both think you should hear," Hewl admitted, his steely eyes fixing upon hers. She swallowed. From his tone, what Bronson had overheard was nothing good.
"Tell me. Come, sit," she offered with a gesture, "I wish to know."
Hewl obliged her, crossing his legs and running a hand through his dark waves. As he pushed the locks back, she caught a glimpse of the pale white scar that ran from his chin, down his jaw, and onto his neck. He'd sustained the injury during their trip from the Vale to King's Landing after her father had been named Hand. A pack of shadowcats had attacked and Hewl hadn't hesitated to jump into the fray, even though he was only six-and-ten and not a full fledged knight yet. Bronson, being five-and-ten at the time, had backed Saoirse into a crevice in the mountainside and stood between her and two shadowcats, defending her with his life.
That was years ago now, but when she was sent to Dorne she knew she'd rather have the two brothers go with her than any other knights in the realm. She had grown a strong affection for both Royce brothers. They were more than the guards who saw her to Dorne and Myr - they were her closest friends. Their words held weight with her, and she often sought them out for advice.
Hewl's brow furrowed and he glanced at the ground in front of him. His shoulders slumped forward as if he wanted to disappear within himself. Clearly, he was nervous. He didn't want to tell her, but he felt he had to. In order to coax it out of him, she reached over and put a hand on his forearm.
"Whatever it is, I can take it," she reassured her nervous friend, smiling lightly at him.
Still avoiding her gaze he blurted out, "Ser Jaime has bastard children by a woman at court. He told that woman that he wishes to marry you because he doesn't have to share you."
Saoirse felt the temperature of the air around her drop and the blood in her veins still. Her hand still on Hewl's arm, she retracted it as if she'd touched a flame.
Finally, he turned his face back to her. The look she found there confirmed that he was telling the truth. His hesitation in informing her of this secret doubly confirmed it - she knew he and Bronson were no fans of the thought of her marrying Jaime, but they would never lie to her in order to bring about the end of such an arrangement. The Royces were not particularly good actors, they tended to wear their feelings for all to see. This confession of Hewl's had pained him because he knew it would cause her pain, hence his reluctance to share.
She sputtered, searching for words. Finding none, she allowed the truth of the situation to settle over her. A lump rose in her throat and she found breathing becoming difficult. She didn't like how the humid, chilly air was now creeping under her skin and infecting her bones with the cold. The tickle behind her nose alerted her to the tears that welled in her eyes.
No. She refused to let this affect her in such a way. If Jaime was the father of bastards, so what? All she had to do was send a letter and their engagement would be broken. He could marry someone else and she'd be free. Free of him, free of the lies, free from her duties as Hand. Brushing away the tears, she clenched her jaw and the rational side of her brain took over.
"Do we know who the mother is?" she asked, trying to hide the small crack in her voice.
Hewl shook his head, "No, my lady."
"Does anyone else know?"
"Bronson thinks it a well-kept secret," Hewl replied softly.
Saoirse cleared her throat and rose to her feet; Hewl scrambled to his as well. "Thank you, Ser, I think I would like to continue on alone."
"My lady, if I've upset you - "
"No, I'm fine. I thank you for your candor. I just...need to be alone for a while," she assured him before striding away.
Not wanting to be followed, she ducked into the first open door she could find. The castle was large, boasting many winding halls and secret passages, but Saoirse paid no attention to where she was going. She wandered aimlessly while her mind was preoccupied with the latest bit of news.
Jaime had fathered bastards. While the mother was unknown, she was a woman of court. Plenty of young women with children had come north with them, most notably the royal children, but what made Bronson think she was a woman of nobility? While she couldn't picture Jaime with a scullery maid, it was indeed possible. But she didn't know the familial relations of the servants nearly as well, so she counted them out.
Besides, Jaime's ego wouldn't allow it.
In truth, she couldn't care less which woman had borne his bastards, just that they existed. What was to stop the mother from coming forward once Saoirse and Jaime had married? Was that event exactly what she had been waiting for in order to humiliate him?
Questions like these swirled in her head like a cyclone, each one worse than the last and each one appearing faster and faster until even the corridor was spinning.
No, not the corridor. She felt lightheaded and her vision tilted the world in front of her. She took a deep breath and felt for the wall, leaning against a large tapestry when she found it. It was then that she realized that she'd skipped perhaps a few too many meals over the last few weeks. She hadn't eaten hardly anything for breakfast that morning and hadn't had the thought to ordering dinner the night before.
The anxiety she felt building in her chest wasn't helping, either. Taking a moment, she closed her eyes and evened her breathing like Maester Colemon had taught her. After a few minutes, she felt her thoughts calm and she stood upright once more, intent on finding the kitchens.
As she moved further down the corridor, she heard a muffled thud come from behind the nearest door, followed by a scream. Saoirse pulled one of her knives out of her sleeve and brandished it as she opened the door to the room.
It was dark, the only source of light being a single taper all the way across the room, but it was enough light to see the ass of King Robert Baratheon thrusting between the legs of a serving girl. Luckily, neither had noticed Saoirse's presence, so she quickly shut the door and took off at a run down the hall.
Probably siring another bastard, Saoirse thought bitterly as she tucked her knife away. Gods knew Robert had enough of those all over the seven kingdoms.
A pang of frustration hit her. Jaime does too.
The anger built in her chest with every step until it was too much. She let out a low growl, which she let grow into a loud screech that echoed down the hall. Not finished with her display, she threw her fist through a clouded window, shattering the glass.
With that, she made her way back to her rooms.
XXXX
Saoirse hadn't noticed her bleeding knuckles until Della pointed them out when she arrived to get Saoirse ready for the feast that night. She hadn't spoken to anyone since the morning, not even Bronson when he came to guard her door.
"My lady?" Della asked, pulling her from her thoughts, "Did you hear me?"
Saoirse shook her head, "No, I'm sorry. What was it you said?"
"I asked if you wanted me to fetch the maester for your hand?"
Saoirse glanced down at it. All four knuckles were broken open, with a few deep scratches down the back of her hand. Nothing deep enough to warrant stitches, but her entire hand was red with the dried blood. The window she had smashed was made of rather old, brittle glass. She couldn't feel any shards in the wounds, so she didn't think she needed a maester.
She shook her head, "No need. Fetch me a bowl of warm water and I will clean it myself."
The maid obliged and helped Saoirse wrap clean bandages around her hand after she'd scrubbed off the blood. However, the scrubbing had opened a few of the larger scabs and the two women had to replace the bandage once more before the Lady of the Vale was ready to go down to the feast.
She had hoped to avoid Jaime as long as possible, as she was still digesting the information about his fatherhood. However, luck was not on her side that evening.
In grand Westerosi tradition, the highest nobles would be escorted into the feast by the host family. This meant that Robert would walk in with Lady Catelyn, Queen Cersei escorted by Ned, and each of the royal children paired with their opposite sex equivalent. Saoirse hadn't thought she would be included in the pomp and circumstance of it all, so she wasn't expecting a swath of familiar golden hair to appear in front of her.
"Might I have the honor of escorting you into the feast, Lady Hand?" Jaime asked, flashing her a radiant smile that made his eyes crinkle. Her breath caught in her throat. Gods, he was handsome - almost handsome enough to make her forget why she was angry.
Almost, but not quite.
"If you must," she affirmed coldly, keeping her eyes focused on the doors leading into the great hall.
Jaime moved to stand beside her and she took his proffered arm, choosing to focus on her injured hand as it throbbed rather than the clean smell of his skin. The dress she'd chosen for that evening was a blue so dark it was nearly black with silver embroidery along the respectable neckline and sleeves long enough to hide her bandaged hand.
"I hear you've received good news from my father," he commented, trying to engage her in conversation. She knew she should feel butterflies in her stomach, but instead she felt a hard unyielding knot.
"It seems news travels quickly even in the North," she replied, trying to keep the bitter tone in her voice to herself. But Jaime knew her too well, and she felt him tense next to her.
Music erupted out of the great hall as the doors opened and the procession started, thankfully drowning out any more attempts at conversation. Jaime led her to the dais and sat down on her left, Ned on her right. The children were at the lower dais, so she had the honor of sitting next to the Lord of Winterfell. She made sure to stare blankly ahead to avoid being talked to by anyone, and her attempts worked until about halfway through the feast and her third glass of wine.
As she reached for her goblet, her sleeve fell back to her wrist and revealed the bandage to Ned, who happened to be looking down at his meal.
"What happened there?" the northern lord asked, gesturing with his fork, "You didn't have that yesterday."
She smiled breezily at Ned, "I may have smashed a pane of glass this afternoon."
Ned raised an eyebrow in her direction, "May have?"
"No need to worry, I'll have it replaced."
"What's got you so upset that you're smashing glass in my home?" he asked in a lower tone, seeing that she didn't want to draw attention to it.
"We can talk about it later," she deflected, her tone also low as she prayed that Jaime didn't overhear. The golden knight wouldn't be so easily placated with her deflections as her old friend would be. He would likely drag her away from the table and demand answers. When his demands didn't work, he would try coaxing them out of her with his mouth-
She stopped that line of thinking before it took her to a place she no longer wished to go to.
As soon as the dinner portion was over and the musicians started to play, Saoirse excused herself from the table. Tonight she didn't feel like dancing and making merry.
Tonight, she wanted to be alone with her knives.
It had been forever since she'd practiced properly with them; she hadn't had the time during the trip up the Kingsroad, nor had she the privacy. But now, with the entire vanguard and the citizens of Winterfell occupied with ale and music and food she was sure to find the tiltyard empty.
Her breath clouded in the cold night air, but she relished in the feel of it against her skin as she dragged a few mannequins into a line. From ten paces, she hit each one dead center. From fifteen, she managed to hit all three in some capacity. From twenty, she faltered - one of her knives whizzing past the head of one of the mannequins and embedding itself in a wooden pole behind it.
She cursed, but went to retrieve the knife.
"That was quite impressive, my lady," a voice said from behind her. She turned and met the eyes of a young man with dark hair and distinctly Stark features. Despite never having met him, she knew who he was instantly.
Jon Snow. The Bastard of Winterfell.
Apparently this was a day of bastards.
She yanked the knife out of the pole rougher than necessary, not sure whether her ire was spiking because of his bastard lineage or because he had been watching her without her knowledge.
"Don't you know it's not polite to sneak up on people?" she asked rhetorically, pushing past him to get back to the twenty paces position.
"Of course, my lady. I'm sorry. I was only coming to practice with my longsword," he explained, his pale cheeks turning pink. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
The young man shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his tunic, his shoulders hunching in. She may not know much about him, but Saoirse could recognize a kicked dog when she saw one. And this boy was one of them.
Seeing the hurt in his eyes, Saoirse nodded, "I know. I apologize for snapping at you, Jon Snow. It's been a...tiring day."
With the last two words she flicked her knife at the third mannequin, hitting it in the neck. Jon's eyebrows shot up and his dark eyes widened.
"Do you mind if I watch, my lady?" he asked, a hesitant tone in his voice.
Saoirse flashed a smile at him, "Of course not."
A good half hour passed with her tossing the knives and Jon watching, asking questions about technique and strategy - especially when she started adding in a few tumbles.
But after that half hour, her arms were beginning to lose feeling and the cuts on her hand had reopened and bled through the bandage. Perhaps she should see the maester about a few stitches.
"Where did you learn such a skill?" Jon asked as she tucked her knives away, hidden on her person as usual.
"I started with knives in Dorne, but I really honed my skill in Myr," she explained. It had been a long time since she'd thought about her time across the Narrow Sea, but she didn't wish to elaborate on it at the moment.
"Do you know any other weapons?" This boy was full of questions, so she countered with one of her own.
"Did you know you were named after my father?"
Jon swallowed and nodded, "Yes, my lady. My lord father speaks of him often. I'm sorry for your loss."
Saoirse bit her bottom lip and nodded, "Thank you, Jon. You know, I could teach you a few tricks if you'd like."
He blushed slightly and raised a hand to the back of his neck, "Thank you, My Lady, but I think I'll stick with the longsword."
She opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a very intoxicated dwarf roaming into the yard. Saoirse took the opportunity to slip away; she'd had her fill of Lannisters for the evening, even if Tyrion was the most agreeable one at the moment.
Following the smell of raven shit, she eventually made her way to the Maester's tower and was lucky enough to find the older gentleman in his room. She explained the situation to him - leaving out the finer details - and asked for his assistance, which he was more than happy to grant.
As he poured wine over the wound to sterilize it they made polite chit chat, having talked over much of her main concerns the previous evening.
Their chatter ended when Lord Stark entered the room, one of his household knights in tow. Had he always had a bodyguard while in his own castle, or was it the presence of Lannisters that had made him so anxious?
"Ah, Saoirse," he said, brow furrowing in slight surprise, "I thought you'd be here."
"It seems that the wounds I inflicted upon myself were more severe than originally thought," she dismissed lightly, even as the maester sterilized a wickedly curved needle.
"Is there something you needed, My Lord?" Maester Luwin asked, "This won't take too long."
"I was hoping to speak with Lady Arryn, if you don't mind. Jory, wait outside. Make sure we are not disturbed." The knight bowed and made his way out of the room.
"To the matter at hand," Ned started, fixing his gaze on Saoirse. She couldn't help but smirk at him - even after all this time he looked at her as he did in the Eyrie. Amusement mixed with suspicion graced his Stark features, as if she were always up to something. When they were all young, Saoirse and Robert usually were up to something, so the look was justified.
Only now the look had spent too long in the North; there was a chilly air radiating from the once warm and brotherly look.
"You mentioned smashing a window?" He asked, his tone leading her. The maester sunk the needle into the back of her hand and she winced, but did not cry out.
"Yes, I did," she admitted through gritted teeth.
"May I ask why?" He put his hands on his hips, looking ever the father figure.
"Many reasons. This day has been a chain of events I would rather not share in the company of others," she said, glancing at the man sewing her skin back together. The older man didn't seem affected by her comment as he moved onto the medium-sized gash on her hand. It would be no more than five stitches total, he assured her, and wouldn't scar too horribly. Not that she cared overmuch about scars. Indeed, she thought scars added character to a person.
"If you trust me, you can trust Luwin," Ned commented.
She did trust Ned, and even though she'd only met him the previous day she had begun to trust Luwin as well. Not only was he more amiable than Maester Colemon, he seemed more experienced and competent. He would have her brother's condition well in hand by the time she returned to the capitol.
Still, Saoirse sighed, feeling the fatigue of the day both physically and emotionally. "Fine. This morning one of my most trusted guards told me that Jaime Lannister has fathered bastards off of a woman at court. I know not who she is or how many, but seeing as I am to marry him upon our return to King's Landing, you can see how this would upset me."
Ned remained silent, but she saw Luwin's eyebrows shoot up to where his hairline used to be.
"I was roaming the hall pondering the matter when I found King Robert...intimately engaged with a serving girl. That was when I put my fist through a pane of glass," she relayed her story to the two men. "I'm sick of him fathering bastards and leaving them behind. I'm sick of his lack of interest in ruling, although he has gotten a bit more attentive lately...I guess I'm just frustrated with this whole nonsense."
"What nonsense?" Ned asked gently. He'd always been an excellent listener. That trait was one of the reasons he was such a fine Lord.
"Living at court. Dealing with all of the stresses that come as Hand and then on top of it being expected to make myself a match because...because my father isn't around to do it," her nose prickled but she willed the tears away, "Trying to make Robert a king worthy of his rule. Being lied to and manipulated and checking over my shoulder all the time."
Ned smirked, "You make the job of Hand sound difficult."
"Don't try to be cute, Ned," she said. She'd meant her words to be cutting, but by the end of her sentence she was smiling. Gods, she had missed him. "What say you on the matter?"
"You say you do not know the identity of the mother?" he asked, something in his eyes darkening. It was then that she realized he was the father of a bastard as well, much to his own shame. Who better to ask?
"No one does," she confirmed.
"Then my advice to you is to do nothing. If, once you are married, the mother comes forward you shall deal with her then."
"But how am I to marry a man who has multiple illegitimate children?" she asked, more to herself than to Ned.
He cleared his throat and took a step toward the door, "Better men than Jaime Lannister have fathered bastards, Sair."
"Of course, I apologize." Jon Snow's distinctly Stark face swam before her eyes. His mother must've been a great beauty in order to entice Ned into her bed.
"I was lucky that Lady Catelyn was willing to forgive me. Now she and I have five children, a strong keep, and, well…"
"You love each other." Saoirse finished for him. Even after all this time, he was still bashful about admitting that he loved his wife. And it was clear in the way the two interacted, even a blind man could see their deep affection for one another.
"Aye, we do." Ned nodded, casting his eyes to the ground. "Do you love him? The Kingslayer?"
"Don't call him that," she snapped at him. The maester had finished his stitches and bandaged her hand, which now felt tight with pain. She couldn't tell if it was the late hour, the twinge in her hand, or hearing Ned use Jaime's unsavory moniker that had her on edge. Perhaps it was all three. The maester's candles were beginning to burn low and she rose to her feet, thanking the old man for his service and pointedly ignoring Ned's question.
"Would you like some milk of the poppy, Lady Hand?" the maester asked and she declined.
"No, thank you. I should like to return to my room for the night," she said as she brushed past Ned to the door and opened it. She paused in front of the Northern Lord, "Thank you for your advice, Ned. I think you'd make an excellent Hand."
And with that, she descended the staircase and disappeared into the chill night air.
Take a second and put your thoughts in the little box below! I'll love you forever if you do!