My sweet Theon.
Forgive me for not writing to you sooner. There were some adventures along the road, and here all my time is taken up with trying to learn to find my way around, and guarding my sisters. Sansa is adapting rather well to life at court. It's as if she is made for it, though that is no surprise. Arya is having a harder time. Like me, she longs to get back to the North. We have only been here for a short time, yet father already has his days filled with trying to clean up Robert Baratheon's mess, and a big mess it is. You would never guess how much he spends of the crown's money on food and wine. He spends nothing on women, of course. Those he are given for free. Speaking pf women: I hope you treat yours well, like I taught you. Whores or not, no woman deserves to be treated badly.
You would love the whores in King's Landing. I wish you were here. It would make my stay a bit more bearable, knowing that I could keep my eye on you. But I admire your loyalty to Robb. Take care of him for me, and all the others we left behind as well.
I promise I will see you again
Love, your mother.
Leyla rolled up the letter that she planned on sending later that day. She really missed Theon a great deal, more than when she was away from him in the forest. Perhaps because then, she was always so close that it wouldn't take more than a week to reach him- less if she rode quickly. Now, it felt as though he was a world away. She worried about him. She knew he was nearly a grown man and he could handle himself, yet she worried about the decisions he might make with no one there to tell him right from wrong. She had faith in him, but like all mothers she couldn't help but to worry.
It was ironic really. Leyla had never wanted children, yet here she found herself with a nineteen year old son. She supposed, in a way, he had been her son since the day he first came to Winterfell ten years ago. Leyla had been in the castle when he arrived, to welcome her father home from the war. He looked so small on his horse, she couldn't help but to pity him. She heard him crying that first night. Others did too but none would go near him, because he was the enemy's son. Leyla went into his room and held him until he fell asleep. She stayed with him until morning, and spent the next day with him, showing him around his new home. A bond was made between them at that point, between the fearful little boy and the fifteen year old girl who was much too tall and strong for her age. A bond that would never break.
"Leyla." A young voice interrupted her thoughts.
Looking up she saw Dara standing beside her cot. He looked a bit nervous. "What's troubling you?" she asked.
He sat down in the bed beside her. "I just came back from guarding Sansa. She was in the throne room with Mordane. She talked about your lord father."
"And what did she say?" Leyla was only slightly interested. She knew Sansa was still mad at him, and likely would be for quite a while.
"She said she never wanted to speak to lord Eddard again. It truly sounded as if she hated him." He wriggled his hands in his lap.
Leyla sat up and copied his position, but she had to hunch down for her eyes to be at the same level as his. Dara was actually a bit on the short side at the moment, but she knew he wasn't finished growing yet.
"How very kind of you to be so concerned about my sister's moods," she said amusingly. "Am I to believe you are simply the kind of a person who makes a note every time someone holds a grudge against someone else, or do you have a selfish reason for studying her so closely?"
His eyes went wide. "No, of course not!" he said much too quickly. "I would never do anything to harm your sister."
"It's not harming her I'm talking about and you know it. In fact, it's the opposite." She noted the blush coming up on his cheeks. "Sansa will be angry at father for a long time, Dara. I know I would if I was in her position. Children fight with their parents. Not all of us are so lucky as to have Marcus as a father."
She was in no way complaining about her own father. She knew Eddard had had no choice in his actions, and she also knew that Sansa had a right to never forgive him. She understood both sides, but refused to pick one. As for her point about Marcus; it was known that he and Dara had never picked a fight with one another. Some people said that he was raising his boy to be too soft hearted- that he was no proper wildling, but both Marcus and Leyla were proud of the man Dara was becoming.
He looked like he had more to say on the subject, but instead he said, "There's one more thing. There are some issues with the guarding schedule."
She understood what he meant. Leyla didn't like to admit such, but she had been a fool to think that only four people could guard them day and night. It was too many hours on duty and too few hours of time to do other things, such as eat and sleep.
"I know what you mean. Gather the others. We'll divide the time between the eleven of us instead."
Dara left to find the rest of the wildlings. They were never far away. They weren't overjoyed about the switch of environment. Though at first they had been as excited as a child on their nameday, they soon grew tired of the city. Now they preferred to stay near the training area, or at the nearest brothel or tavern. That's all they were good for sometimes it seemed: fighting, whoring and drinking, in that order.
There were a few other men in the barrack with her, all guards of the city. When she had first sat her foot inside the door, there had been a lot of protesting from their side, saying they wouldn't live with a woman. Leyla knew that had she been pretty they would have had no problem with her.
When Dara left another man came in. She hadn't bothered to learn is name. He stomped up to where she was seated and looked down on her with angry eyes.
"That's my bed, woman," he said to her.
Leyla didn't move a muscle. "Hmm, well it's mine now." She had switched because she couldn't see the door from the last one. It was fighter's instinct she supposed; to feel the need to see the only entryway of the building, besides the few windows.
The man's face grew red. "You have a lot of nerves, to come in here and act like you own the place. You have been here for what? A week at most? I was born and raised in this city, and so were many of the other lads in here too, and men of the South don't take orders from wildling whores, just because their father happens to be some lord." He spat at her feet.
Leyla calmly stood up. Standing at her full height the man had to look up at her. Her eyes were surprisingly calm, and there was even a small, amused smile on her wide mouth.
"Men of the South don't have to take orders from wildlings, as you say, but they have to learn to walk away from a fight they can't hope to win."
The man in front of her laughed, while the others began to nervously squirm, sensing the threat coming from her, while this man was apparently too stupid to do so.
"If you think I'd fight a woman-" he was interrupted when her fist flew up in his face. The blood started to pour from his nose, and between his fingers when he covered it with his hands. He staggered back into the wall. "Seven Hells, you broke my nose!" Some of his fellow soldiers helped him up on his feet and hauled him out of the door to get him tended to. "The fucking bitch broke my nose!" he wailed as his comrades took him away.
She looked at the remaining men in the barrack. "Anyone else who wants this bed?"
No one answered. She smiled triumphantly and laid back down to wait for Dara and the others to return to her.
Later that night she was accompanied by Sandor to a tavern close to the docks. It was a busy night, but two giants such as them had no problem making other people move. They acquired a table far in the back, partly cover in shadow from the stairs. It gave them privacy and allowed them to see the whole room. The dogs had been brought along as well, and were currently gnawing on some bones under the table.
"My father called me into his solar today," she started the conversation as soon as they sat down. "He asked me if I understood the meaning of Jon Arryn's final words." She leaned closer to him to avoid prying ears. "'The seed is strong'. Does that make any sense to you?"
He shook his head and swallowed a mouthful of ale. "Never heard it before."
Leyla gave a frustrated sigh. "Figured you wouldn't. Why is it important anyway? Men shit themselves on their deathbeds too, but he doesn't go and investigate that."
Sandor scoffed. "What's gotten you all cranky? Full moon isn't for another next week."
Leyla drew a hand through the tangled mess she called hair in an attempt to get it away from her face. She took a large gulp from her tankard. "It's this fucking heat. It's never this warm up north, but down here I feel like I could rip off my skin. And you know what? You're not the best person to judge. If you don't need a reason to be angry all the time, then neither do I," she took out her anger at him.
It was true that it had been unusually warm lately, even for the south, but this was ridiculous. The northmen and the wildling were suffering in it, and it even seemed to bother the southerners too. Leyla was right about Sandor not being allowed to put judgement on her. He acted out his anger at people who didn't deserve it all the time. If he thought that Leyla didn't too, it was because he had mostly seen her up north: there weren't as many people up there who annoyed her as there was down south.
He grumbled something under his breath and took another swing of the ale.
"I hear the king is arranging a tournament for the Hand," she changed the subject. "Think you'll be a part of it?"
"Don't see how I have a choice," he shrugged. "What about you? Will you be fighting for House Stark?"
She choked on her ale with her laugh. When she was done coughing she said, "Me?" as if it was a completely ridiculous idea. Her laughter drew some looks from the tables closest to them. They looked surprised that the Hound could make a woman laugh, let alone a woman as intimidating as her.
"What's so funny?" He didn't like it when people laughed at him.
When she calmed down she said, "I don't think they'd let a wildling enter the game. And I don't think my father would want me to anyway."
"Why not?" he asked, and she wasn't sure to which of her statements he was referring. "In a tournament like this, every major house will probably have a representative; yours should too. He's got no son down here so it's only logical it should be you."
"He wouldn't want me to fight because he's not interested in the whole business anyway. The North doesn't think as highly of tournaments as you southerners do." She absently scratched Demon behind the ear. "Why are you trying coax me into this anyway? Are you so eager for another fight with me?" She smiled remembering how fun it had been the last time.
He grinned too, seemingly thinking of the same memory. "Much as I'd like that, no, that's not why. I think it might be good if other people saw what you can do, show them House Stark won't go down without a fight."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, tankard halfway between her mouth and the table.
He shrugged, and suddenly found the drunken fight going on at the other end of the room very interesting. She gripped his chin and made him look at her.
"Sandor, is there a threat to my family? Is that what you're saying?"
"I'm saying I want you to be careful." He swatted her hand away. "In a shithole like this, you never know who might try to kill you. You should show people that you will fight back."
"They know I will fight back. I'm a wildling: that's all they think I'm good for," she snapped in a childish voice that she regretted as soon as it came out of her mouth. She didn't know whether to be touched by his concern for her, or annoyed for reasons she could not name. In the end, she decided in neither. She changed the subject once again when she saw a sultry dressed woman walking passed them, making eyes at Sandor.
"Think you'll get a whore tonight?" He raised his brows at her question. "I just want to know when to leave. I wouldn't want to get in your way," she explained.
He gave the woman a quick look up and down, and gave a small shake of his head. "She's too skinny, and she doesn't want me anyway."
Leyla scoffed. "Whores don't want anyone, they want their money."
"They still look their clients in the eye," he argued. "Not with me, though. They get it over with as quickly as possible. They do what I pay them for, just as long as they don't have to look at me."
Leyla was surprised that he had shared this bit of information with her, and he seemed stunned himself that he had spoken the words.
"Their loss," she said truthfully. Sandor was a great fuck, as she knew from personal experience.
The rest of their night was spent in a relatively comfortable silence. When they'd finished their first, second and third drinks they went back to the Red Keep, and parted ways with a pat on the shoulder and words left unspoken from both parties.
The next day her father had asked her to accompany him and Jory to see an armourer on the Street of Steel. What was so special about this armourer she didn't know. When she asked, Eddard said it was better the less she knew. That's why she had stopped trying to follow their conversation. She didn't know what they were talking about anyway, but could only agree with the malice in his voice when Ned spoke of knights.
"And where were you last night?" Lord Stark turned his attention to her. "I was worried when I saw two strange men outside of the girls' rooms. Nearly called them out until I saw they were yours."
She sped her horse up slightly when he spoke to her, to be by his side. "I realized yesterday that guarding them on all hours of the day were a bigger task than I'd thought. There's no need to worry about their safety, father. I trust those men with my life."
"That's all well, but it doesn't answer my question. Where were you?"
She was reluctant to answer. Ever since the incident on the King's Road, Leyla had kept her friendship with Sandor a secret. She knew that Ned blamed the Hound for distracting her, and wouldn't like hearing she was spending more time with him.
"I was with Clegane at the tavern by the docks," she said nonchalantly.
He was just about to confirm her suspicions about his dislike when Jory came to her rescue.
"You shouldn't be out here, my lord," he warned. "There's no telling who has eyes where."
"Let them look," Ned responded before climbing off his horse, Leyla and Jory following. Apparently they had reached their destination. Jory stayed by the horses, keeping a lookout, while Leyla had her father's back.
They asked an apprentice boy to fetch the master armourer. She could see the he was very good at his job, from looking at the works on display throughout the shop.
They were introduced to the man, named Tobho Mott, and lord Stark asked what business Jon Arryn had visiting the forge.
"The former Hand did call on me, my lord, several times. I regret to say, he did not honour me with his patronage," he explained as he wiped the sweat from his neck.
"What did Lord Arryn want?"
"He always came to see the boy," the armourer said, as if that would explain everything.
"I'd like to see him as well." So did Leyla. She had to admit that somewhere along the lines, her curiosity had spiked. What was so special about this lowly boy that Arryn had visited him several times before he died?
Tobho Mott nodded. He was in no position to deny the Hand. "As you wish, my lord. Gendry!" he called out to the boy who stood hammering not far from them.
The boy, who was more a young man, stopped what he was doing at the call of his master. He stepped closer to them.
"Here he is. Strong for his age, works hard," Mott assured. Leyla could see it was the truth. He couldn't be more than seventeen, yet he had the built of a full grown man. "Show the Hand the helmet you made, lad."
Gendry obeyed hesitantly, and picked up a helmet from the rack behind him. He handed it over to Eddard and Leyla looked at it over his shoulder. It was the shape of a bull's head, and no less than a work of art. This boy had a real talent for what he did.
"This is fine work," Eddard complemented.
"It's not for sale," Gendry was quick to say. Leyla could understand him. If she got her hands on something as fine as that, she wouldn't want to let it go easily either. She felt the same way about the mace she had been given at Winterfell. She often had is strapped on her back, as it was too big to be placed on her belt. Sometimes she would simply carry it slung across her shoulders.
"Boy, this is the King's Hand. If his lordship wants the helmet-"
"I made it for me," Gendry shook his head, standing by his point firmly.
Tobho Mott looked disappointed. "Forgive him, my lord.
"There's nothing to forgive," Lord Stark reassured them both. "When Lord Arryn came to visit you, what'd you talk about?"
"Just asked me questions, is all m'lord." Gendry's posture was relaxed. Obviously the business of high lords meant nothing to him. Leyla could imagine he was eager to get back to his work.
But Ned wasn't finished yet. "What kind of question?"
Mott nodded at the boy to answer. "About my work, at first. If I was being treated well, if I liked it here. But then he started asking me about my mother." All of these things baffled Leyla; why the Hand of the King would be interested about the well-being of a blacksmith apprentice. Apparently Ned felt the same.
"Your mother?" he asked.
He explained, "Who she was, what she looked like."
"What did you tell him?"
He squirmed and looked away. All these questions were making him uncomfortable. "She died when I was little. She had yellow hair. She'd sing to me sometimes." His eyes were on the ground.
She couldn't see her father's face, but his voice sounded almost desperate. "Look at me," he commanded.
Gendry did as he asked. Since Ned was doing it, Leyla took a few seconds to truly study him as well. He had dark hair and blue eyes. He had a big built and would no doubt make a good fighter. There was something familiar about him. She just couldn't figure out what it was.
"Get back to work, lad," Eddard said and handed him back his helmet. He walked back to the forge, most likely relieved to get away from the interrogation. "If the day ever comes when that boy would rather wield a sword than forge one, you send him to me." Those were his final word before leaving the smithy, Leyla following him.
They walked back to Jory who stood where they'd left him.
"Find anything?" he asked.
Eddard took his horse's reins. "King Robert bastard son."
Oh, that's where she recognized him from! Now that he said it, she could see it was true. The boy did look a lot like a young Robert. Though Eddard looked shaken by these news, Leyla couldn't understand what the big deal was. Robert must have dozens of bastards spread across the realm. What was so special about this one?