Chapter Twenty-One
Olenna Tyrell had declared that there would be no bedding ceremony. All of the guests, even a most disappointed Elinor, had thus agreed.
'Idiots,' was the Queen of Thorns concise summary of them, as she put forth the effort to stand on her feet. Her old bones creaked in protest, as they always did, but her mind dismissed the complaints to be irate instead at the folly of youth. What consequences were they cowering from? Olenna could only hit so many shins with her walking stick after all. 'Childhood trauma should be forgotten by now. If they cannot handle their sweet grandmother, how will they face the likes of Lord Tywin or Lord Arryn?'
She despaired of how anything was to be done when she passed on. Her grandchildren were all bright and clever in their own ways but it would be for nought, if they needed someone to direct their every move. The Gods knew her fool of a son wouldn't be able to do so, however fond she was of the boy.
'Of course, courage brings along its own set of problems.'
She was a hard woman, she could freely admit that but even Olenna's heart warmed as Willas leaned in to press a kiss on his bride's head. The girl's cousin couldn't wait patiently for the honey-haired lord to release the woman, instead pulling her away for a tight embrace of his own. It was fiercely returned with an affection that Olenna was not unaccustomed to but was altogether unseemly in public.
'Maybe it's time that the loyalists stop blaming Lyanna Stark for stealing away Rhaegar's heart. The she-wolf fell, as my own grandson did, to the baffling charm of the dragons.'
The scroll Samwell had brought her revealed the identity of Willas' bride and it hadn't made her any more pleased with her grandson's choice. The Queen of Thorns had hopes, many hopes, of putting a grandchild of hers on the throne one day. She had expected it to be by Margaery's marriage to the Crown Prince, a union she could at least stomach, even if the boy was of Tywin's get. The lions and stags held the throne now and they were a formidable pair, even if Robb Stark's presence meant the wolves and trouts could be swayed away. Regardless, those allies stirred far from their borders and the scorpions, loyalists all, would balk at the daughter of a she-wolf and the son of a steward.
'A generation lost to Elenei's gamble,' Olenna lamented. 'I'll be dead before their son is a man grown and the Tyrells can mount an offense for a crown. Who knows where we'll be two decades from now?'
The melancholy squeezed her heart for a moment longer before the old woman snorted. Two decades from now, she would be dead. As would Tywin, Doran, Hoster, Jon and all of the nosy busy-bodies keeping the realm together now. The decisions they made may still influence the kingdoms, for better or for worse, but they wouldn't be there to face the consequences of them.
Gods willing, her children and grandchildren and mayhaps even great-grandchildren would be living. They would chart the course of Tyrell ambition. Willas would be the one to take the reigns of their House, with a red-scaled dragon by his side and a direwolf of all particulars (the white-furred pup had even made Olenna stop and stare briefly) in his home. A reckless, absurd, short-sighted gamble this may be but if her grandson chose to roll the dice, then how could she stop him?
'That is,' she amended briefly, 'How can I do so without breaking the stupid boy's heart?'
Olenna had come prepared. In her trunks remained two packets of mixed herbs. One, she knew, would be the more prudent path to take.
Not yet certain of her decision, the old lady hobbled forward. Willas looked up at the soft tip-tap of the cane, the earnest smile of a boy present on a lord's face. "I'm glad you're here, Grandmother."
"It was a trial, I assure you." Olenna permitted a swift kiss to her cheek. "You did a wonderful job on the ceremony, Margaery."
Her granddaughter practically beamed. Margie looked as lovely as she always did in her sky blue dress and cinnamon hair pulled into a plaited bun but it was the satisfaction of a plot pulled off that added the glow to her skin. "Thank you, Grandmother."
"I trust your brothers made themselves useful?"
Margaery nodded piously. "I couldn't have done this without Willas' checkbook, Grandmother."
"Good, good," Olenna eyed the crowd of nobles and smallfolk ambling around the room. The joyful atmosphere of the wedding and the arrival of a buffet appeared to have dispelled much of the awkward air existing between the classes. "Oysters. Never did like them."
By now, the newly named Lady Lyarra Tyrell had disentangled herself from her cousin's arms. The dark-haired bastard with simultaneously the most deadly and the most valuable bloodline in Westeros, brought the auburn-haired Stark along with her. A polite if nervous smile was offered to her.
The Queen of Thorns took a moment to study the girl. She had been lovely before, the bastard of Ned Stark and an unknown woman that most presumed to be Ashara Dayne. It was now, with her bloodline in mind, that the hints of the inhuman beauty the Targaryens possessed came to the fore. Those violet-speckled silver eyes, the bow-shaped lips curved knowingly by nature, the sweetmilk skin that wouldn't bend to any force of light. The Silver Prince had worn those once. They were brought to even greater advantage by her granddaughters, the alone-rare beauty that the Gods alone would grant. Lyanna Stark had been a pretty enough girl but if she'd had her daughter's beauty, the minstrels wouldn't need to aggrandize their songs.
"Lady Olenna. Welcome."
"Have I thanked you for anything?"
"You have not but I shall forgive you the lapse." The smile was all Rhaella, the little of her company that Olenna had enjoyed before Aerys snuffed that spirit out. "I've been informed by no less than three roses that my husband fears the marriage band and that I have done a great service to House Tyrell by charming him into one."
"None more so than the service we grant you, I'm told," Olenna answered dryly. "A bride price?"
"The North appreciates House Tyrell's generosity." Robb Stark spoke up, "Lady Olenna, you look quite lovely this evening."
"I fear for the future of your House, boy, if an old harridan attracts you." Olenna ignored the resulting splutter, as she turned to Margaery. "Take my new granddaughter and mingle with the guests, dear. Willas and I must talk."
"Yes, Grandmother." Margaery dutifully grabbed her goodsister, and had even the kindness to take Lord Robb, sweet-natured girl that she was, and escort them away. Olenna made a mental note to discourage any aspirations in that direction. Now that Willas brought a bastard to Highgarden, Margaery would have to wed within the Reach.
Willas offered her a hand, Olenna took it. She waited until they had moved down the hallway and into a prepared room, where her own trunks had been placed, gratifyingly enough. Margaery was such a talented girl. "I do hope you know that your selfishness ruined your sister's marriage prospects."
"I've spoken to Margaery on the subject and she has agreed that suitable matches may be found closer to home." Her grandson offered a sheepish smile. The last time she had seen this, Olenna learnt of his budding friendship with that licentious, irresponsible ass that cost him a working leg. "You may be upset with me, Grandmother."
"A fortune in foodstuffs, a bastard wife, a secret wedding," Olenna listed off. "I cannot imagine why I shouldn't be bursting in pride for you."
"I was following family tradition."
"Keep in mind that I ran Prince Dareon away from my bed, Grandson."
"My wife remains a maiden, thank you," Willas paused. "I mean to relieve her of the title when our discussion is done. Let us not tarry. Lyanna Stark left willingly."
Her eyebrows rose. "Monford would be pleased to know his words true then. As pleased as he can be, with the loss of his beloved dynasty."
"They wed in a private ceremony. Lyarra is a red dragon, not a black one. There are papers in my possession to corroborate this and Ned Stark likely has more. Robb Stark is aware as well. To the best of my knowledge, no one else in the family is."
For this, Olenna had to sit down. Her darling granddaughter had left a carafe of watered down wine and two goblets on the bedside table for her. It took her a few moments to offer an answer. "Then I will be upset with you because…?"
Yes, that was certainly a sheepish expression on her grandson's face. As well, as averted eyes and a dusting of pink. "I promised Lyarra not to start a war."
"...Of course, you did." Olenna was resigned. Loras was bad enough but Luthor's sentimentality was supposed to have skipped Willas! "Let your wife have the peace she will then. I'll draw up a loan for the Crown to legitimize her as a Tyrell instead of a Stark. With any luck, the Stag'll drink the gold down at his favorite tavern."
"More wine and pheasant can only bring the King pleasure," Willas said agreeably. "By your leave then, Grandmother?"
She waved her hand in permission. "Ravish your dragon then. You'll be the first person to do so for well over a decade."
Once her firstborn and, though she would never say it, favorite grandson left, Olenna stood up on cracked knees. She poured another cup full of dark red wine. Then she made her way to her trunk to fetch the powders. Willas was a man grown but occasionally a grandmother was needed to push matters along their proper way.
x
Lord Eddard Stark expected over half a dozen children and their pet direwolves to happily greet him as he rode through the gates. He would hug all of his daughters, swing Rickon into the air, muss Bran's hair and ask after Robb's and Theon's lessons. Cat would be there with a proper kiss on the cheek and an account of all that had occured in his brief absence. It was the happy sort of reunion that Ned had accustomed himself to after all these years and was now wondering if he took for granted. Nothing against Maester Luwin but he did feel some grumpiness over being welcomed by the wizened, learned man instead of his family.
The worried look on Luwin's face did nothing to assure him either. "Maester? Where is my family?"
"Inside, my lord," the old man answered swiftly, as he stepped down. "Lady Catelyn is questioning them now. It appears that Young Lords Robb and Theon, as well as Lady Lyarra, left the castle early this morn. They'd taken provisions for a long journey. The children insist that they left willingly but would not reveal where they'd gone."
Ned stared at him in blank astonishment. "What?"
The Maester began to repeat himself but the Stark made a cutting gesture to silence him. "No, I've heard your words. My children left the castle? Why?"
"We're not certain, my lord," the Maester coughed. "Lady Sansa insists that it is for a necessary trip. The others refuse to talk at all."
"Of course, they do." Ned offered a dour look in response. "Have men been sent out to scour the fields? Yes? Then please excuse me, Maester. I must speak to my children."
Leaving his bridle in a pale-faced guard's hand, Ned turned and took long strides towards his home. It was past nightfall now. Worry niggled him at where his children could be, and whatever ills may prey on them in the darkness. Nonetheless the knowledge that they'd gone willingly, and more importantly, together, gave him some comfort. He hadn't stepped into the Great Hall for a moment before seeing that same comfort lacking on his wife's face.
The torches of the Great Hall cast her dark red hair into a fiery glow. Her lovely face was cast into sharpened lines of worry as she regarded the four little figures sitting in a duckling row, three with bowed heads and the last, Rickon, nodding off on the bench. Tin plates had been set before them with simple bread and stew, most of it finished. Cat looked up when he came in, managing a thin, strained smile as he walked up to her.
"My brood is half-missing tonight," Ned commented, getting down to one knee and smiling slightly. "Hello, children."
He received a few sheepish welcomes in return. Rickon put forth the greatest effort to open his eyelids and smile at his father.
"Do you know where your brothers and sister are?" Ned inquired softly.
Bran, who had apparently been elected the spokesman, answered. "We're not certain."
"Do you have an idea?" This one didn't evoke a reply but Bran did guiltedly look away. Arya shuffled a little in her seat. He turned to his most obedient, docile daughter. "Sansa?"
It shouldn't have made him as proud as it did when those river-blue Tully eyes turned to him with all of the stone-cold iciness of a Stark. "Father?"
"Is there anything that you would like to say?"
"No, Father."
Ned stood back up and studied his children again. Then he exchanged a brief look with his life.
"Rickon, sweetling, you must be tired," Cat stepped forward. "Why don't we get you prepared for bed? Come, Bran. You shall help me."
"Arya, you've spilled soup onto your frock," Ned added measuredly. "Please go and clean yourself."
The children exchanged panicked looks, no doubt questioning if any of the others would crack under this divide and conquer strategy. Arya briefly glared at her sister, receiving an equally frustrated look in response. Still, without any good reason to refuse, Bran and Arya sullenly stood to follow their orders. Rickon happily raised his hands up to his mother. Readying for bed meant bath time!
The Quiet Wolf took a seat beside Sansa. "Your mother and I are very worried, Sansa. You know that, don't you?"
Sansa stayed silent.
"Your siblings are gifted warriors but none have lengthy experience in the wilderness. There are many dangers there- wild animals, lawless bandits, even the land itself. Are they prepared for that?"
Sansa stayed silent.
"Has anyone asked you to keep silent? We won't be upset if you answer 'yes'."
Sansa fidgeted a little. Ned pressed on. "Your mother and I only want the best for you all. If Robb or Lyarra are in any trouble, than we want to help."
At her uncertain look, he coaxed. "They prepared provisions for a journey?"
He received an unsure nod, the knowledge already well-known. "Do you know when they'll be back?"
A half-shrug now. "Maybe a sennight?"
'By horse alone that doesn't take you far,' Ned concluded. It could take them up to the Wall perhaps but why would they sneak around to visit their Uncle Benjen? Unless Robb or Theon meant to join the Watch, ascribing the latter at least to a life of celibacy he couldn't possibly handle. "They will all come back, won't they, Sansa?"
A twist of her fingers and a icy hand skittered across his spine. His children… they weren't running away, surely. Robb was proud to be the Heir to Winterfell. He was dedicated to learning of his duties. He wouldn't have fled the position and he certainly wouldn't have allowed Lyarra to run away either. "Is Theon trying to escape?"
A startled glance. "What do you mean, Father?"
"Theon," Ned spoke quietly, urgently, "Is he trying to flee? He must stay with a Stark, Sansa. The King demands it, else Theon'll suffer a harsher punishment than to be a hostage."
"No!" Sansa's blue eyes were wide now in fright. "It's not Theon, Father!"
The next likely alternative presented itself and Ned's heart grew heavy. His eldest daughter running from home? Why would she do so? She had been raised here, loved, protected… what could push her to leave? And Robb to help her? "Why would your sister leave Winterfell?"
"It's for the best, Father!" Sansa's blue eyes were earnest. "Even Robb agrees and you know he would never suffer her absence, if it truly wouldn't make her happy!"
The Quiet Wolf's silent litany of self-rebrobations was broken by these heartfelt words. They stirred his concern instead in an entirely different direction. His eldest two children shared a closeness that had often been attributed by the servants to Brandon and Lyanna. He would have ascribed Robb instead to Benjen, the level-headed, purely Northern wolf that shared a faith in his sister as a person instead of a woman. Benjen had encouraged Lyanna to leave once upon a time too, to flee straight into a gods be damned moron's arms. But Lyanna had been free-spirited and blithe; Lyarra was the most circumspect child he had.
"Sansa, please tell me that your sister hasn't ridden south to wed Loras Tyrell."
He received a wide-eyed look of disbelief for that comment. It would have reassured him, except a moment later, "Lyarra rode south with Ser Loras… to marry his brother, Lord Willas."
"Willas Tyrell?" It took a moment to recall the polite, intelligent, well-spoken young man he had met at Highgarden. Of all the people he would have suspected to lure his eldest into a spurious betrothal, Willas Tyrell would have been last on the list. The man hadn't shown any partiality to his daughter at all. Even Rhaegar had given Lyanna that blasted flower crown.
His daughter nodded eagerly. He was tempted to press her for answers- truly, Willas Tyrell?- but Ned moved on. It didn't matter which dishonorable lordling had stolen a daughter from him. The point was that House Stark had lost a daughter again. "Sansa Stark, you will reveal everything you know about this matter to me right now."
His gentle, obedient, well-behaved daughter considered the fatherly edict for a moment and then gracefully shrugged. "The ship likely left with them by now anyway."
After this, she narrated a courtship that was equal parts maddening and impressive. Willas Tyrell was one frustratingly clever man, managing to orchestrate this entire courtship and alliance negotiation under his nose for the better part of seven moons. He had surpassed the Silver Prince on nerve alone. Not even Rhaegar had the audacity to visit his sister in the Wolfswood or hold the North hostage to Winter for a marriage proposal. That it was dishonorable was evident. That it was effective no less so.
"And your brother went along to give her away?" Ned asked, to Sansa's cheerful nod. "Show me the letter, Sansa."
The father in Ned Stark was so furious right now that it wanted nothing more than to grab Ice and pay the rose lordling a visit. The Stark Lord in him temporarily blunted that notion, reminding him that when he arrived south, punishing Willas Tyrell properly would fall under the banner of kinslaying. Instead the icy reproach of his forefathers maintained that the North had been mistakenly dragged into one war already and lest he want Robert provoked by the echo of another she-wolf taken from her father's home for a marriage cloak, he'd best clear the account. It galled him to lend support to Willas Tyrell's despicable actions but even Ned would allow that the honorable approach was foolish.
Ned would meet the Tyrell Heir again, one day, though and there was a lot that drew the line before kinslaying.
x
In the south, lords and ladies were afforded their own set of rooms. It was not a practice Lyarra was all too familiar with but drew some comfort from, as she waited for her wedding night. Willas had offered his own bedroom for the deed, allowing her as much time as necessary to prepare. It hadn't been all that much truly. The bath was prepared and the ladies stripped her (carefully) of her bridal gown, offering half-jest advice that she attentively absorbed nonetheless. The silken dressing gown left behind by a winking Elinor had brought a blush to her cheeks but despite her nerves, she hadn't any plans to avoid the bedding. Her curiosity was to her benefit here and while she'd heard of pain initially, her husband had been most attentive and gentle in his other ministrations.
Had Lyarra been a more honest woman, she would admit that she was looking forward to the task.
The she-wolf would have headed out to experience it now, had it not been for the goblet before her. It had been left behind by a servant bringing in her nightgown. Filled with Arbor Red wine, there was an evident viscosity to the liquid that the healer in her recognized from herbal lessons. The scent of red raspberry leaf was overwhelming.
It had come with a placard. You play in the Great Game now.
Lyarra closed her eyes and pictured her family. Her Father, honorable, dutiful and ever-there to guard and guide her. Uncle Benjen, too clever by half but a steadfast keeper of childhood foibles. Ever sibling from Robb, her reliable eldest brother, to Rickon, her wild youngest one. Her unblooded brother, Theon, who dared too much and feared too little. Even Lady Stark, a constant presence of mute disapproval in her childhood, played a role. They determined her decision for her.
Lyarra leant forward, picked the goblet up and determinedly tipped it over. Purplish red wine poured out, staining her snowlit skin blotchy pink but abstaining permanently from her lips. Honestly, her new good family's relentless march to ever more power and influence could not be healthy. If the Gods wanted her to have children, than she would but Lyarra certainly refused to be tricked into it.
'To speak those silly, southron words in their silly, southron court.' Lyarra's lips quirked. House Stark endured. She may have a dragon's blood and a rose's banner but it was the wolves that nursed her from childhood. The Starks were survivors and whatever challenges that awaited her at Highgarden, she had chosen to accept them. To accept Willas. 'I made my bed and now I desire to lie in it.'
x
Not the reactions that I promised but I wanted to add this small aside about Lyarra still being Lyarra even with her Tyrell surname. I'll have the reactions coming in shortly.