A.N.: I know it's been far too long, but thank you for sticking with me. I adore these characters, and writing this story - sadly, adulting takes precedent.
On to other news: who's watched the teaser? I'm cautiously optimistic. A little wary of the costumes (well, the headpieces worn by the women), as they seem too 'Tudor historical' rather than fantasy-with-various-cultural-historical-influences like the GoT costumes… But damn, Daemon! Matt Smith's performance will absolutely make him a fan favourite. Interesting that they didn't reveal any new musical themes, just lured us in with the 'Winter is Here' theme to play on our heartstrings and ensure an emotional connection… Very savvy. I'm super-excited to hear Djawadi's new score. And I'm desperate for Cregan Stark to appear. I always imagine him as Ray Stevenson's Dagonet in the 2004 King Arthur film (well worth a watch, as it's always inspired me and a lot of the character dynamics will appear in some of the Stormlords I'll be introducing later).
Also, it's hilarious that I've never looked this up before, but the name Larra literally means 'protection'. Chose that well, didn't I!
Valyrian Steel
35
No Progress Without Chaos
"You've been sleeping for two days," a young voice grunted, and someone kicked the bed frame. It didn't budge, but the young lad cursed colourfully. Gendry chuckled groggily, even as he burrowed deeper under the thick knitted blanket and quilt draped over him. The soft linen sheets smelled of soap and flowers, and now that Cadeon had dragged him to consciousness, Gendry realised how soft the bed was. Unused to such softness, he started to fidget with discomfort.
He felt as if he had slept for years. Rested, yet exhausted at the same time, as if he had had to fight to wake. His body ached in a different way than it had before; as if he had not moved in days. And likely he hadn't, tucked on the neat bed arranged in a chamber high in the private rooms belonging to the Stark family, where his adopted children had been given beds beside noble sons and wildlings and little lionesses.
"Were you sent to wake me?" he groaned, raising a hand to his face to rub it; disoriented, he got a knuckle in the eye instead.
"No; you stopped snoring and Neva was worried you'd died," Cade remarked, and Gendry smiled to himself, groaning as he stretched luxuriously, relishing the ache.
"Where is she?" he yawned.
"In the nursery; she likes Larra to braid her hair before her lessons," Cade sighed. Gendry yawned again, widely, and smiled as he opened his eyes, seeing the yawn catch and Cade shudder as an enormous yawn took hold of him.
"Lady Larra," Gendry corrected on a sigh. Larra… Oh, he'd dreamed of her.
"She doesn't like being called that," Cade muttered.
"Why not?"
"'Cause she's not one," Cade shrugged. "She says, call a thing what it is."
Gendry grunted softly, closing his eyes. A moment later - or was it much longer? - Cadeon punted the bed-frame again. Gendry jerked awake, squinting up at Cadeon. He fidgeted on the bed, moving over as he normally did.
Gendry didn't know everything that had happened to Cadeon; he could only guess, from what little Cade had offered up, the scars on his face and certain behaviours Gendry had noticed. So it always surprised Gendry, assuming what he did about what Cadeon had endured, that Cadeon was the first to seek close physical touch. He liked the feeling of being tucked away, too, which Gendry always found odd; Cadeon was a creature meant to be free. But he liked the confinement when he slept; he had grown up sleeping in a hammock. He had told Gendry he felt safe to be wrapped up, unable to move. He had told Gendry that no-one could get to him when he was swinging in a hammock, and that comment alone had told Gendry a lot. Cade slipped into the bed, cuddling up to share Gendry's warmth.
"What's happened to your eye?" A bruise flourished, making his scarred son seem even more wicked than usual.
"Oh. Ragnar caught me with an elbow," Cadeon grumbled.
"You've been fighting again," Gendry said, giving him a disapproving look the boy did not see - his eyes were shut. Cadeon liked to fight. The only thing he perhaps liked more was chasing girls; he had more success fighting.
"I've been training," Cade sighed.
"Does that involve thrashing other boys?"
"Girls, too," Cade smirked. "By the King's decree."
"You've been thrashing girls?"
"Felt wrong, 'til Lady Mormont winded me with one hit from her shield," Cadeon grunted. "Wonder what she'll be like with a sharp edge." His eyes opened, and a look of delight illuminated his pale eyes.
"That's what you've been doing since you arrived? Fighting highborn ladies and young boys?" Gendry sighed, his eyes drifting shut again.
"Not just that; Larra's had me keeping the young apprentices in the forge in line, and giving lessons on how to use a knife," Cade murmured, subtly wriggling beside him to get more comfortable. To get more warmth, Gendry realised, as Cade muttered, "Fucking cold though." Gendry did not have the awareness to clip him round the ear, lulled toward sleep by the warmth of the chamber.
"This isn't cold," he muttered, his mind going to endless ice meadows and treacherous crevasses near invisible until you were upon them. His mind was on the white emptiness, the clearest air he had ever breathed, sharp and clean and pure.
Images of the Night King's soldiers slashed through his mind; suddenly, he was wide-awake, his body tense and alert, suddenly cold.
"You went beyond the Wall," Cadeon muttered.
"Aye."
"You returned."
"I promised I would."
"Most people are killed before they can keep their promises," Cadeon sighed. Gendry gazed down at his son's hellishly scarred face. He thought of Ned Stark, of the offer he had made Gendry - to teach him to wield a sword when he tired of forging them.
"Well, I'm one of the lucky few," Gendry acknowledged, sighing heavily.
"You know you've saved us from starvation," Cade muttered, his piercing pale-blue eyes opening, "although our balls'll probably freeze."
"Good thing we'll be staying in the forge, then," Gendry grunted, and Cade flashed a grin.
"Aye. Good thing," he said. "How do the Northerners not freeze to death?"
Gendry grinned lazily to himself. "Walking's good. Fighting's better. Fucking's best," he repeated. Tormund flickered in his memory, and Gendry groaned. The thought of the great terrifying ginger wild-man, and how he likely hadn't rested at all after their journey, let alone sleeping for two days and nights together, made him sit up, untangling himself from Cade. Gendry had endured worse, truly. Harrenhall. That fucking boat, rowing for days on end, terrified of stopping and resting lest the boat drift into open water.
But he had been moving for so long that when he had finally allowed himself to stop, he had realised just how exhausted he was. He had been on edge for years, firstly hiding his true identity from the Gold Cloaks and Queen Cersei's spies, then avoiding the Sparrows' scrutiny.
And now he found himself exactly where Arya Stark had always wanted him. Winterfell.
What would their lives have been like, he wondered for the millionth time, if he had stayed with her? Stayed true to one another and the loyalty and friendship they had built, rather than looking for it elsewhere - among men who had betrayed him at the first opportunity. Thoros was dead, yes, and everything had put him on the path to where he was now, yet Gendry could not forgive the Brotherhood's betrayal - they had betrayed everything they had claimed to fight for when they had sold him to the red witch. Their actions had proven the value of their word.
He groaned as he sat up, his muscles protesting - from lack of use. It wasn't in his nature to sit idle. He smiled down at Cadeon, who was snuffling gently, dozing, and reached out to smooth his rumpled hair. It was the same way he woke Cade every morning. "Up you get. They'll be missing you in the forge."
"Food first," Cadeon yawned widely. "Come on." Stiff, Gendry followed Cadeon out of the chamber - which was guarded by two men in Stark leathers and mail - and down a startlingly warm stone passage. Hot water runs through the walls of Winterfell, he remembered Arya telling him. Even in the heart of winter, the castle remained warm - it gave the entire North life-giving warmth to survive the winter. One of the many reasons that House Stark had endured for thousands of years.
Gendry had only ever known the youngest Stark daughter. He could only imagine how hard those ancient Starks had been, if Arya, twelve years old and raised as a lady, was stronger and fiercer than any grown man Gendry had ever met - except perhaps her bastard half-brother.
It had never occurred to Gendry to put a sword in Neva's hand; but Jon had given Arya her Needle. Jon had given Arya what she needed to protect herself when thousands of leagues had separated her from his protection.
They piled on whatever clothing they had and Cadeon led Gendry confidently through the maze of passages and hallways busy with people in the midst of their daily chores. He had seen little of the castle on his arrival. Hail had followed the fat snowflakes that had whirled around as he first laid eyes on Larra Snow. The vicious storm they had barely outraced to Winterfell descended on them within hours of arriving at the castle; their arrival had given everyone precious hours to prepare for the storm. Man and beasts alike had been tucked inside the warm walls of Winterfell to wait out the storm. Thunder and lightning made the ancient keep tremble, while hail thrashed at diamond-paned windows soon buried beneath snow and hail that froze together.
Winterfell was itself like an enclosed city, bustling with life and noise - animals and children darted everywhere, getting underfoot, people squabbled and flirted and worked. Cade led them to a smaller hall where great cauldrons of hearty stew were hung over a hearth that spread the length of the room, doled out by maids in simple wool dresses with padded collars to keep their necks warm, mimicking the styles of the highborn ladies.
The rich, savoury scent of the stew made Gendry's stomach clench as he gratefully accepted an earthenware bowl from one of the serving-girls. He glanced back when she gave him a flirtatious smile, uncomfortable with her attention as her eyes wandered. He felt heat flush his cheeks and down his neck, his shoulders tensing. He spent so much time in the forge that he rarely had to reconcile looks like that from comely girls; and he did his best to ignore signs of any sort of interest in him if he had to leave the safety of the armoury. Always, he was haunted by memories of the Red Woman and her leeches. The niggling suspicion that her blood-magic had killed the three kings - Joffrey, Renly and Arya's own brother Robb, the Young Wolf.
Cade saw his shame and mistook it for embarrassment, and snickered, giving him a small shove against his lower-back to move. There were no tables in here, but many long benches where people could sit while they ate their stew, and Gendry dropped onto one of the benches as far away from the serving-girls as possible - but he could hear their giggling even over the noise of other people eating, and it made him uncomfortable. He focused on his bowl of stew as rich, savoury steam wafted up. Just by looking at it, Gendry knew this meal was likely the finest he had ever eaten in his life - and this was what the smallfolk were provided by House Stark. A rich, thick broth that was almost gravy, in which had been cooked celery, carrots, onions, even some mushrooms as well as barley and bits of beef - the offcuts, whatever was unfit to be served to the high-borns but was more than Gendry had ever had. It was the richest, most flavourful thing he had ever eaten, and he grunted his appreciation as he cleaned his bowl. A heel of sourdough bread was passed along the line, people tearing off chunks, and Gendry marvelled, taking it from a dimpled older woman with gnarled fingers permanently stained with vegetable dye. He took a chunk of bread and passed the loaf to Cade, who was eating his stew with almost indecent enthusiasm.
"They serve this every day?"
"There's not always meat," Cade grunted, licking gravy off his chin with a swipe of his tongue, rather than waste it on his shirtsleeve. "Only if they've slaughtered animals for the high-borns. And they don't do that near as often as I would've thought. The Starks mostly eat as we do. Or there's been a break in the snows and some of the Free Folk head to one of the thermal rivers - we have salmon chowder those days. The soup's always thick, and rich. Yesterday it was this creamy bean stew with ham. The day before, it was a chunky soup stuffed full of vegetables. That was Neva's favourite - she liked all the colours. I liked the pumpkin soup - they added roasted seeds to the top to make you feel special." Cadeon sighed contentedly; Gendry's lips twitched, understanding that if Cade was enthusiastic about his meals, he was happy. "But the roasted garlic and parsnip soup's the one to watch for - you'll be sucking on snow for hours after! No-one will want to kiss you then." He shot Gendry a sly look; Gendry rolled his eyes, using the heel of crusty bread to mop up the last of the gravy.
Warmed and invigorated by the stew, Gendry stood, and Cade showed him where to deposit his used bowl and spoon - in one of the large woven baskets set at the end of a trestle table, where a scullery-maid was waiting to carry it back to the kitchens - and Cade led them through more corridors and halls. Gendry slowly became aware of the chill creeping in, the meagre silver light from high windows - a weak sun glowing off fresh snow. The pale light and subtle chill warned him that they were approaching the castle walls, and soon enough they were passing a wide entryway into a smaller courtyard buried beneath two feet of fresh snow, which smallfolk were doing their best to clear with wide shovels, so that a new arrival of Northern cows could be directed into one of the great barns within Winterfell itself.
"Lucky we don't have to go through that," Cade said, wrinkling his nose in sympathy for the smallfolk hastily shovelling snow.
"We don't?"
"The entire castle's built with the snow in mind," Cadeon shrugged. "That's what one of the blacksmiths told me. He grew up here, then went to another holdfast when his apprenticeship was finished. There are tunnels and passages and barns and all sorts within the castle proper, so that even in the worst snowstorms, people can still get about." Thousands of years ago, tunnels and covered passages had been dug, neatly bricked with grey stone smoothed by the footsteps of generations. The hothouses, the granaries, the barns, the maester's tower, the libraries and armouries, even the eerie, forbidden crypt and the tiny sept were all easily accessible - underground. Candles and torches were used sparingly; they were preparing for siege as well as settling in for the winter. "The courtyards are only used when the weather's fine, as the walkways have to be kept salted and gritted or they're a death-trap - too slick underfoot. I hate these fucking boots."
"You'll keep your toes," Gendry grunted, and Cadeon grimaced. They soon reached the forges - and Gendry stood stunned. He had grown up on the Street of Steel, used to the sound of hammers on anvils and the stench of molten ore, the blazing heat of the fires. But the Street of Steel could have nestled comfortably within the Winterfell forges several times over. There weren't dozens of armourers and blacksmiths; there were hundreds.
The Smith would have wept to work in Winterfell's forges.
They were what Gendry imagined one of the seven heavens looked like. And they were absolutely teeming with workmen, apprentices and smallfolk tasked with aiding them, bringing barrels of fresh snow to melt, crushing shards of obsidian to fine pebbles, tending to the fires.
It was blisteringly hot, but Gendry noticed that bright silvery light glowing from a far corner; a courtyard entrance to the forges. It gave a welcome breath of sharp cold air, and Gendry saw men drift in and out of the open entryway, bleary-eyed from exhaustion beside the forges or refreshed from the cold and the bright clear air and weak sunlight.
A fierce man with a flat nose, bristling black beard and only the one arm noticed Gendry and swore under his breath, "Fuck my old boots!" He gaped at Gendry as if he had seen a ghost.
"This is Donal Noye," said Cadeon offhandedly, his eyes scanning the forges, and narrowing as he noticed a pair of boys snickering, his entire body going still, predatory. "He's armourer for the Watch."
"What's left of it," Donal grunted, his shrewd gaze sweeping up and down Gendry. He pinned Gendry with a fierce look. "Before that, I was a Baratheon man. Forged that great war-hammer that caved in Rhaegar's chest on the Trident. They say Robert littered Westeros with stag-seed wherever he went… I'll eat my anvil if you're not one of them."
"What's left of them," Gendry acknowledged, feeling a searing hatred lash through him at the thought of the half-brothers and sisters he had never known, murdered by the Lannisters purely for being born - for being born of Robert's seed, a threat to Cersei's own bastards she had seen perched on the Iron Throne, even if for only a little while. Donal Noye grunted as he squinted at Gendry, his expression shrewd.
"You went North with Lord Commander Snow," he said, and Gendry nodded.
"Now I'm here. Put me to work," Gendry said.
"You're a smith?"
"Armourer," Gendry said, and they had a brief discussion about Gendry's apprenticeship in King's Landing, and his experience in the forges. Soon, Gendry realised that a place had already been made for him in the forges. A whitebeard led him to his own station, closer to the open entryway but not so close that he felt the chill of the bright white light. He wasn't used to the cold, as others were, and he realised the Northmen had forges closer to the entryway, closer to the cold sharp air. With a nod from Donal Noye that promised a conversation later on, Gendry set to work. One forge was very much like any other, and though he was surrounded by hundreds of blacksmiths and armourers from every holdfast and castle in the North, he started to work, unfazed. Gendry knew his worth; he knew how talented he was - he had been honing his skills for fifteen years. And he had apprenticed under the best armourer in the Seven Kingdoms. One thing was different though: he had several apprentices, not just Cadeon, who scampered about the forges, keeping the younger apprentices in line, running errands and trying his hand at the anvil. Whenever Gendry glanced up from his work, he sought out his son, proud to see him working so diligently. Cade was a wild creature meant to be free - meant to be out on the open seas… No matter how he itched to return to that seductive mistress, when Cade was given a task he gave it all his strength and talent.
As the hours and then the days trickled past, Gendry was introduced to more and more of the blacksmiths and armourers, and was surprised when he was told by a fierce older woman to go and have a rest. Cade snickered that Aislin had been placed in charge of the men in the forges, enforcing Lady Larra's decision that all men should stop their work and rest for a while after every fourth hour of labour. They were given a mug of stout and chivvied out of the forges into the daylight. And none dared refuse the querulous woman: Cade enjoyed watching her scold whitebeards and boys alike, though was wary of never crossing her himself.
Another thing that surprised Gendry about the forges was the unity, the camaraderie. He was used to being in rivalry with his fellow armourers on the Street of Steel. Here in the Winterfell forges, they were all committed to one single purpose. And, with the exception of some armourers and blacksmiths from the Vale and some of the Free Folk learning how to forge steel for the very first time, the forges were filled to the brim with Northmen. They had their own ways and culture - they had their histories, and their songs, and in the Winterfell forges, Gendry was becoming accustomed to the sound of deep voices raised in chorus, ancient songs rich with history and meaning drowning the sounds of hammering, the hiss of steam and the crunch of obsidian. They were songs as old as the North itself, passed down through the generations, from the First Men who learned to temper steel. They were ancient songs in the Old Tongue - no-one but the unnerving Thenns knew what the words meant, but every man in the forges who knew the songs sang passionately. The words weren't important; the meaning to them was.
He was learning about the people of the North, of Winterfell. The fine weather he had woken to lingered for barely an afternoon, and lightning started to lash the sky as if the gods themselves were at war, whipping each other across the heavens, and though children whimpered and hounds howled at every lash of lightning, the atmosphere in Winterfell was persistently cheerful.
It was one thing he could say for the Northerners; though they were known for their grim severity and austere, hostile natures, Northerners in their strongest, safest place, together, were content, helpful and cheerful. They were used to the cold, and embraced it with a rich culture of story-telling by great roaring hearths. They knitted to keep their hands warm as they shared ancient stories; sang to raise their moods, until the echoing din of the thunder was lost to the chorus of choirs hundreds strong; and dancing lively jigs to keep the blood flowing fiercely through their veins, every musician in the North gathered to share their skills and inspire new songs and dances and teach what they knew. Gendry learned that every winter saw a surge in Northern culture.
It was a side of the Northerners few outsiders were privileged to witness.
Even he contributed to the explosion of culture that Winterfell was enjoying: He had been raised and apprenticed in the finest armoury in the Seven Kingdoms, after all. The grizzled whitebeards watched him work, and saw his skill. He shared his knowledge with others, taking the time to teach new techniques, help refine skills, alternative methods of doing things. He built bonds in the forges with the other armourers and smiths, even the Free Folk who were learning to smith for the first time.
At Winterfell, they were under siege - from the winter, and the Others who lurked in the fog and the snows - yet they were happy. Even the labourers prevented from preparing for siege due to the weather were content; Larra Snow gave them new jobs to complete until the storm wore itself out.
Gendry had never been part of the household of a castle - he did not count those few, harrowing weeks at Harrenhall - so he could only compare Winterfell to King's Landing. There were far fewer people, but that wasn't the greatest difference. Everyone knew their place, how they fit in the castle and what their role was, their duties and the privileges that came with sheltering under their liege lord's roof - under their King's own roof.
The Red Keep was for royalty and favoured nobility: Winterfell was for all the living North, if they had any hope of surviving.
That was the difference between the Starks and every other Great House in Westeros, and likely one of the most enduring reasons why outsiders were so distrusted: They did not understand the North, or respect the Northern way of doing things - other Houses outside of the North did not understand or appreciate that the Starks respected their people, believed wholeheartedly that it was their duty and responsibility to protect and provide for them. Gendry could not remember a single time Arya had ever spoken of her rights as the daughter of the High Lord; she spoke most fiercely about her father's duties and the exhaustion he suffered due to the care he had for and of so many.
It was strange to settle into the castle, as if he had not mere days ago fled an Army of the Dead intent on ending the race of Men, had not flown on a dragon's back and fought side by side with a King.
To the people of Winterfell, it made no difference that they were hounded by the Others of legend: Life went on. Elderly died, and a half-dozen babies were born between one storm and the next. Regular, rich meals were provided, and everyone continued their work, ignoring the storms. During the daytime, they worked; in the evenings, the musicians played, choirs sang and the young people went courting, dancing merry jigs and seeking private spots about the castle. There were very few of those to be had, which was just as well; there was no-one fiercer than a Northern mother protecting her daughters, as many a young lad discovered.
The highlights of Gendry's days were always glimpses of her. Larra Snow.
And he saw her more often than he would ever have imagined, her being sister to the King after all. And part of that was down to Neva and Cadeon. Neva was a welcome guest in the nursery, a companion to the younger Lannister girls. She shared a chamber with Cade, a wildling boy named Ragnar and the Umber heir, Little Jon, both of whom seemed in awe of Cade and even more so of Gendry once they had witnessed him at work in the forges, trailing after Cade like little pups, and each tried to lift Gendry's war-hammer.
Dawn seemed to come later and later every morning; the castle was bustling long before the sun peeked demurely over the horizon, and one of the earliest to rise, beating even the scullery maids who lit the fires, was Larra Snow. Every morning, she came to the nursery and prepared a skillet pot of porridge for the children - for the Lannisters, Little Jon Umber, for Neva and Cade and Ragnar and Little Sam Tarly, who joined all the other children for a walk in the godswood if it was fine before breaking their fast. Larra would sit and carefully comb and braid the girls' hair with her scarred, nimble, gentle fingers, then dole out the porridge for each of the children while she asked questions about their learning with the maesters. Gendry knew all this, as he had taken to visiting Neva in the nursery every morning before he headed to the forge. He timed it just right: Larra Snow was always tenderly combing the tangles out of tiny Leona Lannister's golden corkscrew curls as Gendry entered the nursery, the children sitting at table to eat their porridge. He always got a smile from the children, and a kiss from Neva…but it was the way Larra Snow's violet eyes lit up like obsidian embers when she saw him, the subtle winks at the corners of her rosebud lips, that gave him a secret thrill. It was the only time she ever gave him such a warm look.
She would set down the comb, help Leona into her high chair, give kisses, and walk out of the nursery with him. She did not always speak; she was unlike Arya that way, though Gendry didn't think it was Larra's truest nature to be this quiet. He had seen her light up, teasing and flirting with Valemen and the Free Folk warriors, vibrant and charismatic and delightful. She was warm, gentle and stern with the children. With Gendry, she was quiet, for whatever reason. He told himself it didn't matter; he just liked seeing her, looked forward to waking every morning knowing her purple eyes would glow with something at the mere sight of him entering the nursery.
But it was a shock to see her in the forge for the very first time.
There were three different languages spoken in the forges - nine different dialects. And not everyone knew the Common Tongue. There were many voices in the forges - but few of them female. So it was exceptional when they heard her. They heard her sing.
One morning, a storm thrashing the castle - lightning threatening to tear the sky asunder, icy rain so thick and harsh no-one dared step outside to get pummelled - the usual raucous noise of the forges and the singing of the men was accompanied by a breath-taking female voice.
"I love it when she's here," Cadeon sighed, resting near the fire and gazing wistfully across the forge, to the courtyard entrance where rain pelted through the wide opening and lightning sporadically illuminated the figure of a slender woman working. The storm did not faze her, even as whitebeards were spooked by the lightning and the boys glanced above their heads as if expecting the castle to tumble down upon their heads.
Gendry was stunned to see Larra Snow tempering obsidian.
He had not yet been asked to work with obsidian, though knew he was being assessed by the older armourers for his skills first. Not every smith and armourer was working on obsidian; there were still things that required steel. The Broken Tower was being rebuilt, in between storms, and the workmen required the usual building materials from the forges. He did not mind; but he knew he could work with obsidian, and create some quite extraordinary things with it.
He had not thought anyone in the North would know how to use obsidian. Missandei and Lord Tyrion had discovered and translated Ancient Valyrian writings on using dragonglass, and they had informed Gendry when he started working with the stuff. It had not occurred to him that someone else might know how to work the strange material.
"Strange how the work slows when she sings," said a gruff voice, and Donal Noye chuckled under his breath, his eyes alight with amusement as he watched Larra Snow with something like fondness and sorrow in his gaze.
"But look how much calmer people are because she's singing," Gendry said, gazing around. The incomparable sounds her voice made as she sang felt like a dose of hard liquor deep in the belly, fortifying and, Gendry admitted, entrancing. He had never heard a person sing the way she could, never heard a voice so beautiful, swelling and soaring and echoing around the forges, clear and strong. He imagined none of the others had ever heard the like, either. But he knew he was also right when he said Larra Snow's singing eased the worst of the men's dread. And if she could sing so beautifully as she calmly worked, paying the storm no mind, then what was stopping them from doing the same?
"Go watch her work," Donal grunted, jerking his stubbled chin toward Larra Snow. "She taught everyone here how to smelt obsidian." Gendry raised his eyebrows, surprised.
"I've worked with obsidian before," he said quietly.
"In King's Landing?"
"Dragonstone," Gendry said, still watching Larra Snow, her singing high and strong over the noise of the anvils and the storm - quite a feat in itself. "But I will go and watch her work." He wasn't the only one. The smiths who were having a rest had gathered near to Larra Snow's forge, and Gendry sidled up to them, leaning against a stone pillar. Cade settled at his feet, leaning against Gendry's legs, closing his eyes with a soft smile on his scarred lips as he listened to Larra Snow's voice swell and rise and sweep over them like waves. Gendry listened - but he also watched.
Larra Snow always had her hair pinned up. Gendry had yet to see Larra Snow with her hair unbound, and found himself wanting to see that more than anything. As she always did, she had parted her hair down the middle, and two raised braids worked from the centre of her forehead back to the nape of her neck, where she entwined the braids and pinned them in place in a bun that gave her a very pretty profile. In the mornings, Gendry oft saw her with those two shining treacle braids draped over her shoulders past her waist while she combed Leona Lannister's curls; she twisted and coiled and pinned them as they left the nursery, sometimes wrapping them over her ears in a coronet if she was heading out-of-doors into the cold brisk air. Today, she wore her braids pinned at the nape of her neck in a bun, and Gendry could tell how hot she was, working at the forge; sweat shimmered on her brow like tiny jewels, and loose curls twisted like Leona's corkscrews around her face, wayward and uncontrollable, annoying her. Her hair was curly, then, like Jon's. She was slim and tall like Jon, too, and Gendry knew he could rest his chin on the top of her head if she stood close enough.
Sometimes he imagined her standing close enough for him to wrap his arms around her - for her to tuck herself against him, and let him rest his chin on her head and smell that sweet flowery scent that sometimes drifted from her hair. He imagined a lot about Larra Snow.
Gendry had seen Larra in her armour, and on a rare evening he had seen her in an expensive silk dress she had worn to dine with the nobles, the deep purple of the silk making her eyes glow like purple embers. In armour or silk, she wore her hair pinned up, and looked beautiful and lethal in either. Cade mused that Larra concealed weapons beneath the silk, whereas she draped her slender body with weapons over her fitted leather armour. Gendry imagined he was right. But today, she wore a battered leather apron over a simple dove-grey wool dress with a high neck and fitted sleeves, leather gauntlets buckled over her forearms to protect them - but her hands were bare, and Gendry noticed the firelight gleaming off the ancient white scars that cobwebbed her fingers and the backs of her hands, as if her hands were draped with silver chains instead of jewels. In the firelight, her skin glowed snow-white, but he noticed the three narrow scars at the base of her long, slender throat, and the scar beneath her ear.
His body seemed to come alive at the fleeting idea of kissing those silvered scars - particularly the ones on her throat. He wondered what sound she'd make if he kissed that silver scar beneath her ear. He remembered, before he had been sold to the Watch, that some girls liked to be kissed there. He remembered the soft, whimpering, breathy sounds they had made in his embrace - and scowled as the fire before Larra made him see red. The Red Woman. He exhaled angrily, folding his arms across his chest, and tried not to appear to be scowling at the lady as he watched Larra Snow work.
Gendry often found that his body came alive around Larra; and that the thought of her alone was enough to gentle the rage and shame that consumed his mind whenever the Red Woman whispered in the back of his mind - which was often.
He loved to watch her work. The calm, precise way she moved, her meticulousness and patience…she would have made a fine blacksmith, something which made some of the Winterfell smiths laugh - according to them, she had grown up in these forges, pestering the master armourer Mikken until he had conceded and tutored her, spending hours teaching her the craft: She had forged her own hunting-knife as a girl. Gendry wondered if she still wielded it. He knew she had a fine Valyrian steel dagger, as well as the sword she always had within reach - it was propped up mere feet from her, ready to snatch up at a moment's notice - and a second dagger she wore belted at her lower-back, but if she still had it, she wore it concealed.
Thinking about where she concealed her blade made Gendry flush with the possibilities, and his gaze lingered on her plain woollen dress and the leather apron. The idea of what remained hidden by them made his body tense. His body threatening to betray him, Gendry focused not on her almost painfully tiny waist, or her breasts lovingly caressed by the wool, but on her hands.
He had seen seasoned blacksmiths more unnerved by the fire than Larra. She was comfortable around the forge, around the fire - if not the heat - and the tools, just as the sword and dagger and hunting-knife were an extension of her. She wasn't afraid of them, cautious and hesitant and uncertain. It was a quiet confidence. She was not in the forge to show off; she was here to work, just as any of the others were. The only difference was, she was the King's sister - and a beauty. And she did gentle their dread of the storms.
"Come here," she said gently, pausing her singing, and she raised her uncanny purple eyes, lancing them straight on Gendry, whose entire body tensed with awareness. He swallowed, raising an eyebrow. She set her tongs down and tidied some other tools, curling a finger toward him as she did so. Cadeon raised his eyebrows at Gendry as he shifted off Gendry's legs; Gendry glanced at the other men, who gave half-hearted shrugs. He cleared his throat and approached the lady, nervously brushing his hands on his own apron. The directness of her gaze reminded Gendry inexplicably of the moment Lord Tywin Lannister had arrived at Harrenhall. There was power in her gaze, unyielding.
Those vivid purple eyes glowed like gems in the firelight as Gendry approached, and her succulent lips twitched with a teasing sort of irony.
He was used to being the tallest person around. He certainly wasn't used to tall, slender women who somehow seemed to look him in the eye, despite being a head shorter. She raised her chin, that quiet confidence radiating from her, and Gendry eyed her warily as she stepped aside from the anvil.
"Spearheads," he said, eyeing what she had been working on. She had tidied up her station, leaving the tools meticulously organised, a bushel of crushed obsidian within reach and the fire stoked. He liked a tidy workspace.
Her voice seemed to rub him all over as she said huskily, "It's my turn to watch."
He glanced at her. "What would you like me to do?"
"Whatever you'd like," she murmured, and he shivered as her eyes swept over him. "You have used dragonglass before." It wasn't a question. "I wish to watch you temper it."
And she watched. At first, it was unnerving: She had never remained so close to him for so long, but just like their morning walks from the nursery, she was still quiet. Watchful. Occasionally, her sharp eyes would widen and she would step forward, and his entire body would tense as she laid a hand gently on his forearm to stop him. He noticed the finer scars on her fingers, and that one of her nails was purple-black with bruising. She was unafraid of getting her hands dirty - of working with them. She would ask him to either repeat a movement or explain the process - how he had learned to temper dragonglass was subtly different from the way she had been taught, mostly in the materials and tools he used in comparison to what she had had available. Larra did not tell him about where or from whom she had learned to smelt obsidian - Gendry couldn't help wonder where it had been mined so far in the North, if that was indeed where Larra had been all the years since the Ironborn took Winterfell - but Gendry learned enough just from her questions about how she had been taught. Crude tools used with patience and exquisite attention to detail. Larra was clever and quick to pick up new skills; she started working beside him, sometimes glancing his way to check what he was doing, and using the techniques she had seen him use with precision and great care.
She compared the first spearhead to the one she had created using his techniques, holding them both before the fire, her eyes sharp and assessing, critical. Larra's lips parted with a thoughtful, "Huh!"
"What is it?" Gendry asked, pausing in his hammering.
"You can see its heart," she breathed, seemingly mesmerised by the obsidian. Gendry set down the obsidian blade he was forging, nestling the glowing purple-black obsidian in the fire, and stepped closer to Larra. He was close enough to smell the perfume in her hair, and the sweat shimmering delicately on her brow, which she often swiped away with an annoyed jerk of her upper-arm across her face. As she held the spearheads up in the firelight, Gendry saw it, as she had said. The heart. Deep within the spearhead, a violet-blue flame seemed to throb. The first spearhead, held up beside it, was dark and cold. It was serviceable, but not beautiful.
"I'll give it to them," Gendry sighed, "the Valyrians' craftsmanship was unsurpassed."
"Steel and sorcery," Larra murmured sadly. "For thousands of years, they were unparalleled… And then they were gone." She set down the spearheads. "And all that made them extraordinary was lost with them."
"Not all," Gendry said quietly, remembering the sound of the wind whipping in his ears, the tremendous, awing power - of wings and of fire. Larra flicked her purple eyes to Gendry, and she seemed to discern his thoughts from the look on his face.
"Not all," she agreed softly.
Gendry sighed heavily, glancing at Larra.
"This is the most you've spoken to me since I arrived at Winterfell," he said quietly, moving closer to Larra, glancing around to ensure they weren't overheard. "I see you, cuddling with the children, talking with the Free Folk and flirting with the men. With them, you're warm and playful." He moved closer still, and frowned softly. "With me, you are quiet. Do I offend you?"
Larra glanced sharply at him, her expression showing subtle horror, as if she could not believe what she was hearing, melting into something soft and sad, which was worse to witness - tragic, almost. Her eyes warmed the way they did every morning in the nursery when she saw him; her lips twitched, and Gendry stilled, watching, as the tip of her tongue dabbed delicately at her lower-lip. She cleared her throat softly.
"I enjoy you," she admitted, her voice rich. Gendry felt himself blushing at the intensity in her eyes. She didn't need to giggle and simper and make suggestions; the ferocity of her gaze alone felt as if she was stroking him, enjoying him as she said. He wondered if she felt the same way when he snuck long looks at her - if she had noticed? Her expression turned sad again, cautious. "When you arrived at Winterfell, Karsi told me that Jon was whole and healthy… The expression on your face said something quite different." Gendry suddenly regretted mentioning it. Something like a shadow of Jon's shame flushed through his body, chased by chills that made him suppress shudders of rage mingled with dread. "Something happened to Jon." Her face was solemn, her eyes so dreadfully understanding as she turned to gaze up at him. "Whatever it was, you haven't betrayed Jon's confidence - not even to his own family. So how can I possibly ask you to?"
It unnerved him that she could read him so well, without ever having met him before that day in the courtyard. But he stood a little taller as he realised she respected his loyalty to Jon, protecting the secret of whatever had happened to him. How was Gendry supposed to tell Jon's sisters what had happened to him?
Larra gazed up at him, earnest worry drawing her pretty eyebrows together, casting her deep purple eyes into shadow. Her voice was heartbroken as she asked, "Is there something we need to know about Jon?"
Gendry thought about his answer for a long time, watching her face, the way her eyes glimmered and glowed and sparked like violet embers in the firelight, the shadows and light lovingly caressing her face. It was love, Gendry realised. Love radiated from her eyes - love for her twin-brother, concern for him. Real dread. Gendry remembered why the castle was preparing for war - and the murmurs of the Northmen that the "real" war would begin once the Night King was dead. Their real enemy was the foreign invader, the Dragon Queen who incinerated pregnant women, young boys and ancient men to prove a point of her ruthlessness and absolute power to her councillors.
He thought of Jon, and how it was Daenerys Targaryen had managed to climb into Jon's lap. Not by Jon's choice - but through his utter lack of one.
They needed to know what Queen Daenerys had done to their brother.
He sighed heavily, reaching up a hand to brush over his chin, still somewhat surprised to find a short beard swathing his jaw. He glanced at Larra, and eventually nodded. "Aye, there is."
"You're used to highborns doing as they please with you," Larra said quietly. "Sold to the Watch, tortured and put to work at Harrenhall, betrayed by the Brotherhood…" Gendry's lips parted. How did she…? "I wouldn't blame you, for being wary of me, or of Sansa. Perhaps you might think we wouldn't believe you, or say something horrendous and brush aside your worries - and punish you for them later."
"You sound as if you're used to high-borns doing as they please with you," Gendry said, and remembered what Arya had told him about her bastard siblings - and how they were treated at Winterfell by Arya's mother. Larra made a soft noise of agreement.
"I've no power to command you to tell me what happened," Larra said softly, and Gendry raised an eyebrow. She was still Lord Stark's daughter, after all, and ruled this castle and the people of the North. And you are the son of a King, Gendry reminded himself. Larra cleared her throat gently. "I want you to know that you can. I'll listen."
"What if you don't like what you hear?" Gendry asked grimly.
Larra's smile was sad and accepting, and that made it worse. "I'm already certain I won't. But I'll hear it all the same, if you'll tell me."
Gendry gazed at her, and for a heartbeat he considered it. Then he remembered who he was speaking to. It wasn't a matter of being believed… He felt flushed as he cleared his throat, muttering, "It's…not a thing ladies speak of."
Shrewd understanding darkened Larra's eyes, and Gendry saw the danger in them - a wicked danger that showed just how Larra Snow had kept her crippled brother alive in the True North. She had made hard choices, and done things no lady ever had to.
"I'm not a lady," she said heavily, and it sounded very different from when Arya had shoved him, that day at the brook, teasing her about calling her m'lady. She was deeply in earnest. She wasn't just a lady. She was a she-wolf. And her eyes were cunning and dangerous as any dire-wolf's as she watched Gendry carefully. Even if she didn't say it, she suspected something.
A clap of thunder rumbled so loudly, it felt as if the forge was moving underfoot; lightning bombarded the castle, and Gendry shuddered with dread…until he noticed Larra's lips moving silently, her vivid purple eyes on the open entryway, counting. When the thunder finally grumbled and quietened, and the courtyard entrance slowly faded to shadows, Gendry shivered, and realised that the hammers had stilled, the men were quiet.
"We're at the heart of it, now," Larra said softly, and Gendry was surprised to see a flicker of warmth and amusement in her eyes, her pretty lips lifting up at the corners. "The worst of the storm is above us; she'll wear herself out soon enough."
"Are storms female in the North?" Gendry asked, to distract himself from the feeling of his bones shaking because of the strength of the thunder.
Larra's lips quirked, her eyes glinting with humour. "Extraordinary beauty coupled with unfathomable destruction? Of course… Not all storms are a bad thing."
"How can they be a good thing?" Gendry asked, curious about her perspective on things.
"There is no progress without chaos," Larra sighed. She held up the two spearheads she had forged using skills learned from two different cultures thousands of years apart in terms of craftsmanship. "And as destructive as storms are…ancient trees will be felled during this storm, timber we need…and they'll give way to new growth. On and on it goes. A never-ending circle of life and death. Death pays for life… It is eternal." She gazed at the tip of the spearhead in her hand, thoughtful and faraway. "Nothing in this world can break it. All things end but endings also mean new beginnings."
"For some," Gendry said quietly, a flicker of shame dancing through him as he glanced at Larra, and wondered just how closely she resembled the Young Wolf, whose name had been uttered over a fire, Gendry's life-blood hissing as it fuelled a black curse.
Larra nodded, and sighed. "For some," she agreed. She set her spearheads down and tidied her workspace.
"Is that you finished for the day?"
"I've a standing appointment with the maesters," Larra said, undoing the knots of her apron, revealing her simple wool dress as she hung the apron on a nail embedded into one of the wooden pillars on which copious shelves and ledges had been built for storing tools and projects. "I would ask you to demonstrate your methods of tempering obsidian to some of the other smiths and armourers."
"Your way yields serviceable obsidian," Gendry said. "Both those spearheads will kill a White Walker."
"Dragonglass is fussy," Larra said, shrugging delicately. He noticed the way the wool stretched and shifted over her breasts with the movement, and wished he hadn't. Wished he didn't wonder how heavy they were, how he could cup them in his hands. "Your method yields more reliable results."
Gendry nodded. "As you wish." Larra glanced up at him, her eyes glowing.
"I do," she said softly, and her lips twitched into a rare, sweet smile that made Gendry shove his shoulders back and bite back on a grin when she strode away, through the forges, rumpling Cade's hair as she passed him, pausing to speak to Aislin and some of the whitebeards and the Chief Armourer who organised the forges at her behest.
For the rest of the day, Gendry demonstrated his method - the Valyrian method - of smelting obsidian, crafting spearheads, dirks and arrowheads and simple, brutal gladius swords. His obsidian war-hammer, with a tempered steel haft and bronze embellishments, was much admired by the armourers. It was no small thing to be asked by the lady to share his knowledge: Gendry was instructing men with decades more experience than himself at their own craft. But he stood even taller when he was praised by the oldest, most experienced of the whitebeards for his passion and skill.
When Larra returned, she took up her station, looped her apron over her head, and Gendry watched out of the corner of his eye. Her frown was intense, and she picked up her hammer, focused on the rhythmic pounding on the anvil.
"Your meeting with the maesters that frustrating?" Gendry asked, and a soft grunt was her response as she hammered away, until she picked up a stick to poke and swill a dish containing crushed obsidian.
"Grains," was all she said, but with great feeling, her eyes glowing as she gave him a disgruntled look. She stepped away from the fire to knead her eyes, looking very tired; purple bruises smudged beneath her eyes, and Gendry saw the way her shoulders drooped slightly under the weight of her responsibilities to the people of Winterfell. She glanced at Gendry, tilting her head thoughtfully. "How do they feed the smallfolk in King's Landing?"
"Not well," Gendry said grimly, and Larra raised an eyebrow. Gendry told her about bowls of brown, and they had a quiet conversation about the markets in the capital, the foreign foods imported from Essos and even the Summer Isles, the spices and foreign wines and odd stalls set up by immigrants from the Free Cities - Larra, who had lived all her life in the North, made him smile when she said the most exotic thing she had ever eaten was a bear's balls.
"How were they?" he grimaced, teasing.
"Chewy," Larra said, a grim look on her face, but her eyes danced, and her nose crinkled sweetly.
"When we ate our bowl o' brown, we used to pretend it was chicken," Gendry said fondly, thinking of the children he had grown up with, other orphans. He knew he alone had made it to adulthood. Someone had been taking care of him, he suspected. He had not found his way to Tobho Mott's forge by accident. "We knew it wasn't, but it made it go down easier."
"I used to pretend the blood stew was venison and mushroom pie with flaky butter pastry, washed down with good strong, tangy cider," Larra said wistfully. "If I never taste acorn paste again, it'll be too soon."
They spoke of the King's Landing markets - it was a strange thing to think that Gendry, an armourer's apprentice and a bastard with no name, took for granted something Larra, a High Lord's daughter, had never experienced. His exposure to foreign cultures, languages and the foods people from exotic lands brought to King's Landing, the largest port-city in Westeros, overflowing with people from all over Westeros - all over the known world. He was used to the smell of spices in the air, to foreign voices shouting over each other in the markets, different coloured skins and unusual ways of dressing, unusual flavours and ways of cooking things, Westerosi stews cooked up beside honeyed mice and sweets from Qarth and curries from Volantis, oysters Braavos-style, spicy broths with noodles, goat curries with firepods, sweetgrass, and honey, olive loaf, spicy fish served with succulent exotic fruits from the Summer Isles, hundreds of different kinds of cheeses from all over Westeros sold in special bazaars, lobster and winkles and cod, dates and melons from Dorne and peppers that made the unwary sweat from head to toe, lamb with salad of raisins and carrots, with hot flaky bread, shrimp and persimmon soup and plum wine, firewine and milk tea.
It was strange to think how much more of the world Gendry knew about, simply from living in King's Landing, and Larra commented on it. Her own experiences were much more limited. But, Gendry pointed out, "I've seen you hold a conversation with ten people in five different dialects without even blinking an eyelash." He chuckled. "You could probably write a book on all you know about the clans of the Free Folk and their cultures. More than any maester can ever learn." He shrugged.
"Your experiences sound so much more exciting…more exotic," Larra sighed, almost regretfully.
"No. They were just a lot warmer," Gendry said, and Larra laughed. It was the first time he had ever heard her laugh, and startled him. It was an attractive sound. She smiled, turning back to the fire, picking up her hammer, and Gendry refocused on his work. He knew Larra was thinking about their conversation - about grains, and ways in which she could feed Winterfell if the winter lingered too long. She had told Gendry she wanted to extend what they had, though, without having to resort to expensive foreign imports. What was standard trade in King's Landing would be eye-wateringly expensive to the North, which was the largest and poorest of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Will you join us in the nursery for supper?" Larra asked, as she hung up her apron for the night. Gendry glanced at her as he rolled his shoulders, stretching his neck, and stopped.
"With you?" he asked, unsettled.
"Well, and the children," Larra said, looking almost disappointed at his reaction.
"Only if I'm welcome," he hedged.
"I wouldn't ask if you weren't," Larra said earnestly, and he nodded. In his mind, he had always imagined that high-borns always ate numerous courses of exotic dishes - the sorts of things he had seen sold in the markets in King's Landing but never had the coin to try for himself, elusive and decadent. He imagined they were in their finery, draped in jewels and eating off enamelled plates. If the children in the nursery had been used to such things, in the Winterfell nursery they had a very different sort of experience. Simple, hearty meals - similar to what Gendry ate downstairs, except for the cuts of the meat - were set out on the large round table, the babies were draped with wide linen bibs to protect their clothing - or their frocks were removed entirely, in Leona's case - and they served each other, eating with simple carved spoons. He noticed each child had their own, their names engraved into the handles.
Gendry didn't wonder why Larra had decided to dine in the nursery: the storm was still abusing the castle, and they appeared in the nursery to more than a few teary faces. Neva darted to him, and Leona's lip quivered as she reached for Larra, who scooped her up. The sound of her singing coaxed and gentled the children, who looked relieved by her mere presence - as if Larra herself would fight back the storm single-handedly.
The storm raged, but it was cosy in the nursery. The hearth crackled with a lively fire, and the children were kept busy with knitting and crochet projects, dolls or books, or braided each other's hair into new styles, practised their embroidery or dancing to the pianoforte or learned ancient Valyrian arias from Larra as she sang and cuddled Leona, gently rocking in the rocking-chair beside the fire, bundled under blankets.
Gendry sat in one of the other chairs, Neva cuddling in his lap, and his heart sank further and further as Neva delicately lisped over her words with meticulous focus and patience.
She was reading.
Gendry had never learned.
And his mouth went dry as she turned, her delicate silver brows drawn together, and asked whether she had said the word correctly.
"You did. Well done, Neva," said Larra gently, her nimble fingers untangling a knot in Rosamund's attempts at crochet. Leona sat cuddled in her lap, enormous emerald eyes gazing from within the folds of a soft dove-grey blanket with extraordinary patterns, sucking her thumb. Larra handed Rosamund her crochet back, adjusted Leona in her lap, and leaned her head back, her eyes glinting like embers as she observed Neva reading. Her gaze drifted slowly upwards, those entrancing purple eyes resting on Gendry's face, intense yet oddly gentle at the same time.
Just as Altheda and Calanthe started squabbling over a game of cards - Larra's creation - serving-girls arrived with their meal. It was perfect to combat the lingering storm: Potatoes mashed until they were creamy and smooth, ladled with a rich stew groaning with gravy-soaked carrots and pearl onions and beef short-ribs. The meat was so tender it was falling off the bone.
He and Larra were not alone in joining the children to eat in the nursery: They were joined by Sam Tarly and pretty Gilly, Zharanni, Lady Tisseia, the Dothraki kos who guarded the Lannister girls, two of the maesters tasked with educating the children, and the septa who gave instruction in dancing, embroidery and etiquette. Gendry savoured every mouthful of this meal. Beef short-ribs! He exchanged a glance across the table with Cade, whose grin outrivalled any cat who got the cream. Neva, always a contrast to her brother, looked awed and unsettled at being given such a rich, expensive meal, and picked delicately at it until Calanthe told her to "wolf it down like Larra!"
And there was something incredibly wolfish about Larra as her eyes turned watchful and cunning, whipping away any of the bones that had not been stripped of every sliver of meat. She sucked them clean. Their discussion about how a bear's balls tasted echoed through Gendry's mind, and he grinned to himself as Cade crowed and teased Larra, and fought her for the last of Narcisa's bones. Gendry listened more than he spoke during that meal, unsettled by the richness of the meal and savouring it. And he was quite aware how much he watched Larra. She had not joined the children in the nursery - or invited the other adults - for the sake of dining with them. Gendry noticed how cunning and observant Larra was: She was watching the girls, particularly. She wanted to know how they were settling in, whether there had been any squabbles, and she gauged their emotions just with a few quiet word, especially Narcisa and Delphine. Crisantha remained mute, but was more engaged than Gendry had ever seen her on Dragonstone. The shock was wearing off: And she felt safe near Larra, he could tell just by the way she moved to be near to wherever Larra was. If Larra sat in the rocking-chair, Crisantha settled on an embroidered floor-cushion with her embroidery, close enough to lean her cheek against Larra's thigh, close enough for Larra to rest her hand on top of Crisantha's head and stroke her billowing curls.
Larra spoke to the maesters about the girls' progress in their lessons, asked the septa to introduce new stitches and dances for the girls to learn - after their demonstrations earlier - confirmed with Tisseia how their Valyrian was coming along, and asked Zharanni, whose Common was coming along very well, to translate for the kos.
"As soon as the weather clears, the girls must learn to ride," she said, and Zharanni spoke to the kos in harsh, guttural tones. The copper-skinned men - now wearing woollen tunics beneath their leathers, provided by Larra and her sister - exchanged looks. One of them said something; Zharanni spoke sharply, raising her chin, and the man eyed Larra's stern, unyielding expression, and seemed to relent.
"We're to learn to ride?" Calanthe asked eagerly.
"Like a man?" Narcisa said, aghast.
"Like a Dothraki," Larra said. "There are no finer horsemen in the world. You must learn to ride, as if you are one with your mount."
"Why?" Altheda asked curiously.
"Many reasons. For the joy of it," Larra said, shrugging and somehow managing to make it look elegant. "And one day your lives may depend upon it. If you can mount a horse, you have the option of fleeing."
"A horse cannot outrun a dragon," said Narcisa coldly, her eyes glints of emerald fire as her features turned to stone. Gendry glanced at Larra, who was watching Narcisa carefully. Narcisa's wrathful hatred toward and dread of the dragons was the first thing Gendry had learned about her.
"No, that's true," Larra said, watching Narcisa carefully. "There are only three dragons in the world. There's far worse out there than them, and far more of them."
"Like what?"
"Like men." Narcisa's eyes fell to the three identical scars scratched at the base of Larra's throat, and a few of the adults flicked their gazes there, too. If rumour was to be believed, and Gendry thought there was some truth to it, those scars had come from the Ironborn who had taken and then yielded Winterfell. Those scars had come from an Ironborn who had attacked Larra - and received a meat-hook to the jaw in return.
"Are you intent on turning us into she-wolves?" Narcisa asked, her voice brittle.
"I am intent on teaching you the skills to survive," Larra said sharply. "I shall not shave your head and shove a spear in your hand, do not fear. You shall continue your lessons on etiquette; the gods know they saved Sansa's life more times than she could count. But you will not leave this castle unable to defend yourself."
"And that is why we must learn cyvasse and economics and geography and all of that?" sniffed Narcisa disdainfully.
"Yes."
Narcisa sat up straighter, and said, "Very well then. We shall learn to ride the Dothraki way."
"Good. I'll have the maids bring up your breeches in the morn," Larra said, and her eyes twinkled merrily at Narcisa's mortified gasp. Gendry hid his grin behind his cup of ale, glad the tension had lifted. Narcisa didn't seem to realise Larra was teasing; not when Calanthe was giddy at the idea of wearing breeches and tunics.
As the others turned to their own conversations, Larra leaned closer to Gendry, murmuring, "I think it best we send them to bed - before Cadeon earns a few more scars." She inclined her head toward Cadeon, who was needling Narcisa about dressing like a man - to the mounting fury and embarrassment of Narcisa, who clenched her hand around her knife. Gendry laughed.
"Cade," he said warmly, shaking his head when his son glanced over. "Relent." Larra reached over and took the knife from Narcisa, and Calanthe piped up, "Shall we learn to hunt, Larra?"
"If you'd like. I'm in need of a new bearskin. Sansa whisked mine away, I know not where," Larra said mildly. "Now, it is time for bed." A chorus of pleas erupted, but Larra was implacable. The children were guided to their chambers, with the promise of kisses from Larra - and Gendry - when they were settled, their teeth and hair brushed and clothes folded neatly in trunks.
"She's pushing back," Tisseia said softly, glancing at Larra. "Narcisa."
"I know," Larra said thoughtfully. "She's getting her confidence back. I'm glad she is showing some spine."
"Goodnight, Larra," said Sam, and Larra smiled warmly, leaning in to embrace Sam, and kiss Gilly's cheek, as they walked past with Little Sam, who was carrying a heavy book. Gendry felt unsettled by the sight of it, reminded of Neva reading in his lap and the embarrassment of being unable to guide her as she improved her skills.
The nursery emptied, and the fire was doused by a scullery-maid. Nothing was wasted in Winterfell. As they had promised, Larra and Gendry said goodnight to the children: Larra went alone into the Lannister girls' chamber, and in the one beside it Gendry found the boys, and Neva, yawning and quietly talking amongst themselves. He observed Neva; she was chatting in an unfamiliar language to Ragnar, the wildling boy. She laughed her musical laugh and nestled down further under her blankets, her smile content as she saw Gendry in the doorway, her eyes lighting up. Larra arrived a few moments later, pausing at the door to sweep her eyes over the room. They rested on Gendry, sat at the edge of the bed Neva and Cadeon shared, Neva cuddled up to him and quietly talking about her day, and her hopes for tomorrow. Larra, in her plain wool dress, looked elegant in the firelight as she walked over to the bed shared by Little Jon and Ragnar, tall and lean, and she settled at the edge of the bed as Gendry had done. Listening to Neva, Gendry could not hear Larra's words, but knew he wouldn't be able to understand them - she was speaking to Ragnar in his own tongue, while she stroked Little Jon's hair; he was already snoring softly, as Ragnar chuckled softly under his breath and gesticulated with his hands.
Snuffing out the few candles and dousing the fire, Larra's soft laugh rubbed over him as Gendry made a noise of disquiet; he jumped as a hand reached for his in the dark, but it was Larra, and she led him out of the pitch-black chamber. She was used to the dark.
"Can you see in the dark, as dire-wolves can?" he teased, as he drew the heavy door shut behind him, glad of the torchlight in the corridor.
"Only when the moon is bright," Larra said, her low laugh husky and seductive. The torchlight made her eyes glow like melting obsidian, her teeth shining straight and white. His eyes went to the three scars at the base of her throat, the scars he had wondered about kissing - the scars that told of brutality.
They remained in the corridor, the warm atmosphere of the nursery fading, and Gendry was at once uncomfortable about lingering but aching to remain by her side. "It's good that you're teaching them to defend themselves… They're not likely to meet any monsters worse than men."
Larra's smile was sad, tragic even, and Gendry shivered deliciously as she murmured, "The men they meet won't measure up to you… I don't want them growing up fearful that every man they ever meet will abuse them…but they will know how to defend themselves against the very worst this world has created." His eyes went to her scars, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. If the rumours were true, he knew what those scars meant. Knew what she had faced. And it made it easier, somehow, to think of speaking to her about such things.
He cleared his throat awkwardly, feeling a flush creep up his neck. Glad of the darkness in the corridor, hiding most of her face as he looked at her, he said, "Larra…may we go somewhere? Somewhere quiet?"
Larra watched him silently for a long moment. Then she sighed, and nodded. She led him through the Starks' private corridors. "This is the solar. If I'm not in the forge or the courtyard, I'll likely be here, should you ever need me." The fire had been stoked, the candles lit, and Gendry watched her check something on the huge working desk beneath the diamond-paned windows - heavily shuttered - before nodding to herself, ladling water from a barrel in a shadowed corner into a kettle and suspend it over the fire, crumbling dried herbs from an earthen pot on the mantel into a small clay teapot.
Gendry stood just taking in the details of the solar. This was where High Lords worked, where Larra and her sister Lady Sansa worked, where they ruled. This was a private room, away from the nagging and demands of their people. There were high chairs piled with embroidered cushions, and an upholstered settle with a handsomely-carved back depicting a battle - the Battle of the Bastards, he thought, noticing a dire-wolf among the Stark infantrymen, wildlings in their rough furs fighting alongside the figure he assumed was Jon by the Stark sigil on his gorget. A low round table featured a miniature of Winterfell - every building, hall, silo and granary, courtyard and the tiny sept, the godswood and even the broken tower. Trinkets and keepsakes were arranged on the mantelpiece over the fire, and he was vaguely aware of Larra's eyes on him, even as he was drawn to the portraits leaning on the mantel, unable to stop his feet from moving. He forgot his wariness; he was drawn to the small, uncannily accurate painting of Arya - of Arya as the painter had known her, long before Yoren had saved her and sheared her and hidden her among the lads intended for the Watch. Bright eyes and a delighted smile - her braids were as rumpled as Gendry imagined they would have been. Arya had always been so lively - she had never been vain about her appearance. She hadn't cared about anything for herself, just Needle - and standing up for her friends.
Larra watched him silently as he examined the different paintings. They were all small, no bigger than his hand, but there was a much younger Lady Sansa, and an almost unrecognisable Jon - clean-shaven, his hair wildly curly and almost to his shoulders. The others - a little blonde boy with a stubborn mouth and a handsome young man with vivid blue eyes and a reddish tint to his hair - had to be the other brothers. The ones who had been lost. He swallowed, hard, at the sight of the Young Wolf, bearded and armoured - a young king off to war.
He thought of Stannis muttering Robb Stark's name over a brazier, and bristled with shame and rage at what the Red Woman had done. Done to him. How she had used him. The damage she had done through him.
He clenched his jaw and stepped back as the kettle started to sing; Larra's eyes were solemn and watchful as she gazed at him, almost as if she could see into his soul. She poured boiling water into the teapot and let the brew steep for a few moments, before pouring the herb tea into two glazed earthenware cups, passing one to him. She sat down in the one chair furthest from the fire, and indicated with a nod of her head that he could sit at the settle. He had never sat on anything so fine or so comfortable, and dreaded that his great weight - he knew he was an immense bastard, muscled as any bull - would do some damage. He cradled the cup of herb-tea in his hands, and in his agitation, his leg started jigging.
Larra leaned forward, her eyes glowing in the firelight, and her expression was deeply kind and understanding, as she said softly, "What is it you dread telling me, Gendry?"
"You don't mind if I'm coarse? I don't know how to say it delicate," he asked, and she shook her head. She didn't smile, or tease; her expression was solemn. He cleared his throat, took a long drink from his cup, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The tea scalded as it went down, burning and invigorating.
He told her. Tried to explain what had happened - but also why it made his skin crawl that it had happened at all. The fact that Daenerys Targaryen had just promised to put her armies at Jon's disposal before she abused him. That there was no way for Jon to shove her off him without risking everything…
He glanced at Larra. Her face was as still and cold as any statue he had ever seen. Perfect - eerie, and chilling. He had heard that the Northmen had the "wolf-blood" which made them fierce and volatile, but Larra's rage was ice-cold and lethal, radiating from her as cold had emanated from the Wall itself. It was utterly terrifying to behold.
And then two, perfect tears dripped onto her cheeks, glittering in the firelight.
She wasn't just enraged; she was heartbroken. Her eyes flitted to the portraits on the mantelpiece, and her voice was hoarse, as she said, sniffing delicately, "Is it not enough that he had to suffer being murdered?" She swiped the tears away angrily, her eyes hardening. She seemed to calm herself down, and gazed at him.
"Daenerys Targaryen is a beautiful and powerful woman. Most men would congratulate Jon on riding the dragon," she said softly, thoughtfully. Her frown was delicate. "But not you."
"She knew what she was doing. She took what she wanted. She took away his choice," Gendry said, stifling a shudder as a memory threatened to overwhelm him. His choice taken; the damage that had been caused because of it. Robb Stark gazed at him from the mantel, his piercing dark-blue eyes accusing - but sorrowful too, as if he understood.
"You see her for what she is," Larra said softly, her eyes drifting over his face, almost tender. Her pale hand rose, her thumb barely touching the lowermost of her triple scars. Her lips parted, as she breathed, "Oh." Her eyes sharpened, terrible understanding in them, and Gendry fought the flush of shame that crept up his neck. "Someone hooked their claws into you. She did some damage."
Gendry glanced sharply at her, but her gaze was faraway, lost. Her thumb pressed against her scar, her expression miserable. He gazed at those triple scars, and shifted on the settle, leaning closer to her - so close he could smell the fresh scent of her hair, the mint tea on her breath, feel the heat of her - and reached up, slowly and carefully, to touch his fingertips to those scars peeking above the neck of her modest dress. Their faces barely inches from each other, Larra's eyes were impossibly purple as she gazed at him; he traced her scars with her fingertips, and she sighed, relaxing under his touch as he cradled the base of her throat in his hand, stroking his thumb tenderly up and down. She reached up, placing her own hand over his - smaller, pale, incredibly elegant and comparison to his oversized paw, yet just as scarred - and her gaze softened, her eyes misted, and her lower lip quivered.
"I'm glad you got your hook into them," he growled low, and Larra's smile was tragic, her eyes shuttering for a heartbeat. She leaned forward, and he remembered that she was a she-wolf when she nuzzled her dainty, pretty nose against his, rubbing her cheek against his. It was exquisitely intimate, and when she lifted her head, he held her gaze, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw.
"I'll have her head for this alone," she whispered hoarsely, and Gendry slowly nodded, seeing the blistering intent and ice-cold rage warring in those purple eyes, hardening like tempered obsidian.
"I believe you," he said, and jumped out of his skin as the door to the solar burst open.
Lady Sansa appeared, swathed in cloaks, the firelight turning her hair to molten copper. Her pretty eyebrows rose sharply as she saw the two of them, and Gendry jumped up from the settle, bowing uncertainly.
"What's going on here?" Lady Sansa asked, something like irony glinting in her vivid eyes - so similar to Robb Stark's, Gendry had to stop himself from looking over his shoulder at the portrait. Larra had not stirred from her chair, though Gendry watched her body relax at the sound of her sister's voice, her grip on her earthen cup gentling. Her expression hard, Larra glanced over her shoulder.
Bluntly, every word laced with cold fury, Larra told her sister, "She raped him, Sansa."
A.N.: I was desperate to get this chapter out today. I was going to extend how long it took Larra and Gendry to get to the talk about Jon, but it worked out this way, so…
So I've been watching a lot of YouTube videos about Tywin Lannister - The Order of the Green Hand does a wonderful 'Machiavelli of Westeros' series about him, which is making me question a lot of things! Including Tywin's involvement in the Tourney of Harrenhall (funding it) and where Rhaegar was when he disappeared from Dragonstone, since he was gone for about two years (they hypothesise that he went to the Wall to seek counsel from his Uncle Maester, and met Lyanna along the way at Winterfell, and they stayed at Winterfell throughout the entire war; Ned's 'fever dreams' mingled two events - the duel with the Kingsguard, then finding Lyanna - into one). Fascinating idea.
Also, what if Aegon wasn't the only royal baby (allegedly) switched out of the nursery? What if Daenerys is actually Rhaegar's daughter by Elia, Rhaenys? Daenerys claims she grew up in Braavos with a lemon-tree outside her window - there are no lemon-trees in Braavos, because its climate is too cold/wet. But there are citrus groves aplenty in Dorne. And it would make sense that Doran supports Daenerys' claim to the Iron Throne later on, as she's actually Elia's daughter and his niece, which would put a Martell on the Iron Throne…