Chapter Three: The First Movement
This chapter is 3333 words long, and really that was an excellent reason to post earlier than I had intended to!
Thank you everyone for such lovely reviews!
Lady Catelyn Stark, nee Tully, loved her family fiercely. She would do anything within her power to protect her husband and their babes; before last night, she would have thought that that meant making sure that they ate balanced meals, arranging good marriages, and ensuring that they excelled at their studies. But now she had to prepare for horrors the likes of which should only exist in a story, cuckholded kings and hidden heirs and an army of the Living Dead. Her children were only yesterday seventeen, thirteen, eleven, nine and six – now they are war-forged adults, with plans and contingencies that they are already putting into motion. After their meeting in the Crypts, Arya had gone with Ned to organise her Trade venture with House Manderly, the boys had gone to the training yard, and Sansa had taken Rickon aside to assist her in the gathering of the final member of her "pack of birds".
Catelyn had taken it upon herself to run interference, making sure that their staff were well after the late night, soothing hurt pride and tattered nerves both. That took up most the rest of the morning, and after lunch she had planned to start preparing for the King's party. The children all insisted on going outside together though, and Catelyn was loath to deny them when all five of her babes gave her their best pleading eyes, so had followed them all to the Godswood. As ever, she felt like an outsider to the cold Northern gods of her husband. She felt as though the gods were watching from the strange carved face of the weirwood heart tree, and tried not to show her discomfit to the children.
"Just because you do not keep them, does not mean the Old Gods turn themselves from you, Lady Stark," Jon Snow said softly.
"What are we doing here?" She asks, instead of acknowledging the bastard's statement.
Rickon launches himself up into a tree, scrambling high into the boughs, and then tossing down eight iron-capped staffs.
"Arya's gonna teach us Braavosi tricks for the Long Night," her baby declares proudly. "And then I'm going to teach Northern ones."
Bran passes the staffs around, and the moment Arya has one in hand Rickon is upon her in a flurry of vicious, punishing blows. Arya brushes each move aside almost carelessly, teeth bared and eyes alight like Catelyn has never seen them. The pair dance back and forth across the Godswood, both laughing like the children they still are in body, even as Rickon launches himself into the air and swings his staff down where Arya had been just moments before, and Arya swings her staff up in a move that would have removed her baby brother's head had she not stopped it a hairsbreadth from his chin.
"Yes, yes, you are both impressively deadly," Sansa says, twisting her own staff round and round in her hands. "Now show us how to do that, please."
Bran, having already climbed the same tree to retrieve an extra staff that Rickon had left behind, dropped to the ground and padded over to another tree that Rickon and Arya had both avoided. Crouching down, Bran used the staff to poke at something that Catelyn couldn't see. "Oi, Theon, get up. This is for you, too."
With a splutter, her husband's ward shoots up from his spot on the ground, and summarily has a staff thrown at him. Rickon, smile bloodthirsty and definitely not something that any six-year-old should ever sport, launched himself over with his staff spinning round and round his fingers.
"Oh, yes," Rickon smiled, hungry and wolfish. "Take up the staff, Theon. Fight me. Fight me!"
"That could have been better," Jon says to Robb later, as they spar together with their swords.
"Could have been worse," Robb grunts back, blade locked with Jon's. "We loved him as a brother, and he betrayed me and took the lives of those who had welcomed him when his father would have left him to die in a farce of an uprising as just a boy." Rage was palpable in every word; pain was visible in every move.
"Sansa would not have lived to see the Long Night, were it not for him," Jon says softly, twirling and breaking the lock. "He died protecting Bran."
"He was our brother!"
"And he was his father's son," Sansa said from behind them, sitting in the shade and fixing tears in some of their shirts. "If Father had asked such a thing of you, you would have done the same. Jon, I think you need new shirts, these are too short in the sleeve."
"Shouldn't you be scheming somewhere?" Jon smiles. "Or with Septa?"
"I've had Mother give the poor woman a freeday, and have hit something of an obstacle in my designs."
"Which bit?" Robb askes, stepping back from Jon to wipe the sweat from his face.
"The progress. I know how I will phrase it to King Robert, I know how I will convince him – but who might we truly trust Kings Landing to for the next couple of years? How can I prevent Father from acting rashly, how do I ensure that my handmaidens do not betray me, how do I help Arya fulfil her List without tipping our hands?" She pulled a wineskin out of her sewing basket and tossed it underhand to Robb. He catches it and takes a pull, before passing it to Jon.
"Father – that is, Lord Stark would not act out of hand," Jon said reassuringly.
"He is your father in all the ways that matter most," Sansa scolds lightly, taking the skin back for a light sip herself. Lady, Grey Wind and Ghost all run through their small courtyard yipping, disguising monitoring the perimeter for eavesdroppers with a game of chase. "But part of what set everything in motion was Father offering Cersei Lannister a chance to escape. Father is kind and honourable, and – and we almost cannot allow that. Not with the Lannisters."
"And yet, that is exactly what you must do with your handmaidens," Robb councils. She passes back the skin. "Give them a reason to support you, and if you know them to be untrustworthy, only give them what you need them to report to their masters."
Sansa hums, head tipping to one side while she thought some more. She takes another sip when he passes the skin back to her again, then nods after underarming it back to Jon. "Wise council. I'll think on it some more later, I suppose. Anyway, there was another matter I wanted to speak with you about – I have spoken with the others already. What marriages do you want arranged? If I can start the motions now, hopefully the Lords won't have a chance to object."
"My wife," Robb answers immediately. "Talisa Maegyr, if she would have me in this time, too."
"Would she come, if a marriage was arranged between herself and a far-flung heir to a Westerosi domain over a trade agreement?"
"I – no. She washed her hands of the nobility and ran away to become a healer as soon as she reached her majority, as I understood it."
"So, will you remain unbetrothed until she arrives, and hope that you will have the same spark once more? That our bannermen will accept an unpolitical marriage, when you will spurn their daughters for however many years it takes for you to find her again? Or will you take a bent* Northern bride, and hope that she will forgive you a Mistress with whom you wish to have many children, that you will give Stark names to and favour over the trueborn?"
"I would never favour any one child over another!" Robb exclaimed.
"That is not the point I am making, do not be deliberately obtuse." Sansa folds her hands in her lap neatly, and fixes her eyes on her oldest brother. Jon opens his mouth to – help? defend? – him, but Sansa held up a finger and instructed, "Wait your turn, please."
"Sansa, you can't – "
"Yes, I can. The way to make sure that we keep our heads is to make sure that we pre-empt these sorts of questions and problems. Of all of us, the only ones who plan on Northern marriages are the little boys – Rickon to the Mountains or Bear Island, and Bran to the Neck. Arya is set on her Baratheon bastard, and I would prefer no husband at all, after all is said and done, but will do what I must to keep us safe. Jon is a bastard to the Northern eyes, so it is your hand that is coveted."
"And what about what you said in the crypts, sweet sister?" Robb snarls. "You said you and Arya would help me find her again!"
"Arya has explained to me just how prestigious the Maegyr family are in Volantis, but they have almost no sway outside of Essos. Robb, our banners are still unsettled over Mother's Sept, over how many of us have the Tully look! You cannot afford to not marry Northern, or at least advantageously! A marriage for troops or supplies, that could be accepted, but not for love, don't you see!" Her eyes glistened. "Brother, we, none of us, can afford a love match. Not if we want to change what happened before."
"And what of Arya?" Robb snapped, his own eyes welling with frustration. "Bran?"
"If we have Robert legitimise his bastards, or else have Renly adopt some of his baseborn nieces and nephews as heirs, then Arya will be our connection to the Stormlands. People will see it as a full-circle, Robert and Lyanna come again, and so much more happily. Gendry will let her be the wolfgirl she is, and keep her armed and armoured while she's at it. We gain the approval of the masses, and one of the best smiths in the Seven Kingdoms. If Howland and Meera are agreeable, then Bran will also have his match, until he must become the Three Eyed Raven again. Rickon doesn't care. I will be betrothed to Joffrey until his death, and then to either Domeric Bolton or Ramsey Snow for their claim, before they and Roose can suffer an accident or whatever Arya organises for them. If Jon accepted the wooing of the Manderly sisters, that would be for the better – as it is, though, he is the only one of us with any true freedom, when it comes to marriages." She looked at Jon then finally, head cocked. "Tormund said you had been stolen by a lucky woman?"
"Ygritte," Jon swallowed, and waved his hand. "I'll – we'll come back to myself."
Sansa nodded again, swallowed, and turned back to Robb. "I do not do this to be cruel, Robb, I'm sorry."
He nods at her tightly, almost vibrating with emotion. "I cannot answer your questions now, Sansa."
"I'm sorry, Robb," she said again, dropping the hard face and looking almost as miserable. "I'll ask again in a few days?" At another nod from Robb, she turns to Jon and says, "You, too."
"Thank you," Jon murmurs, moving closer to Robb to knock their shoulders together.
Robb runs a hand through his curls a few times, and upon calming down enough to sound neutral, he asks, "Where did Rickon go, after all of that?"
"Father took him for lessons in answering ravenscrolls," Sansa says, wry.
"He took the comment about Rickon's lack of diplomacy to heart, it seems," Jon adds. "Also, Bran says that he's going to be asking us about the future-that-wasn't in more detail."
"Oh, he wants to hold the future misfortunes against himself!" Sansa scowls.
"You can see his reasoning, though," Jon says softly. "If he hadn't died, or at least if he had acted differently, a lot of what happened to us wouldn't have happened at all."
Sansa hums disapprovingly, picking up and fussing with her sewing basket. "It would have happened differently, but I would not go so far as to say the whole war would not have happened. That said, I am no military mind."
"That's what you can work on this time around, then," Jon smirks at her, teasing. "Arya and Rickon have diplomacy, Bran patience, Robb the more delicate intricacies of politics, and yourself military tactics!"
That startles a laugh out of her, and she pokes him in the shoulder, settling her sewing basket on her hip and whistling to the wolves. "Oh, and what shall you be working on?"
"Listening and learning," Jon laughs, jostling her back.
Rickon scowls down at the ravenscrolls. He is a fighter, a warrior, he has no business with these papers. Shaggy whines at his feet under the table, bored.
"You are doing well," Father soothes. "What else does Lady Dustin say?"
Agonisingly slowly, Rickon sounds out the missive detailing the taxes Barrowton is sending to the Iron Throne, and is Lord Stark sure it should be thus? Cuttingly polite, Rickon is sure that there is double meaning to her words, as there now is in some of Sansa's sharper comments. It's too fancy for himself, but Sansa says that he must know it for when he is the Stark in Winterfell, so here he is.
Laboriously, Father and Rickon worked together to answer the inquiry – Father walking Rickon through the tax system, then the language necessary to write the reply, and then the actual writing of the reply. Rickon's handwriting is even messier than it had been in lessons only days ago, so Father does all of the scribing, in the end.
When they have finished, it is nearly time for the evening meal – but Father stops him, has him sit back down again, and very solemnly asks him to speak of what happened to him in the future-that-wasn't. Shaggy is poised at the door to go, but at the question he whimpers and slinks back to Rickon's side.
"Winterfell was sacked. Osha hid Bran and me and Hodor in the Crypts, with the wolves. When it was safe again, we went north to the Wall, and then we split up in the Gift. Osha and Shaggy and me went to Last Hearth, but we went to Skagos first to throw off the scent. Osha taught me how to sew, and track, and hunt, and fight. And then when we got to Last Hearth, Smalljon Umber threw us in prison, and then gave us to Ramsay. He killed Osha when she tried to get us out, and then he killed me before some big battle against Jon and Sansa." Rickon keeps his voice cold and fierce as a storm, and asks, "Can I go now?"
"Not yet, Rickon. Can you tell me who Osha is, please?"
"She was one of the Free Folk. She left because her man became an Other, and she and some men came across the Bay of Seals to escape the growing Dead. She looked after me and Bran, and then she looked after me. When she comes South this time, I'm going to ask her to stay with me again, and continue my training."
Shaking, Rickon yanks the door open and leaves. He can hear Father calling after him, but he and Shaggy are too fast, ducking down corridors and staircases until they are in the kitchens proper. In the future-that-will-never-be, Osha taught him how to slink as a shadow; he uses those lessons now to duck and weave through the kitchen staff, pocketing treats, and then slip into the main hall. The rest of his siblings must surely be close – "Arya!"
The younger of his sisters turned when he called, though he's sure that this new Arya must have known he was there regardless. She still smiles at him though, still offers him her hand when he gets close to her. Where he has the wolf-sharp nose, she has their ears, and she cocks her head at him curiously and listens for a moment, before asking him what happened.
"Father is asking about that other future," he growled at her. "He wanted to know about Osha."
"When will Osha be on this side of the Wall?"
"Not till just before Robb left for war."
"Then we have time to figure out how to explain everything to her so that she will stay with you, and that Mother and Father will let her. Hungry?"
Rickon pulls a nut tart from his pocket and offers half of it to her, which she takes with a bright smile and a thanks. They both duck into an alcove to finish their halves before they head into the hall, finding both Bran and Mother already seated on the dias, and Sansa and the two older boys come in behind them.
"I thought you were ahead of me?" Sansa calls to them both, but Arya waves a dismissive hand and says tell you later.
"Rickon, is your father close?" Mother calls down the table.
Rickon doesn't want to answer anyone – he wants to take Shaggy into the woods and nap – but there are images to uphold now, so he calls back, "Shouldn't be far. He had finished the last ravenscroll when I left."
"I believe he wanted to work on the trade agreement after lunch, Arya," Mother says.
His sister nods, pops some bread in her mouth and says, "We'll have the agreement drawn up by day's end, and ravens on their way to the Harbour shortly after. It should take a moonsturn for an appropriate ship to either be located, or for construction to begin. While that's happening, Jon and I can go North and start looking for appropriate trees, and from there we can start to relocate those that will need it."
"The King's company should be here then!"
"Mother, in no way is Cersei Lannister and all the rest of them going to allow Robert to travel that quickly," Sansa snorts. "They'll be here in three, I warrant. Jon, Arya, see if you can't find a young spearwife willing to play at handmaiden for me, please."
Arya flicks a two-fingered salute, which has Mother reprimanding her for a lack of manners. Robb turns to Rickon, and asks if he'd like to take a turn about the training yard.
"With sword and spear both!" Rickon says gratefully.
Robb gives him a wry look. "So we're to take turns instructing each other, little brother?"
Rickon smiles brightly, and says, "Once I'm finished with you, I'll head back into the village again."
"Good idea," Sansa says quietly, almost inaudible over Mother and Arya's argument. "Take Bran with you. I'll finish up my last contact and then start work on the financing of Ladybird House."
Somehow, Mother hears this and stops arguing with Arya. "What is Ladybird House?"
"My network!" Sansa says brightly, quietly, eyes flicking about the room. "I'll have them setup before we ever get to Kings Landing, that way they can collect the information for me without being suspected of working with me. We shall all remain anonymous, and our enemies will remain unaware."
"But what is it?" Mother asks again, looking at Sansa.
Here, finally, Sansa hesitates. Robb and Jon slink down in their seats whilst Sansa draws herself up higher, straighter, and says, "The best way to gather information, of course. It will be a brothel."
"Sansa Stark!" Mother has gone near as red as her hair, and looks near lost for words.
"If you're going to yell about it, do it somewhere without ears," Arya hisses softly. Mother stands stiffly, takes Sansa by her upper arm, and marches her (both now white-faced) from the Hall.
"Well she's fucked," Rickon pipes, stealing Sansa's potato. Arya flicks him hard on the ear. "Ow! It's true, I've never seen Mother so mad!"
"Do you think she gets it now," Arya murmurs, chin on one fist.
"Gets what?" Rob asks warily.
"We aren't children anymore. We are Starks, and Winter is Coming."
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Translations:
Bent – gay.