A.N.: I like the idea that Rhaegal is still learning how to be a dragon. They've only ever seen Viserion and Rhaegal. I like the idea of Rhaegal watching the direwolf pack and learning from them. I also like the idea that, as in the books, when a warg bonds with an animal, they become as much a part of the animal as the animal is a part of them. The bond between Larra and Rhaegal will be even more intimate than a normal dragonrider's emotional connection: they are a reflection of each other. So Larra's personality will affect how Rhaegal behaves and Rhaegal's desire to fly and be free will always affect Larra, causing an inner conflict for her.
Also, I'm bringing back Arya-who-wears-dresses. In the books, she's not as fiercely tomboyish. Also, I'd like to think she has too much respect for her mother and Sansa (and in this 'verse, Larra!) to disdain feminine women and reject dresses as a sign of weakness. Also, if her spying demanded she wear dresses, she'd do it.
The character of Nestor Maegos was inspired by Homer Jackson in Ripper Street. He was always such an interesting character!
Valyrian Steel
55
The Prince of Winterfell
"That is something I have never seen before," breathed a voice full of wonder.
Gendry smiled and glanced away from Rhaegal, who was chirruping and chirping amidst a pack of direwolves resting and playing nearby and using Rhaegal's tremendous steaming body as a source of heat to warm themselves, pups jumping over their taloned feet, hiding beneath their wings. The direwolves were respectful of Rhaegal but not afraid of them: and Gendry got the sense that Rhaegal was watching the direwolves, learning from them. The old tales said dragons were cleverer than men: Gendry could imagine that was true. Rhaegal seemed curious. They reminded Gendry of Briar – quiet but fiercely curious. Learning from everything they saw.
Rhaegal had finished their meal, all but the last enormous mouthfuls of an aurochs they had hunted elsewhere and carried back to the moors – Rhaegal seemed to respect that their livestock was forbidden – and the wolves now feasted. Ravens cawed and flapped their wings, teasing the pups and yearlings while they waited their turn.
"Good morrow, Lady Sansa," Gendry replied politely. "You're far from the solar today."
"As you are from the forges," Lady Sansa said. She was swathed in her heavy, fur-trimmed cloak and rubbed her gloved hands together, her breath pluming before her. It was a beautiful day – dry, bright and sharp. He enjoyed the sunshine beaming down despite the cold, waiting for Larra to join him from the schoolroom. It occurred to him then that Lady Sansa had to have known he was here – and that Larra was not. Lady Sansa had never yet sought him out.
"The saddlers have completed a design for Rhaegal's saddle," Gendry said, his lips twitching, "though none dares approach them to fit it properly."
"And so the dreaded task falls to you," Lady Sansa said. She frowned. "If I remember my histories correctly, dragons do not take kindly to any but their bonded rider mounting them."
"A good thing that I'm merely fitting the saddle, not climbing into it," Gendry said.
"Then why linger so far from Rhaegal?" Lady Sansa asked.
"They're eating," Gendry said, jerking his chin toward the direwolf pack surrounding Rhaegal. "I may have grown up in a city but even I know better than to get between wild animals and their food."
After a moment, Lady Sansa said, "Less wise still would be to come between a direwolf and its mate."
Gendry frowned, glancing at Lady Sansa. Her hair shone vividly, the brightest and most colourful thing to be seen for miles. He sighed and asked, "To what do I owe the honour of your seeking me out, Lady Stark?"
"Larra tells me you intend to wed," Lady Sansa said bluntly, and Gendry went still.
"She told you that?" he asked, aware of the knot in his stomach easing somewhat. Larra had asked him: he had agreed. But that had been the last they discussed of it. Lady Sansa gave him a shrewd look.
"You thought perhaps Larra was not in earnest."
He shrugged his massive shoulders. "Larra doesn't say anything she doesn't mean. I just know she's in no rush."
"Yet she agreed to marry you."
Gendry chuckled. "I agreed to marry her," he clarified, and Lady Sansa looked slightly bewildered. He smiled. "Larra proposed the idea to me." He sighed, shrugging. "I don't think it matters to her, one way or another – she says she feels as if we are married already."
"You live as if you are," Lady Sansa muttered, and Gendry couldn't help the smirk.
"How long have you been biting that back?" he asked, his tone almost teasing. Larra was aware of the gossip surrounding them – that they did indeed live together as man and wife in spite of having made no vows – but did not care.
"Larra is a creature as wild as any of them," Lady Sansa said, lifting her chin toward Rhaegal and the direwolves. "Even more so since her time in the True North. There is no controlling her – yet I believed her more shrewd than this."
"Than marrying a bastard blacksmith, you mean," Gendry prompted, and Lady Sansa had the grace to blush. Yet she raised her chin and levelled a cool look at him.
"Bedding her secretly is one thing. Flouting it is quite another. And marrying her," Lady Sansa said. "She is twin-sister to the King in the North and – "
"Larra's not stupid, and nor am I," Gendry interrupted. "We could live our lives together as lovers and never marry and be content. There's a reason Larra asked me to marry her."
"And what reason would that be?"
Gendry squinted in the sunshine blaring off the fresh snow all around them. "She and Jon are heirs to the Iron Throne." Lady Sansa's eyes widened. She froze. Gendry sighed. "I know, my lady. Everything – she's told me everything."
"Then you know that is even more reason to be prudent – "
"You could marry Larra off to anyone, as the King in the North's twin-sister," Gendry interrupted. "Anyone. They'd choke on their disdain that she was born a bastard but they'd take her, and they'd use the connection to the King to their advantage. But as an heir to the Iron Throne… Once it becomes common knowledge what Jon and Larra are, that they are the key to the Iron Throne, to ruling the Seven Kingdoms –"
"Jon will never abandon the North," Lady Sansa said fiercely.
"No, you're probably right about that. But men will rip each other to shreds to claim Larra – for her claim to the Iron Throne," Gendry said sternly. He hadn't discussed this with Larra but he was no fool. Neither of them were. "The Northmen won't care about her claim, but others will. I am sure many of the Knights of the Vale are as honourable as they believe they are, and most of the Stormlords who've returned from Essos likely just want to go home… But there will be some who never realised how ambitious they are until Larra provided an opportunity."
"Why do you suspect the Stormlords and the Knights of the Vale?"
"The Stormlords have spent over twenty years together in Essos. They are united," Gendry said. "Once they return to the Stormlands, they'll be a force to be reckoned with. They'll dominate the Stormlands – and the way Lord Lonmouth looks at Jon and Larra… Besides them, the Vale is the one place untouched by the War of the Five Kings. Their fighting men are well-fed, well-rested and they have strong leadership. If the Knights of the Vale wanted to take King's Landing, they could do it in a day. All they'd need to legitimise a claim is Larra."
Lady Sansa frowned at him, her expression shrewd but nettled, as if she had not anticipated his reaction. She did not know him well enough to know that he was as clever and cunning as a direwolf himself. She did not know him well enough to know he would not shrink away in dread because she was a highborn: he would hold his own.
He'd never liked bullies. He would not tolerate being wronged, or insulted. He would not endure having a hand laid on him. He did no such things to others and demanded the same from them. Lady Sansa was no bully yet she was used to giving orders. She was getting used to being minded – she was getting used to people being intimidated by her presence.
"And what of you?" Lady Sansa asked icily.
"I'm a bastard blacksmith," Gendry said.
"You are Robert Baratheon's son."
"I am Robert Baratheon's son just as much as Jon is Rhaegar's," Gendry said quietly, and Lady Sansa's eyelashes fluttered as she balked. "They sired us. I don't know what it means to be a Baratheon any more than Jon and Larra know what it means to be a Targaryen."
"But you have Robert Baratheon's blood," Lady Sansa insisted. "You have his looks, his strength – there are no other Baratheons left. You could claim Storm's End. And from there, with Larra your lady-wife…"
"Lady Sansa… I am a blacksmith," Gendry said. "If I was to take Storm's End, I'd first need a following. I may have Robert's looks and his strength but I am just a bastard from Flea Bottom. Nobles from ancient Houses will never follow me."
"They follow Jon."
"May I speak plainly, Lady?"
"Please do."
"I'm probably one of the only men in Westeros who doesn't give a fuck about the Iron Throne."
"Have you no ambition?" Lady Sansa asked, her eyes flashing, as if she was more insulted that Larra would lower herself to marry a man who lacked ambition.
Gendry sighed. "My ambition is to become the very best armourer and swordsmith I can possibly be. I will devote my life to mastering the artistry of Valyrian steel. I wish to constantly improve my skill. And Larra knows it. There's a reason she's chosen me."
"More than one, I imagine," Lady Sansa said, her voice gentling. She swept her vivid blue eyes over him. "When they learn what Larra is, some will think to kill you to get to her."
"People have been trying to kill me for years," Gendry shrugged. He sighed. "I know the dangers in marrying Larra: my eyes are wide open. I know how to take care of myself…but I also know how to take care of Larra. And I think I'm probably the only person Larra will allow to take care of her."
"She is fiercely independent," Lady Sansa sighed.
"Experience has made her so," Gendry said. He shook his head. "I don't think she's even aware just how important she is. Have you noticed? She never thinks of herself. She puts everyone above her. It's as if she believes her only value is in caring for others."
Lady Sansa's shoulders drooped slightly, her face falling. She suddenly looked, not an icy Northern she-wolf but a vulnerable girl. "When we were younger, Larra understood that Arya and I would be married off. A bastard daughter could be married off well if not for true-born daughters. Because of us, she had no value. Mother made sure she knew it. Larra feared that my mother would never allow her to remain at Winterfell so she made herself indispensable to our brothers – to Robb especially. She expected to remain at Winterfell all her life, to aid Robb's wife in ruling the castle and help raise their children… Larra knew she would have no life of her own. She knew there was no point in wanting a life for herself. So she devoted herself to others."
"That must have been a hard thing to accept," Gendry said quietly.
"As I said, Larra is a wild creature. She said there was a certain freedom in bastardy."
"Do you believe that?"
"I believe she'd halfway convinced herself," Lady Sansa said. "The alternative was too sad – that she would have no husband, no children. That her presence would be tolerated only as long as she remained useful… Even after everything she endured in the True North, she still believes that. They may not be his children, but the Lannister girls are Jon's wards: Larra is raising them. She is helping to rule this castle, to plan its defence… She is slipping into the only role she would ever have been allowed, rather than carve one out for herself."
"It's harder to conquer fear – harder still when you've spent a lifetime with it," Gendry said quietly.
Lady Sansa said sorrowfully, "My mother's…behaviour toward her taught Larra that no matter what she does, it will never be enough."
"Larra is extraordinary," Gendry said earnestly.
"If you are to marry Larra," Lady Sansa said, turning to him, her expression more wolf-like than he had ever seen her, "you will devote yourself to ensuring she knows that."
"Does that mean you approve?" Gendry asked her.
Lady Sansa sighed, her eyes calculating as they swept over his face. "Larra knows and trusts herself. She has chosen you."
"You did not answer my question," Gendry said, and Lady Sansa's eyes glinted.
"Larra does not desire my approval nor would she ever seek it," she said. She gave Gendry a thoughtful look. "You see her. If you desire my approval, for that alone you would have it."
He didn't comment on how surprised Lady Sansa looked, as if she had only just realised she approved of him. Likely all he had said to her had altered her opinion of him drastically. He heard voices and shielded his gaze to glance up over the moors. He smiled when he saw two figures approaching, one of them wearing a heavy maester's chain, their fine beard shining, the other dark and slim in glittering obsidian-embellished leather armour and tall fur-lined boots, fine leather gloves tucked into one of their belts, a Valyrian steel dagger on one hip, her hunting knife nestled at her lower-back. Larra's dark hair shone in a single, neat, raised plait down her back, her pale hands moving animatedly as she talked with Maester Arys, who had his hands hidden in the billowing folds of his robes. Larra moved easily through the snows, tall and elegant. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright. A Northman considered weather like today the finest of days and enjoyed the kiss of the sun on their skin.
"Good morrow, Lady Stark," panted the maester, dipping his head respectfully. "Good morrow, Gendry."
"Where have you come from?" Lady Sansa asked.
"The schoolroom, by way of the moors," Larra said, her eyes dazzling as she smiled at Gendry. "Some of the Free Folk have joined to play games with some of the smallfolk. I'm surprised you can't hear the shouts and laughter from here."
"What kind of games?" Lady Sansa asked.
"Rough ones," Larra grinned.
"Not rugby?" Lady Sansa asked quickly, grimacing. Larra grinned.
"Yes, rugby," she said passionately.
"What is rugby?" Gendry asked, and the two women turned to stare at him.
"Do they not play it in the south?" Larra asked.
"It is a game created by the smallfolk," Lady Sansa said. "And it usually ends up with broken teeth, ears shredded to ribbons and broken bones."
"Only if it's a good game," Larra added, mildly defensive.
"Lady Larra has been translating the rules of the game into High Valyrian," Maester Arys said.
"No gouging – that's a big one," Larra nodded.
"It was rather exhilarating," Maester Arys said. "How is it you know the game, my lady?"
"Whenever Father's bannermen gathered at Winterfell, their men drank and played rugby out on the moors while the highborns feasted," Larra said. "Robb and I used to steal a skin of cider and some cheese scones and go out to cheer them on."
"Southerners have tourneys: Northerners play rugby," Maester Arys mused.
"Northerners don't make sport of war," Larra said grimly, and Maester Arys made a thoughtful noise.
"What is that you have there, my lord?" he asked Gendry, who blinked at him.
"A saddle – for Rhaegal," he said.
"It looks enormous," Lady Sansa remarked.
"Rhaegal will dwarf it," Gendry assured her. "It's only a prototype. We'll make adjustments."
"We? Where are the saddlers?" Larra asked, approaching him and the reinforced leather saddle that the saddlers had completed.
"Huddled beyond the range of Rhaegal's fire," Gendry chuckled. Larra examined the saddle: it had been made to her specifications and design, modelled after the ones she had seen on Syrax and Caraxes in Brandon's memories. She had drawn studies of those saddles but the one for Rhaegal was far simpler – it was functional, with lots of support for the back and legs and buckled bags for storing things. When all the adjustments had been made for the best fit, the intention was to line the seat with thick furs so that Larra sat snug and warm in the saddle. As Larra said, it was cold up there.
"Well, let us get on with it," Larra said.
What proceeded was a half hour of Lady Sansa laughing and Maester Arys watching with glinting eyes as Larra and Gendry chased a playful Rhaegal around the moors, the dragon's chirrups and trills teasing as they bounded through the snow, taunting them as Larra and Gendry approached, only to silently spread their wings and shoot upwards, twirling through the air to land gracefully mere metres away.
"You're laughing at us!" Larra exclaimed indignantly, red-faced and panting from the exertion as Rhaegal shook their great head, their entire body shuddering in its wake. Rhaegal chirped and snorted then cooed gently to her, crooning and singing – almost as if in apology for teasing her. Rhaegal lowered their great head and nuzzled Larra's entire body affectionately. Larra smiled softly and pressed a hand to the enormous muzzle, resting her head against Rhaegal's nose, feeling their heat against her skin almost like a brand. She sighed, murmuring to Rhaegal, "I know you are no pet, nor beast of burden. You are so much more than a mount. But it cannot be comfortable for you to have me grabbing onto your spines. And it is dangerous for me to rely only upon my own strength to cling to you and remain on your back." Rhaegal grumbled without heat, snorting delicately. Hot air billowed around her and warmed the tip of her nose. "Let us fit the saddle and we shall make it so comfortable for you, you will not know it is there."
Rhaegal made a thoughtful, considering noise. Their molten copper eyes gazed at Larra and finally, the tremendous dragon relented. They shuffled their wings, tucking them in close, and lowered their body to the earth. Larra glanced shrewdly at Rhaegal, anticipating that the dragon would dart off again or bump Gendry away into the snow, as they had before. This time, though, Rhaegal remained still – eerily still, in fact, as if they were holding their breath while Larra helped Gendry lift the enormous, heavy saddle and manoeuvred it in place.
"You carried this all the way from the castle?" Larra grunted, as Gendry threaded straps through buckles and tightened them, adjusting the saddle, feeling for gaps and assessing the fit.
"I did," Gendry said, and Larra stared at him in amazement. She was so used to his gentleness that she often forgot his strength. "You'll need to sit the saddle. Your weight will affect the fit." He cast a sidelong glance at her, adding quietly, "Though not by much."
Larra dug her elbow into his ribs. She was putting weight on, steadily, and was nowhere near as deathly thin as she had been when she had arrived at Winterfell. Gendry grinned at her and looped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close and tucking her neck in the crook of his elbow, giving her a gentle kiss.
"They are bonded deeply, it would seem," Maester Arys intoned to Lady Sansa. Sansa was unsure whether the maester meant Larra and Gendry or Larra and Rhaegal. Either was true.
"Rhaegal reminds me of Larra," Sansa replied, watching Gendry and Larra working together to fit and adjust the saddle on Rhaegal's back. "She was always playful and clever. She liked to tease us." She glanced at the maester. "I wonder that you and the other maesters do not crowd Rhaegal every time they appear and make copious notes about their appearance and habits."
"If any dared, I am sure they would be eager to fill volumes," Maester Arys said, eyes glinting with good humour. "As it is, Rhaegal remains in the vicinity of Winterfell so infrequently – and then only comes to whisk Lady Larra away for hours on end – that it is quite impossible."
"I am not sure Larra would agree to you making studies of Rhaegal, anyway," Sansa said thoughtfully.
"Why is that, my lady?"
Sansa stared at the magnificent dragon Larra was currently clambering all over, cooing and praising them, laughing when they rustled their wings threateningly. "When people see Rhaegal, they think of flight and flames. They think of power. The power to destroy and dominate."
"Targaryens destroyed and dominated the Seven Kingdoms for centuries," Maester Arys mused.
"Yes. That is the Targaryens' legacy," Sansa said. She gazed thoughtfully at Rhaegal. "As I said, most think of dragons and associate them with destruction and conquest. When Larra looks at Rhaegal, she sees a rare creature that is unique in the world. Dragons were once extinct: Larra knows how truly precious Rhaegal is, that they exist in the world at all… To study a thing is to learn its strengths – and its weaknesses. I do not believe Larra would like for anyone to understand Rhaegal's weaknesses. If Rhaegal is left to thrive, it is possible that dragons may return to the world."
"Dragons have not soared the skies in number since before the Dance of Dragons," Maester Arys said. "King Viserys the First's rule saw the height of dragon numbers since the Doom."
"Yes," Lady Sansa sighed. "I know my sister – her strengths and her weaknesses. As a girl she loved animals. She once nursed an injured dire-eagle back to health, setting its wing, helping it re-learn how to fly, setting it loose into the wild once again… She reared Last Shadow from a pup: see how her family grows." She indicated the direwolf pack, lounging in the snow, playing, gnawing at the bones of the aurochs.
"Do you imagine Lady Larra wishes the same for Rhaegal?" Maester Arys said.
"I think Larra would be absolutely devastated if the opportunity to breed more dragons into the world was lost," Sansa said honestly. "Not for the sake of power, you understand – for themselves alone."
"And yet there is inherent risk to dragons taking to the skies once more," Maester Arys asked, with a gentle sigh, "magnificent though they may be."
"You would not be alone in voicing such an opinion," Lady Sansa said. She sighed. "Larra says wild animals are true to their nature. Unless hungry or threatened, they are content to live and let live. What would dragons be if they were left to their own devices, untethered to anyone who would use them for their own gains?"
"I imagine we are unlikely to discover the answer to that question," Maester Arys sighed almost wistfully.
"I must return to the castle and my chores," Sansa said. "Will you join me on the walk back, Maester, or are you content here?"
"I shall join you, my lady," Maester Arys said. "Is there some task I may assist you with?"
"Not at present, I thank you," Lady Sansa said politely. "I am to consult with some ladies and their finest seamstresses."
"Then I shall return to the Maester's Tower," Maester Arys said, bowing politely. They made their way back to the castle, leaving Larra and Gendry to wrestle with a dragon.
"This is your revenge, is it?" Larra grumbled, stubbing her toe and wincing. She stumbled. Eyes bound with a blindfold, she grimaced. "You shall allow the marriage but torture me for the inconvenience it causes you."
"A dress-fitting is hardly torture."
"I am blinded and being stuck with sharp objects," Larra said coolly. "What would you call it?" Sansa ignored her. "Sansa!"
"Keep the blindfold on!" Sansa scolded.
"If I am not to fall and break my teeth upon the flagstones, I suggest you give me a hand," Larra groused, blind to everything about her. The fine hairs on the back of her neck were prickled with awareness, however: Sansa's chamber was filled with seamstresses. "Why must I remain blindfolded? 'Tis only muslin, I can feel it. I need not be blindfolded for this."
"I do not wish for you to see any part of the gown until it is complete," Sansa said patiently.
"I do not need a new gown –"
"You are a bride, Larra," Sansa said firmly. "It is a special occasion."
"It need not be. I told you already – and at great length. You and Jon and Arya witnessing us before the heart tree is all that I desire," Larra said.
"You're twin-sister to the King in the North. It will not suffice," Sansa said. Larra grumbled. Sansa told her, "You keep saying that people need something to look forward to. A royal wedding is just that."
"I am not royal!" Larra protested. She suppressed the urge to shiver and snatch her limbs away as she felt fingertips pinching at folds of coarse fabric. "Let people have a game of rugby and a play and a dance and leave me out of it. I've no wish to be a spectacle."
"That is out of your hands, I am afraid," Sansa said, smirking to herself. "You forfeited that right when you claimed Rhaegal." Larra sighed heavily.
"I do not need a new gown, Sansa," she said quietly, sounding uncomfortable. "What use have I for a bride's gown I shall wear but once?"
"It shan't be merely a bride's gown," Sansa assured her. "This gown, you will have the rest of your life."
"Not if it is white," Larra said, and in spite of the blindfold, Sansa saw her nose crinkle. "White is so dull. Not to mention impractical."
"It is not white," Sansa smiled. "Nor would I ever allow one of your gowns to be dull."
Larra sighed again. "I trust your creativity," she acquiesced grudgingly. "But why must it be kept secret from me?"
"Because it is my gift to you," Sansa said. "I wish you to see the gown in all its magnificence."
Sansa saw Larra shiver. "I do not need magnificence, Sansa," she said awkwardly.
"Yet you shall have it regardless. You are the King's twin-sister, after all."
"Marrying a blacksmith," Larra said, shaking her head. All about her, seamstresses measured and pinned muslin in place. Larra did a wonderful job of not flinching every time someone touched her. Sansa could barely tolerate it even without a blindfold. "Am I to meet Gendry before the weirwood in his darned linens?"
"Do not worry about that," Sansa smiled, stitching away steadily. She had commissioned tailors to create a wardrobe for Gendry worthy of his status as the King's brother-by-law – and had sat in discussion with embroiderers about his sigil. He was a blacksmith, and a bastard, yes, but he was a Baratheon bastard. If Jon could invert Father's sigil – a white wolf on a grey background, rather than the Stark grey wolf on a field of snow – then Gendry had the right to claim the Baratheon coat of arms. A black stag, uncrowned, upon a golden field was the original Baratheon sigil. If he wished, Gendry could claim a golden stag upon a field of black as his sigil. Yet Sansa knew Gendry had no desire to claim it. Besides, Arya had said that a bull would be more appropriate – it had been Gendry's nickname when they first met. He had the strength of a bull, too – the strength, the stubbornness and the virility. Yet bulls were gentle unless provoked – as all animals were. Much like Gendry himself – fiercely strong in body yet calm by nature.
Sansa stitched away and watched the seamstresses work. She had shared her ideas for the design of the gown with the seamstresses and the embroiderers. This first session was to measure the muslin to create a mock-up so that they knew how much of the expensive fabrics they might need. Only when everything was fitted to perfection would they make the first cut in the expensive textiles imported from Essos, gifted by Lord Manderly. Sansa desired no waste anything: she knew Larra would be mortified by the implied expense of the fabric alone. But it would be worth it.
She intended this gown to last a lifetime. And it must be fit for a queen.
Larra sighed. "Will you tell me what it is I am being fitted for? It seems like an awful lot of pins," she said.
"The gown is designed in two separate pieces," Sansa told her. "A fitted cote-hardie that you may wear alone if you wish, and an overdress for warmth."
"A fitted cote-hardie?" Larra frowned. "I am still putting on weight since my return. I shall not long fit it."
"I have asked the seamstresses to add some clever panels that may be folded and buttoned away so that the gown may be adjusted," Sansa said.
"You have thought of everything," Larra grumbled, and Sansa smiled. She grinned when Larra said, "I think it highly unfair that you are torturing me while Arya remains unscathed. Let her stand here and be pinched and stuck with pins – that can be her bride-gift to me."
"Arya shall have new gowns too," Sansa smiled. "She sat with me while I met with the seamstresses and embroiderers, you know. Some of the design for your gown was her idea. It was… I always remember Arya as fierce. I'd forgotten she used to look up to you. And you always liked your frocks. But the look in her eyes when she ran her fingers over the fabrics… I thought she might weep."
"She lived so long in one set of clothes, I imagine she appreciated the fabrics for what they could be. I would not be surprised if she allowed you to nurture a love of fashion in her," Larra said. Sansa saw her smile and they both laughed.
"Poor Septa Mordane – she tried so valiantly to turn Arya into a lady," Sansa said, her eyes stinging.
"Your mother wished for Arya to be a southern lady," Larra said, and Sansa smiled sadly. "Arya has always been of the North. She is a lady in such a way that only Northmen could ever appreciate." Larra sighed softly. "Your mother used to sit with you both, designing your new dresses."
"She did," Sansa said quietly, and Larra sighed.
"That is where she always shall be," Larra said.
"What do you mean?"
For a long moment, Larra remained silent. Then, softly and sadly, she said, "She is in every new gown you will ever design. Every single stitch you create. That is where you will always find her."
Sansa's eyes burned and she wiped them on an embroidered handkerchief. For a long moment, she fought the burning in her eyes, her throat, the desire to weep. Her gowns were black, or shades of richest grey: she was officially in mourning. She was finally allowed to formally mourn. Yet she had wept too often and too long. She had resolved never to weep for her family again: they were gone, and her tears would not bring them back. Yet Larra's words had touched her heart where it ached, and soothed her.
"I wish you had such memories of your own mother to hold onto," Sansa said honestly.
After a little while, Larra told her, "I have memories, not of Lyanna…but of a woman as close to a mother as I ever had." That woman, Sansa knew, was not Lady Catelyn. Larra did not say more. She became quiet and Sansa sat with her embroidery, glad of the small fire in the hearth keeping her fingers warm. She glanced up occasionally, wondering whether Larra had learned to sleep standing up. She was still as any statue in the Sept. It was a predatory stillness, Sansa realised. A stillness Larra had learned to better hunt her prey.
Larra was alert as any sentry, Sansa realised. She was on her guard.
"Thank you," she told the seamstresses, when they had finished their work and removed the muslin mock-up from Larra. "Please keep me informed of your progress."
"You are welcome to the workroom, my lady, at any time," the head seamstress curtseyed.
"I shall stop in to see how things are coming along," Sansa vowed. The gown had to be perfect: she would oversee its completion personally and ensure there was no dithering. Larra had no wish to delay her wedding, though she did not seem particularly interested in the ceremony itself. All Larra had requested was a breakfast with her family after a dawn ceremony, with heavy fruitcake and an old bottle of port wine to share after supper. She and Sansa had discussed whether they could afford to treat everyone in the castle to something – and decided upon sweet buns of dough enriched with butter, milk, nuts and dried fruits. The raisins and dates would only last so long. The kitchen could make up thousands of the buns within hours and the making of them involved lots of skills for the younger kitchen servants to practise.
"May I step down now?" Larra asked.
"Yes, you may," Sansa told her. Larra snatched the blindfold off in a heartbeat, rubbing her face. "Will you stay and sit with me?"
"Bran has asked me to join him in his chamber," Larra said, her eyes sparkling. "And then I must visit the children in the schoolroom."
"What shall Brandon show you this time?" Sansa asked curiously. Larra had been sitting with Bran rather frequently – always joined by Daenerys Targaryen. Sansa had noticed that Larra was no longer flagrantly hostile toward Lady Targaryen, but they were far from friendly.
"Debauchery, he promised," Larra said. "The last time he took us diving, we witnessed two royal hunts. One for venison, the other for crabmeat."
"I don't think I've ever heard of a royal crab hunt," Sansa laughed softly.
"Otherwise known as the War for the Stepstones," Larra smiled. "I learned a lot about strategy. Laenor Velaryon surprised me – the Rogue Prince didn't."
"Was he as heroic and monstrous as the histories claim?"
"More so," Larra smirked. "In fact, he's probably the only person in the entire Dance whose true nature was recorded with any accuracy. It is uniquely frustrating to realise how warped the truth has become."
"One wonders how history will remember us," Sansa murmured.
"Ser Jaime told me people believe I may shift my form at will into that of a monstrous black direwolf. That Bran rode upon my back as one would a horse, as we traversed the True North," Larra said. She sighed wistfully, looking miserable.
"Yes. Some say similar of Jon – that he rode into battle upon Ghost," Sansa said, smiling. She sighed. "They said the same of Robb, too. They claimed he and his soldiers shifted into wolves and tore apart the Lannister armies."
"Perhaps people will one day believe Robb escaped the slaughter and transformed into a great grey wolf that mauled the guards so that he could slip into the kitchens and poison their wine," Larra mused, her tone sorrowful. "And like a grey mist he disappeared into the woods, never to be seen again…"
"They butchered Grey Wind," Sansa said softly. "Even that part of Robb is gone." She sniffed and forced a smile. "I'd like to see your new paintings when you finish them."
Ever since Brandon had started taking Larra diving into the Dance of Dragons, she had produced copious amounts of watercolour paintings, recording everything she glimpsed, from portraits of beautiful, tragic queens to glimpses of tourney jousts, an anxious young lady-in-waiting forced into her mother's gown to seduce a grieving king, confrontations over dragon-eggs on a sinuous bridge choked with fog, a king carving out a miniature city, attempting to breathe life into that which had been lost, funeral pyres and bridal processions and tremendous dragon-skulls illuminated at an altar. Larra saved the ones of elegant ladies for Sansa to peruse: Larra knew Sansa appreciated the fashions. She had taken inspiration for Arya's new gown from a simple, elegant pale-blue one Lady Alicent Hightower had worn to the Heir's Tourney.
A knock echoed on the door and Sansa glanced over sharply as it swung open without invitation. Larra glanced over at the pretty brown-eyed sentry. He looked pink-cheeked and more flustered than usual.
"M'ladies – apologies – you're needed in the Great Hall," he blurted.
"Whatever for?" Sansa asked.
"I'm not too sure m'self, m'lady," he said apologetically. "I was only sent to fetch ye. Something about men approaching."
"From the north or south?" Larra asked sharply.
"They were spotted travelling along the Kingsroad from the south, m'lady," the guard said, and Larra visibly relaxed.
"More men to fight?" Sansa said. She glanced at Larra. "Lady Targaryen's Unsullied have finally found their way through the snows."
They had as yet heard no word of the Unsullied, nor of Lady Targaryen's great horde. Larra wondered whether their continued absence contributed to Lady Targaryen's increasingly sour and paranoid moods. With each passing day, and her armies' continued absence, Lady Targaryen increasingly believed she had been betrayed. So claimed Lord Tyrion, with whom Larra played cyvasse almost daily.
Brandon had yet to share any insight into the doings of the Unsullied or Dothraki: Larra made a note to ask him. They needed all the men they could get: they needed to best utilise every sword and spear they had. And that meant accounting for every man and where they would be placed to best defend Winterfell.
The brown-eyed guard skittered before them, obviously anxious, and Sansa frowned, glancing at Larra. As they followed the guard, she asked Larra, "Am I intimidating?"
Larra tilted her head thoughtfully at Sansa. She didn't immediately start laughing, which was something. "I'd say unapproachable, more than intimidating."
Sansa blinked. "Unapproachable?"
"Yes. You're very guarded. With good reason – but it does make it harder for people to be comfortable about you," Larra said honestly. "It is the difference between a lapdog and a hunting hound: you are always on edge, therefore those around you will be, too."
Sansa frowned. "That is not a good thing."
"You're healing. You've becoming more confident and more comfortable since I relieved Littlefinger of his head," Larra said gently. "Anyway, Jon more than makes up for your prickliness. You two make a balanced pairing."
Prickliness?"We do not always agree but we are working out how to work together to lead the North," Sansa mused.
"You mean arguing with Jon in private then presenting a picture of unity to the bannermen in public."
"That's it, exactly," Sansa said, with a smile. "Though I do wish I won more of the arguments."
"Your time will come," Larra said. "War is what Jon was raised for."
"But not politics."
"He has to have some political savvy to have survived this long," Larra said thoughtfully. "But he has no experience with the south. That's when he'll look to you for advice."
"It is not infallible."
"What do you mean?"
"We decided upon our strategy but in hindsight it was poor judgement to allow Lady Targaryen to know we consider her our enemy," Sansa sighed heavily.
"That's oversimplifying," Larra said. "We decided you would court and coax her while I distracted her from Jon, nurturing her ire."
"As I said…it was perhaps not the wisest strategy," Sansa said. "It was not sustainable."
"Of course it is."
"Yet you seem to have changed your mind about it," Sansa said, and Larra glanced sharply at her.
"I haven't. Not truly," Larra said, sighing. "I have merely allowed someone else to take my place."
"Who?"
"Bran."
"What do you mean?"
"The whole reason he keeps inviting us to the Dance. He is using his gifts to lure her, to draw all her attention away from Jon and from me," Larra said quietly. "Lord Brynden warned that it is beautiful beneath the sea but if you stay too long, you will drown."
Sansa frowned, thinking. "And that is Bran's intent, to drown her?"
"He invited us to dive into the Dance when I asked whether Lady Targaryen's path could be altered. He uses every opportunity to teach her," Larra said, keeping stride with Sansa as the guard hurried before them. "Ultimately, the Dance of the Dragons was about the Targaryen family self-destructing. Their own strength became the tool of their unmaking. The dragons were their own undoing."
"And you believe that Lady Targaryen may follow the same fate?"
"She is arrogant in the way the early Targaryens were – believing that the dragons make her closer to a god than a girl," Larra said. "I believe her pride – her arrogance – will be her undoing. I just hope that Drogon and Viserion are not the cost that she must pay for it."
"And if they are?"
"Then we must endure with the shame that, if not for human arrogance, the dragons may have returned to the world once again," Larra said quietly, and Sansa thought back to her conversation with Maester Arys. She smiled to herself: she did know Larra.
"You are not afraid?"
"Of what?"
"That dragons may return to the world in number?" Sansa asked.
"At the height of its power after the Doom, House Targaryen was bonded with seventeen dragons," Larra said slowly. "It took over a century to achieve even that – and most of it in peacetime under the Conciliator's reign."
"Why were so few dragons hatched?" Sansa asked. There were few enough texts and scrolls on dragonlore to offer much insight on the subject: Sansa had checked. No more than what Arya had so greedily consumed as a girl, obsessed with the idea of dragons.
"I imagine there is something in the fact that dragon lifespans are measured in centuries rather than decades," Larra mused. "Perhaps they are like dire-eagles – fewer hatchlings means more food, stronger offspring, a greater chance of survival. And if too many dragons are hatched, there would be the inherent risk of their source of prey being overhunted."
"They would die out from starvation," Sansa said.
"Or from hunting each other," Larra said darkly. "Some animals hunt their own kind when prey is scarce. Only the strongest and healthiest would survive to dominate, and reproduce. Their offspring would have a greater chance of surviving because the competition for food and territory has already been settled."
"I cannot imagine how the Valyrians maintained such a vast number of dragons," Sansa said, suppressing a shiver. "How many dragons did they have?"
"There were two-score families that vied for control of the Freehold at its height but it is unknown whether each of those families boasted dragons," Larra said. "When Valyria clashed with Prince Garin of the Rhoynar, they sent over three hundred dragonriders to war."
"Over three hundred dragons?" Sansa breathed, horror-struck.
"Garin lost," Larra said bluntly. "Princess Nymeria led the survivors to Dorne in ten thousand ships before the Valyrians could arrive to enslave them."
"And Nymeria's War began."
"You remember your lessons."
"More and more I find myself interested in the histories."
"Be wary of them, Sansa. Most records contain only the merest whisper of truth buried beneath hearsay and lies," Larra murmured, sighing. "Until the wolf learns to write, history will be written by the hunter."
"Why is Bran practising his handwriting?" Sansa asked. They continued through the bustling thoroughfares, almost everyone who caught their eye stopping to bow or curtsey or wave a hand and give a smile in greeting, busy about their work – weaving baskets, fletching arrows, sewing tunics.
"He wishes to create books. I told him, he should start by transcribing everything Baelor burned, no matter how banal," Larra said, and Sansa smiled. "It is the principle of the thing."
"You and your books. After what Brandon has shown you, I'm surprised you put as much stock in books as you once did," Sansa said.
"Histories are notoriously unreliable," Larra said. "But histories are not all that are recorded. Thankfully."
"My lady…" A good-looking man with olive skin and neatly-groomed dark hair and beard pushed away from the wall he had been idling against. He was dressed as the formerly-exiled Stormlords were – in a mixture of Essosi and Westerosi garments, more specifically, wearing a fur-lined doublet of thick, quilted velvet with a richly embroidered trim, intricately patterned, vibrantly-coloured sashes knotted intricately about his waist where multiple belts were buckled, from which dangled small pouches and tools that tinkled against each other with every movement. He wore a gorget and pauldrons and under both arms were tucked vicious daggers. He smiled easily as Sansa drew up short, eyeing him warily, her gaze dipping to the intricate hilts of his daggers poking out from under his arms. "Apologies." He smiled charmingly, his voice low and soft. He glanced at Larra, whose amethyst eyes were narrowed shrewdly. "May I have a moment of your time?"
"Exactly one: we are due in the Great Hall," Larra said sternly.
"I'll not detain you; if I can walk with you," he suggested.
"Keep up," Larra said, striding on ahead, and Sansa glanced at the guard. He kept pace with her, while Larra strode ahead. Sometimes, Sansa was happy to let Larra take the lead. The man had danger written all over him, no matter how handsome his smile and gentle his voice. "Your name, ser?"
"Not a ser, my lady," he said. "My name is Nestor Maegos."
"You are one of Lord Lonmouth's men," Larra said.
"I'm many things, Lady," he answered.
"You brought a pretty wife with you, I recall," Larra said, and Sansa gazed at the back of her head, the links of her long braid glistening as they passed lit torches. As Larra prowled the corridors, Sansa watched her elegant, predatory gait, the way she held her shoulders. With the braid dangling loose down her back, Sansa was reminded of Last Shadow's long tail.
"Pallas," Nestor said. He glanced over his shoulder at Sansa before turning back to Larra. "You don't forget a face, my lady."
"I do not," Larra confirmed, her tone rather dark. "How can we help you, Nestor?"
"It is I who wishes to offer you help, Lady."
"How so?"
"I'm a surgeon, my lady."
"We have maesters enough, Ser," Sansa spoke up.
"Maesters aren't surgeons, my lady," he contested. "They're little more than paper-mites."
"You will not disparage the work of our maesters," Sansa warned coolly.
"They've served you well, I know. Your brother," Nestor said. "The one in the chair. He's a marvel. The one who tended him was truly gifted. Maesters serve their purpose, to guide and advise you. But they study too many things and far too broadly to be experts at anything."
Everything before the word 'but'…
"And you consider yourself an expert?" Larra asked, her tone soft – as if she was baiting a trap.
"More so than your maesters," Nestor said, with easy confidence. "I wish to propose that you allow me to train apprentice surgeons. You've hundreds of thousands of people living here in this castle and barely more than two-score men all too focused on reading ancient scrolls and counting coppers to be of any real use when it comes to helping the sick and wounded. And when this war comes, you'll need people who know how to treat the survivors."
"You would train surgeons specifically to treat battle wounds?" Sansa asked, surprised.
"Learning the theory of healing is one thing. It takes a person with a certain kind of nature to be able to handle themselves in such highly pressured situations as dealing with amputations and the like," Larra said, frowning. "Maester Luwin said so."
"As I said, you've hundreds of thousands of people here at Winterfell and just shy of fifty maesters with the desire or know-how to treat their illnesses and injuries," Nestor said, and Sansa glanced at Larra, reluctant to admit that he was right. Because admitting it meant that they had been failing to do their duty to their people, to provide care.
"You want us to allow your trainee surgeons to practise their skills on our people?" Sansa asked, horrified.
"You mistake me, Lady. It would do too much harm to either to allow such a thing. Experience and confidence must be nurtured as much as the acquisition of knowledge," Nestor said, his tone a touch provocative, almost flirtatious – as if he rarely took anything too seriously. "I've taught before. I always begin with theory – with anatomy and botany and techniques – then have my students watch as I perform operations so they may see theory in action. It quickly weeds out those unsuited. It's also how they learn that things rarely go as described in books. They have to learn how to think on their feet. When they're ready, I supervise my students during their first operations."
"And how long does it take to train someone as a surgeon like you?" Sansa asked.
"There are no surgeons like me," Nestor said, his eyes glinting, smile arrogant. "Years, to be able to do some of what I can do. But I can teach people what you need them to know – to stitch wounds and set bones, amputate cleanly, assess sickness and prepare remedies."
"And who would you conscript to be your students?" Sansa asked.
"Anyone with a desire to learn," Nestor said.
"You will find few amongst trained knights and warriors who will set down their sword in favour of a needle, Ser," Sansa warned him.
"There's more in Winterfell than highborns, Lady Stark," Nestor answered with a shrug.
"And how much would you charge for this service?" Larra asked.
"I'm a guest in your home, my lady," Nestor said, "eating your food, warming myself beside your hearth. All without giving anything in return."
"As is your right as a guest under this roof," Larra said, taken aback. Nestor's smile was subtle but warm.
"Still, I wish to contribute," Nestor said. Larra gazed at him appraisingly. Suddenly, she smirked.
"You're bored."
"The days are long, it's true," Nestor said. "I rebel against stagnation." Larra chuckled, giving him another appraising look.
"I fear you will be frustrated by the limits on our resources, Ser," she said earnestly. "Winterfell is no port city. We use what we have access to, as we always have."
"Improvisation's the best way to learn," Nestor said, shrugging, and they strode through an antechamber leading into the Great Hall. "Give me leave, Lady, and I'll train a host of surgeons the best the North has ever seen."
They entered the Great Hall, which was eerily quiet despite the hour. Pale sunlight sluiced through the smoky air, the great hearth crackling away merrily, and a great number of men were warming themselves beside it, shoulders sagging in relief as they warmed their hands, serving girls offering trenchers of stew, bread and salt.
Sansa's breath hitched in her throat as her eyes danced over the men, all of whom wore scarred leather armour and faded overcoats of salt-stained, waxed cloth. Standing close to the high table… It could not be.
Larra snarled. Swift as a direwolf, she pounced.
"Larra?" a familiar voice cried in bewilderment – and a howl of pain rang through the hall. A man with shaggy hair crumpled at Larra's feet, a hand clamped over his nose as blood blossomed. All around him, the Ironborn chuckled, grinning.
Larra froze as the man on the floor groaned and sat up, blinking quickly. He gasped and gazed up. Sansa strode past the brown-eyed guard standing agape, unsure what to do – restrain Larra or the man bloodied on the floor? Nestor Maegos stood with raised eyebrows, as if mildly entertained by the Northern kiss Larra had just given Theon Greyjoy.
Sansa caught her sister's expression, at once mutinous and wrathful yet filled with anguish and shame – shame that she had lashed out so viciously.
Theon did not see Sansa. He seemed unable to tear his gaze from Larra.
The last time they had seen each other, Sansa recalled… The last time they had seen each other, Larra and the boys had been Theon's prisoners. He had hunted them with Ironborn and with hounds.
He had betrayed them.
Larra stood, bristling, over Theon. Sansa could hear her panting for breath – whether from rage or from the memory of fear, she could not say. But guilt, shame, sadness and understanding flickered across Larra's face as her vivid purple eyes gazed unseeingly at Theon, shining with unshed tears.
Beyond Theon, a plain-featured woman in weathered armour emblazoned with the kraken of House Greyjoy stood smirking. She carried a sword and axe and men stood gathered behind her.
Larra blinked fiercely and seemed to catch her breath. Her expression gentled and remorse coloured it. She reached out her hand. Theon glanced at it, then back up at Larra's face. Slowly, he clasped hands with hers: she pulled him to his feet. Theon stood before her, bleeding, but Sansa doubted he even felt the hot blood dripping over his lips. He stared at Larra, who stared back. His expression flickered with intense emotion. Larra seemed able to read it: her eyes shimmered, her shoulders relaxed, and before anyone could move, she had thrown her arms around Theon's neck, embracing him as fiercely as she had ever embraced Sansa or Jon or Arya. Sansa heard Larra's voice but could not hear what she had whispered to Theon, down whose face tears were freely falling as the two parted.
Larra turned to Nestor Maegos, indicating his broken nose. "You can start now."
A.N: I think Larra handled Theon's reappearance rather well! A good old Northern kiss – a head-butt! Also, introducing Nestor sets things up for the future.