A.N.: You've been waiting for this…
I've just realised that Larra's favourite colour – purple – is made up of red (Targaryens) and blue (Starks). Completely unintentional – I used purple for Larra because of flowering heather found in Northern meadows and her eyes!
Millie Brady (Aethelflaed from The Last Kingdom) would make an excellent adult-Arya.
If anyone wants to see the images that inspired Larra's wedding gown, they're available on my Pinterest board – 'Larra Snow – Valyrian Steel' under the section 'Larra's Wedding Dress'. The design comes from someone's stunning artwork turning Sansa's coronation gown into a Burgundian-style dress, as well as Bernadette Banner's recreation of a 1400s cotehardie (the same design used by the designer for Alicent's famous green dress). The one thing I knew I wanted to usurp for Larra's gown was the sleeves from Sansa's coronation-gown!
Valyrian Steel
56
The Heart Tree
The last of the stars glittered with stubborn brilliance as dawn approached, the velvety midnight-blue of the endless sky fading gently to a decadent purple with whispers of red streaking past an enormous full-moon hanging low. A howling wind and snowstorm had died out during the night and a breathless calm had settled over the moors, the fresh snow gleaming blue in the moonlight.
As Larra walked the corridors and halls of Winterfell, she heard a sound that reminded her of the wind caressing its fingertips over the snow on the endless ice-meadows. Whispers flowing together in an endless sigh. Dawn came late yet the castle did not stay idle in the darkness: people had been awake and working for hours. Now they stopped. For her. They stopped and gathered to catch a glimpse of her as she made her way through the castle to the godswood. The corridors and halls, the yards and walkways, the battlements, were crammed with people.
Torchlight flickered and people lining the corridors and halls sighed in awe, smiling to themselves, curtseying or bowing, eyes sparkling from the sight of her. The torchlight glittered off the lining of her trailing sleeves and glistened off her unbound curls, tumbling riotously to her bottom. Behind her, as her bridesmaids, Sansa and Arya had gathered the hems of her skirts to prevent them staining or catching.
Her sisters looked beautiful. Sansa had shed her mourning black in favour of a gown of strong silver-grey, the fabric shimmering subtly and patterned with falling leaves. The structure of the high-necked bodice echoed the leather armour Sansa had recently taken to wearing, the edges of each interwoven strip of fabric glittering with tiny glass beads, each of the strips embroidered with interlocking circles – not a maester's chain but the chain Sansa wore. Her bodice shimmered and sparkled, reminding Larra of chainmail. Her sleeves were close-fitting, the wrists trimmed with a narrow border of silver fur, with trailing over-sleeves of icy grey silk lined with floaty silver organza trimmed with tiny glass beads, shimmering and gleaming in the torchlight, and above the fur-trimmed neckline, a silk sash of the same icy grey was knotted around her throat, embroidered with two racing direwolves. She wore a short cape about her shoulders, lined with silver fur, the velvet quilted to resemble stylised fur, as on the Stark sigil. Her hair was drawn away from her face by two braids, gathered in a dainty twist and decorated with a freshly-picked white hellebore rose, the rest of her hair falling loose to her waist. Today, if only for a few hours, Sansa was a girl again: she wore her hair simply, girlishly. Her gown was beautiful – neither overtly feminine nor masculine but a beautiful melding of both. It was Sansa. Sansa wore her needles and she wore her wolves: this was a gown of strength.
Beside her, Arya had never looked prettier. Her gown, made of the same fabric as Sansa's, was ice-blue, exquisitely embroidered and beaded from shoulders to hem with jagged, irregular lines, so that she shimmered and sparkled with every movement, reminding Larra so vividly of fissures cracking across the surface of a frozen lake. The beauty of the shimmering surface only hinted at the lethal danger beneath. As Sansa did, Arya wore a fur-lined cape, which glistened with embroidery – the design of her Braavosi sword in miniature, repeated over and over again. Arya's hair having grown out, she now wore it as Sansa did – braided away from her face, decorated with a white hellebore rose, the dark locks falling just past her shoulders. It was the first time she had worn a gown – a lady's gown, not a girl's. She looked beautiful, the warmth in her grey eyes a rarity.
It had been a quiet, sombre moment when Arya accepted the gown from Sansa. Claiming the gown had meant accepting that the past was behind them, that none of them were children any longer, that they were now entering different phases of their lives. Arya was no longer a wretch traversing the wilds, any more than Larra was. The instincts were still there, though – Larra understood Arya in a way Sansa never could. Arya might put on the dress, but she would always be anxious without Needle within reach. Arya would always be restless. Sansa was confident in her gowns – they were her armour, as they had always been. Her weapon and her protection. For Arya, they were a remnant of the past she had thought lost to her: to Arya, accepting the gown meant reluctantly allowing even the merest spark of hope that the tragedies of her past were just that – in her past. That she no longer needed Needle. That she no longer needed disguise and armour herself.
That she could be Arya Stark of Winterfell once again.
The gathered crowds whispered and sighed, smiling at each other, jostling for a closer look. They admired Lady Stark and stared openly at Lady Arya in her gown, struck by her prettiness. But they were awestruck by the She-Wolf.
Before her sisters strode Lady Larra, tall and regal. Everyone at Winterfell was familiar with Lady Larra yet none of them had ever seen her like this. She wore her hair down for the first time, gleaming treacle curls bouncing to her bottom, dainty twists gathered at the back of her head and pinned in place with red weirwood leaves, dainty sprigs of fern and white hellebores.
Her sleeveless wool overdress was neither ice-blue nor silver but the rich dark grey of thunderclouds, the hem of the trailing skirts trimmed with gleaming black velvet, as was the wide neckline, a thick band around the shoulders that dipped to a point at the waist: a thin panel of the same black velvet fell from the waist to the hem, all trimmed with tiny beads of obsidian and silver embroidery that caught the light beautifully with every movement. A belt of silver filigree weirwood-leaves, interlinked with intricate spirals, was fastened around her waist. The wide neckline of the overdress revealed the vibrant ruby-red fabric of the cotehardie beneath and the clasps of silver filigree weirwood leaves fastening the bodice. Close-fitting red sleeves were fastened at the wrist with hidden buttons, clasps of silver spiral filigree added as purely decorative. Beneath the grey overdress, shown off by the wide neckline and by the skirts that trailed beneath the wool overdress, the cotehardie was made of the same fabric as Sansa and Arya's gowns, this time dyed a vivid, rich ruby-red. The elaborate, billowing oversleeves of the cotehardie had been threaded through the arm-holes of the woollen overdress and now trailed behind Larra as she walked: they were lined with the same silver as Sansa's gown and both the sleeves and lining were elaborately embroidered from elbow to hem with silk threads and tiny glass beads in hues of ruby, garnet and blood-red, hundreds of weirwood leaves shimmering and sparkling as they caught the light of the torches.
No-one but Larra could see that amidst the embroidered leaves on the sleeves were the daintiest of spirals, the spiral of weirwood groves held sacred to the Children of the Forest. Only Larra could see that the embroidered and beaded weirwood leaves were fashioned from tongues of flame.
Sansa had sat with Arya and Bran and seamstresses to design the gown. The red of the weirwood leaves would mislead anyone but those who knew the secret – that the red, as much as the black velvet trim, were to honour Rhaegar Targaryen, while the thick grey wool and the white hellebore roses Larra wore in her hair were for Lyanna Stark. That the weirwood leaves fashioned of fire united House Stark and House Targaryen, as Larra did.
The weirwood leaves and the sacred spirals were to honour the sacrifices Larra had made for Bran. He had insisted they be included, to the point of agitation whenever they had tried to alter a design without them. He said Larra had denied herself all the years she had been his sword and his shield: he insisted that it was now her turn to embrace all that she was and all that she had the potential to become. He wished to honour Larra's devotion and strength.
Stamping his feet in the fresh snow, Gendry's breath plumed before him as he fidgeted for warmth. Beside him, Jon waited with as much patience. Bran, eternally calm, rested in his chair amongst the tangled weirwood roots, a slight smile on his face. Just waiting.
"Never in my life seen so many people gathered in the godswood," Jon muttered, glancing around. Everyone in Winterfell had been invited to stop their work and watch the bridal procession: the nobles had gathered in the godswood. The closer they were to the royal family, the closer to the weirwood they stood. Northerners surrounded the weirwood: beyond them stood Knights of the Vale and the Stormlords. Every man, woman and child present stood in their finery: not a weapon was to be seen, nor hint of armour.
Clustered near Samwell and Gilly, the Lannister girls were all beaming with excitement, each of them dressed in a fine new woollen gown, dyed in varying tones of red, the cut of the gowns echoing that of the Westerlands, asymmetric, yet covered in Northern-style embroidery and embellishments, high collars and wide oversleeves. Each of them wore fur-trimmed cloaks and a padded headband that covered their ears, richly embroidered: the eldest girls had pinned their mother's brooches and jewels to them to make them sparkle.
Calanthe caught Gendry's eye and grinned. Beside her, Altheda waved, giving him a gap-toothed smile: she had lost another tooth just last night. Gendry waved back and glanced to his left, where Cade stood in his new finery – looking about as comfortable in it as Gendry felt in his own – with Briar and Neva waiting hand in hand. Their gowns, Gendry knew, were made of the same material as the new gowns Arya and Lady Sansa had had made for the occasion – Neva in silver, Briar in blue, both of them wearing the high collars favoured by Northern noblewomen, padded and richly embroidered. Neva's featured Northern wildflowers in abundance, in hues of grey, silver and lavender: Briar's featured animals of the North, intricately stitched and beaded. They each wore a circlet of hellebore roses for the occasion, picked by Larra herself before sunset yesterday.
All this fuss wasn't what Larra had wanted: it was what Winterfell needed. Spectacle and magnificence. A royal wedding.
Larra would sooner have married in private with her family in attendance than put up with all this: so would Gendry. Yet at the same time, he couldn't help but feel proud that the prospect of marrying him in front of so many hadn't put Larra off. Marrying him – a bastard blacksmith – before the entirety of the North made a statement.
"I hope she's still coming," Gendry said, as he swept his eyes over the crowds. Jon laughed richly. "She keeps saying she's spent too much time beyond the Wall to think of weddings as anything but a concession to society's expectations. What are weddings like beyond the Wall?"
"I'm not sure," Jon frowned. "The only time I heard tell of a wildling wedding, they said that if a man wants a woman, he has to prove he'll give her strong and cunning songs… When she tries to slit his throat, he doesn't let her. If he stops her, they're married."
"Simple as that?"
"Simple as that," Jon nodded. "And they'll tolerate being married only so long as they desire to be."
"What, they kill their husbands?"
"If they're enough of an annoyance," Jon said, grinning. He shrugged. "Or they leave. It's not the way of the Free Folk to be bound. Do you hear that?" Jon's eyes twinkled in the light of hundreds of torches lining a path to the weirwood. He raised a finger to his ear, and over the noise of the gathered crowds, Gendry heard it: a quiet but growing cheer – applause, growing louder. Coming nearer. The smallfolk cheering at the sight of their lady, the She-Wolf of Winterfell.
Gendry started to pace then, sudden nerves making his palms sweat despite the chill. It was nowhere near as cold as it had been some mornings when he had crawled reluctantly out of bed – out of Larra's embrace – and made his way through the castle to the forges as quickly as possible, eager to get to the heat of the fires. But it was still dark, and there was a damp chill in the air that belonged to that moment just before dawn, no matter what season it was.
Gendry stopped before the Lannister girls.
"Is it nearly time?" Rosamund asked, her eyes glowing with delight.
"Soon," Gendry promised. While Larra had prepared with her sisters, he had been left to corral the children, aided by Gilly, Zharanni and Tisseia. They were so excited for the wedding that it took little to coax them out of bed, no matter the dark and the cold – they were becoming accustomed to dark, cold mornings. He smiled at Narcisa, who was maturing more and more every day, slowly becoming a stern, discerning young lady. "How do I look?"
"Very handsome," Narcisa answered, smiling serenely.
"It's too much," Gendry said, glancing down at his new clothes. They had been a gift from Lady Sansa personally. The rich fabrics, furs, leather and expensive trim had made him feel ill, feeling undeserving of such luxury. But the embroidery... The embroidery had awed him. Not because it was completed using silk threads the colour of old gold, which themselves had to be costly. No: it was the fact that Lady Sansa herself had stitched a sigil of her own design upon the breast of his heavy great-tunic.
"I thought to use the stag of your father, but after our conversation it did not seem fitting, somehow," Lady Sansa had told him, lifting a heavy garment to show him the embroidery. "Arya told me you were nicknamed the Bull long before she met you."
Lady Sansa had created for Gendry a personal coat-of-arms: upon a black background, his war-hammer and a blacksmith's hammer were crossed, and the horned head of a bull was superimposed over them, all stitched with thread the colour of old gold. Robert Baratheon's House colours inverted – just as Jon's coat-of-arms was the Stark sigil with the colours reversed.
"It is nearly time," Bran said quietly, and they all glanced at him. His chair was nestled amongst the tangled roots of the weirwood, draped in furs, his eyes glittering in the torchlight, steam from the unfrozen pond drifting about him. "Jon…go and meet Larra." Jon nodded, clapped Gendry on the shoulder, and strode down the aisle of flickering lanterns. Bran turned his glittering eyes on Gendry, who approached, eyeing the younger man carefully.
"You're not cold, are you?" he asked. Larra would kill him if Bran caught a chill waiting for them to wed.
"No," Bran smiled. He lifted something from his lap, offering it to Gendry. "For Larra," he said simply. Gendry realised, Lady Sansa had not fashioned a bride's cloak for him to wrap around Larra. Except, she had: he knew, because he could see Lady Sansa's stitches in the embroidery glittering at the points of the lapels and on the back of the cape. The cape was of black velvet. Glossy black fur lined the inside – in the custom of the Free Folk, and the way Larra always wore her furs now, turned inward for greater warmth – and metallic silk threads and tiny glass beads glittered. The edges that fastened with hidden closures were pointed downwards, the points glittering with flames and weirwood leaves in ruby and oxblood-red threads and beads. On the back of the short cape, Gendry examined the sigil – then stared at Bran, his stomach filling with sudden dread.
Bran answered his solemn expression with a coaxing smile, his eyes glittering.
Worked in red, black, silver and old-gold embroidery threads and beads of gold, ruby and garnet glass were two crossed hammers superimposed with the never-ending ouroboros of a dragon and direwolf from Larra's locket. Encircling the sigil in shimmering beading was a delicate spiral pattern.
The hammers were for himself, Gendry understood. He knew Larra would be overwhelmed to wear the Stark direwolf, after being denied it her entire life. He didn't know what the spiral pattern meant. But he knew the dragon, stitched onto her bride's cloak, would draw many eyes. People would wonder. They would ask questions…
"Lady Sansa stitched this?" Gendry asked.
"It is time Larra embraced all that she has it in herself to be," said Bran quietly. His eyes twinkled.
"And if she does not wish to?"
"Until she claims her true identity, the ouroboros will remain a representation of Last Shadow and Rhaegal," Bran said, shrugging his shoulders beneath his fur-trimmed great-tunic. There were those at Winterfell who had witnessed the wedding of Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna, so claimed Ser Jaime: Lord Lonmouth might recognise the ouroboros on Larra's back as the same sigil created for Lady Lyanna by her prince.
Gendry frowned but said nothing. He draped the cape over one shoulder – it was too small to fit across the breadth of his shoulders – and waited. Soon, the cheers of the crowd grew louder and then hushed, and the crowds gathered by the weirwood turned to watch in the dawn light as Larra walked down the aisle of lanterns.
The first of the sun's rays peeked over the curtain-wall, streaks of vivid purple and red burning as a golden sun rose, giving way to a vivid sky without sign of clouds. The sun illuminated the leaves of the weirwood, making them glow and sparkle like rubies.
As she passed, everyone sighed in awe at the sight of Larra, resplendent in her gown, arm-in-arm with her brother and trailed by her sisters.
Gendry gaped at Larra, her hair down for the first time, treacle curls tumbling and bouncing to her waist, her head framed by weirwood leaves that caught the new sunlight and glowed brighter than any flame.
She had never looked more beautiful, her pale face glowing with anticipation, with eagerness and with unabashed love as she gazed back at Gendry. Her eyes glowed purple in the sunlight, her cheeks flushed pink from the chill.
Jon walked her to the tangle of bone-white roots where Bran waited in his chair. They stood on one side of Bran: Gendry stood on the other.
Every part of the ceremony had been meticulously planned, no matter how simple it was. Larra wanted no septon, Gendry wanted no priest: but if Jon was to walk with Larra to meet Gendry, he could not also officiate. The only person Larra respected to preside over their union…was Bran. Northern weddings took place before the heart-tree in a godswood. Bran could see through the faces in the heart-trees as any of the Old Gods could.
Bran smiled softly and asked, "Who comes before the Old Gods this new day?"
"Alarra, born of the House Stark, comes here to be wed," Jon answered for her. "A woman of the North, fierce and noble. She beseeches the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to join her?"
"Gendry, born of the House Baratheon, wishes to join with her before the Old Gods and the New," Gendry replied solemnly. Larra's eyes danced, a smile flirting with her lips.
"Has this union the blessing of the King?" Bran asked, and Gendry rolled his eyes when Larra scoffed, then coughed delicately. Jon's lips twitched, too – it hardly mattered if they had his blessing, and he knew it.
"I, Jon Snow, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, blesses the union of Alarra and Gendry before the Old Gods and the New this day," Jon said, his eyes glittering with mirth. There were some things they did for others alone – this was one of them. Larra would have been content to be wed in the ways of the Free Folk, Gendry knew. And if she was content, he would never have worried that they were not wed. Things were expected of them…
"Larra, will you join with this man, and share your life together, and be but one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever," Bran said gently. "Will you share your light, to warm him when the night is dark and full of terrors?"
Larra smiled. Larra had her Old Gods: Gendry had been raised in the Faith of the Seven but witnessed with his own eyes the power of the Lord of Light, and believed there was no harm in asking for his blessing as well as the other gods'. Larra's eyes glowed and she said, her voice rich, "I will."
"Gendry, will you join with this woman, and share your life together, and be but one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever," Bran asked, gazing up at Gendry. "Will you share your light, to warm her when the night is dark and full of terrors?"
"I will. I vow to protect her with all my strength, to give my blood for hers," Gendry said, and Larra's eyes flickered in surprise. His voice rich with feeling, Gendry continued, "I shall guard her secrets, ride by her side and defend her name and honour."
In the crowd, Ser Jaime's eyes went sharply to Gendry. He remembered the words, though Gendry's vow was slightly altered from the one he had sworn four times to four different kings – they were the oaths of the Kingsguard.
"I swear to ward the King, with all my strength, and give my blood for his. I shall take no wife. Hold no lands. Father no children. I shall guard his secrets. Obey his commands. Ride at his side and defend his name and honour."
Ser Jaime glanced around in the crowd and found Lord Lonmouth with his silver-streaked beard, his eyes ablaze with intensity as he watched Gendry and Larra. Though he was swearing his vows as a husband, Gendry had incorporated the old vows of a knight swearing fealty to their king…or queen.
Bran smiled from his chair and glanced to his side. Briar and Neva stepped forward, each bearing a single ribbon – one silver, embroidered with direwolves, the other black, embroidered with crossed hammers. Larra and Gendry smiled as Bran took the ribbons and looped them over their joined hands. He rested his hand tenderly on their joined hands, gazing from Gendry to Larra. His eyes shimmered with tears and he smiled tremulously up at his sister, and the boy he had once been shone from his face, so much pride and love pouring from him that those watching felt their own eyes grow hot with unshed tears.
"Now you shall join your flames together," Bran said, his gentle voice hoarse, and he carefully unwound the ribbons from their hands, freeing them. Larra and Gendry each reached for the torch at their sides, moving to stand beside a single torch left unlit beside the pond. Together, they lit the torch.
In the flickering firelight, Gendry pulled the cape from his shoulder, holding it before her so that she could see the sigil her sister had designed. Her purple eyes flicked up into his for a moment, and they shared a look of understanding: the ouroboros. Smiling coaxingly, he wrapped his arms around her and draped the cape about her shoulders. It fit snugly, reaching to her elbows, and he fastened the hidden closures over her bodice, the points glittering with those ruby weirwood leaves as he tucked another hidden closure into a loop in her silver filigree belt, latching the cape in place.
It was not a traditional bride's cloak, which would have been in his colours, showing that she had passed from the protection of her father to her husband. Larra needed no such protection. What the cape had given her was the truth of her own identity.
They had spoken often about it, whether Larra should acknowledge it. Lord Tyrion had advised that Larra embrace what she was, use it as both weapon and armour rather than let anyone use it against her.
She could either claim the ouroboros was merely Last Shadow and Rhaegal, as Bran had said. Or it could be the first declaration of her true heritage. That she was a trueborn daughter of both House Stark and House Targaryen. Either way, they would face the consequences together.
Gendry fastened the last clasp and drew Larra close, sighing as he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. A moment of calm, of quiet – of intimacy – between them, indulging in the scent of her, her warmth. He felt her hands resting on his forearms as he cradled her waist and heard her soft sigh. When he opened his eyes, she was smiling up at him softly, the way she did in quiet, intimate moments when they were alone, and content to believe they alone existed in the world, that nothing lay beyond their bed, that nothing could tear them from each other's embrace.
The rest of the world faded away in that moment. There was nothing but the colour of each other's eyes, the intimacy of each other's smile, the contentedness of being in each other's arms.
"I am yours," Larra whispered to him, and he echoed her. Together, they murmured, "You are mine. From this day until the end of my days."
He reached up to cradle her face and kissed her.
The crowds cheered. Bran wiped his face. Jon grinned, while Arya and Lady Sansa applauded, their eyes shining. The Lannister girls swooned, while Briar and Neva beamed at them.
"Now, wife, I'm to carry you to the Great Hall for breakfast," Gendry said, and Larra shouted a laugh as he bent down, looped his arms around her knees and hauled her over his shoulder.
"In your arms, you ass!" Larra laughed freely as he strode on, heedless of her weight, and his laughter rumbled through the godswood as people cheered and laughed. Grinning, he set her down on her feet only briefly, to scoop her up in his arms. Her eyes glowed and she looped her arms around his neck as he carried her along the aisle between lit torches, people cheering as they passed. Behind them, Sansa and Arya linked arms and Jon pushed Bran in his wheeled chair. Cade, growing taller by the day, walked hand-in-hand with Neva and Briar, while the Lannisters formed a procession behind them, the little ones led by Narcisa.
In the Great Hall, they were met by the cheers of the maids and servants, and Gendry grinned as he carried Larra to the high table. As they brought steaming tureens and platters, the maids and servants offered their congratulations. As it was their wedding, Larra and Gendry sat at the very centre of the high table, with Jon beside Larra, Sansa on Gendry's other side.
It was Jon who handed Larra the gift she intended for Gendry, as Sansa handed Gendry the gift he had secreted to her for Larra.
Before they broke their fast, they exchanged gifts.
Larra inhaled sharply at her bride's gift – a small, beautiful dagger, its hilt of weirwood inlaid with an obsidian direwolf. Obsidian bound the hilt to the blade with short fangs. The blade itself was rippled with thousands of tiny folds, like smoke on molten silver.
"You finished it," Larra breathed, gazing up at Gendry. Gendry nodded.
"The first fresh-forged Valyrian steel since the Doom," he said softly, and Jon made a stunned noise.
"Does it have a name yet?" Larra asked, examining the blade, the obsidian set into the bone-white hilt.
"Fang," Gendry said, smiling softly at her. I had them filed down, she had said to him the first time they met, when he had teased her about having fangs herself.
Gendry laughed softly when Larra handed him her gift: a ring.
The ring was silver-and-gold, the elegant band figured like a rearing golden stag and a silver direwolf, meeting to cradle a multi-faceted stone of obsidian striated with silver-quartz – a rare stone. It was the ring gifted to Larra by Robert Baratheon himself – a ring he had intended as a bride-gift for his betrothed, Lady Lyanna. He had kept the ring for decades, until he had seen Larra Snow and been reminded once again of the face he had long forgotten. Struck by the uncanny resemblance Larra had to Lady Lyanna, Robert had gifted Larra the ring. He had told everyone that she looked so like Lyanna, and was so vibrant, that he couldn't bear to bury the ring in the dark with the bones of his beloved: he wanted to see Larra wearing the ring, with flowers in her hair and the sun shining down upon her.
He had never guessed that Larra was Lyanna's own daughter. She wondered what Father must have thought, when Robert gifted her the ring, how he must have dreaded that anyone might guess the truth.
"When he visited Winterfell and named Father his Hand, King Robert told Father that he had a son, and Father had a daughter – that they would join their two Houses," Sansa mused. "I do not think either of them imagined it would happen this way."
"Different roads oft lead to the same castle," Jon intoned, digging into his breakfast. Gendry stared back at Larra, touched by the gesture of the ring. It was a beautiful jewel, exquisitely crafted, the gemstone cut perfectly, the gold and silver of the highest quality. It was no small thing to give it away – more so because it had been a gift from the King, given not as a payment for a night's pleasure, as Briar's own small collection of inherited jewels was, but out of genuine feeling. That had to have been rare for King Robert – to feel it, and to acknowledge it so publically.
"This was meant for your mother, Larra. I cannot accept it," Gendry said gently.
Larra sighed softly, "Any more than I can accept this dagger." She smiled. "The first fresh-forged Valyrian steel in over four centuries, Gendry… This dagger is yours." She leaned in and kissed his cheek. She took his hand and stared into his eyes, earnest and beseeching. "Keep it on you always."
He remembered her beseeching him to learn to wield weapons. Knew what they were soon to face. Understood better than anyone what it meant that he had a Valyrian steel dagger to wield when the army of the dead descended upon them. Knew the best person to teach him to wield it was Darkstar, who had stood behind the Lannister girls and watched the entire ceremony with Lord Tyrion and Lady Nym, Yaskier and Edd, Tisseia, Zharanni and Qhaero and all of the Tarlys, Missandei, Lady Mormont, the Greatjon, Little Jon and Ragnar. Darkstar now sat at one of the other tables, along with Lady Nym and Obara, breaking his fast and occasionally glancing up at the high table.
They kept their gifts: Larra tucked the ring on her finger, and Gendry sheathed the dagger and attached it to his belt. Sansa and Jon laughed at their generosity, refusing priceless gifts.
The atmosphere in the hall was different: brighter, somehow. More vibrant. They broke their fast on rich scrambled eggs and bacon, beef stew with cheesy dumplings, porridge with golden syrup, and sweet buns three inches high enriched with copious amounts of butter, chopped raisins, dates and citrus, glazed with honey. People were happy. They were delighted to treat themselves, and excited by the prospect of a troupe of mummers who arrived in costume, bowing to the high table as Arya slipped away from it, smiling to Larra and Gendry as Yaskier joined her before Larra and Gendry.
"Our gift to you, on your wedding day," Arya smiled, her grey eyes glittering.
"For your entertainment and delight, a comedy," Yaskier grinned, "made almost entirely of errors."
"A play?" Larra asked, as they were chivvied out of their seats by servants. They carried the chairs and tables out of the way, replacing them with a small stage and settles, floor-cushions and chairs, hastily replacing the old rushes on the flagstones with fresh ones.
Special attention was given to the placement of a newly-completed settle that still smelled faintly of varnish, the seat stuffed and upholstered with leather, the back richly engraved – one half devoted to Gendry's journey through the Riverlands, an anvil and Harrenhall and a rowboat glimpsed in the design, Larra's through the True North, a true spearwife in her furs, Last Shadow at her side, the Children gathered behind her, meeting at the heart-tree of Winterfell's godswood with hands joined. Bulls and direwolves were featured, as was a dragon in the sky above the weirwood. The back side of the settle was engraved with the crossed hammers and ouroboros. It was their settle, a gift from the Carpenters' Guild. The seat itself lifted to reveal blankets and quilts and richly-embroidered cushions stuffed with goose down, all made by the ladies of the North as wedding gifts. Lord Tyrion produced a bottle of hundred-year-old port, and consented to sit close to Larra to enjoy a sample, with a portion of heavy fruitcake glazed with plum jam.
Arya, they learned, had conspired with Yaskier. He had written a comedy: she had trained people as mummers and directed the play, secured costumes and sets and all sorts.
The comedy of errors had everyone roaring with laughter. Even the severe Lord Tarly, and Karsi, a fierce spearwife who understood little of the culture south of the Wall: that was the brilliance of the play, Larra thought, wiping her eyes, her stomach hurting from laughing so much. The humour was simple and universal. She could see the underlying themes even if few others would, which added greatly to the enjoyment of the experience. Even the littlest of the Lannister girls was giggling as they watched, applauding along with everyone else. Gendry, who had grown up with mummers of varying levels of skill in the streets of King's Landing, grinned from ear to ear, wiping his eyes and hiccoughing as Yaskier twinkled a cheeky wink at him.
By the time the play had ended, the sun was setting. The mummers bowed to thunderous applause, and Larra glanced over at Sansa. "Be sure they're given silver," she said, and Sansa nodded, smiling more freely than Larra had ever seen. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked relaxed, sat beside Jon and sipping from a cup of wine, in only her silvery gown – one of the rare times Larra had ever seen her without her enormous weighted cloak on.
"Imagine keeping all this a secret," Jon said, giving Arya a glowing smile full of pride. "I had no idea you had such talents, Arya." Arya looked as if she would rather melt into the hearthstones than have all eyes on her – in her experience, attention meant death. But she smiled warmly at Larra and Gendry. For them, she would endure the attention – and the praise.
"The mummers did well," Arya said gently, her grey eyes glowing.
"What will you write next?" Sansa asked Yaskier, who shrugged.
"Something tragic, perhaps," Yaskier mused.
"A love story is always good for tragedy," Larra said, and Yaskier laughed.
"What about the Prince of Dragonflies?" Sansa suggested.
"That's a history, not a tragedy," Larra protested.
"Cannot it be both?" Sansa countered, and Larra shrugged.
"I suppose so," she said softly, gazing back at her sister. A look flickered across her face, and Larra felt certain Sansa had been thinking of Rhaegar and Lyanna. For Larra certainly had: a love story that was both history and tragedy.
"It'd do people good to have a laugh," Jon said, his eyes bright. He looked happier than Larra had ever seen him since their return. "We've had precious little to laugh about in a good long while – and we'll have little enough to celebrate soon."
"Another comedy, then, by the King's command," Yaskier smirked playfully. Jon rolled his eyes.
"Will the mummers perform again?" Larra asked.
"For you? If you'd desire it," Yaskier said.
"Not for me," Larra laughed. They had been sat nearly three hours together, and she was very glad of the padded leather seat and embroidered goose-down cushions, the blankets she and Gendry had cosied up under while they drank port and ate heavy fruitcake. "As Jon said, a laugh would do people the world of good. Send the mummers out to perform for the rest of Winterfell."
"With your blessing," Yaskier smiled.
Larra smiled and gazed back at Yaskier, wondering… He had such a sharp intuition about people, an incredibly quick wit and sense of humour that was accessible to everyone. She wondered how he would treat a play based on historical figures and events…
The mummers bowed again, accepting silver from the other nobles, and the stage was dismantled. Yaskier corralled the mummers out of the hall, their stage and props following, yet Arya remained behind. The mummers were replaced by musicians, tables returned to the hall, and servants brought in the evening meal. By the time people were full, and warm, and relaxed and content, thinking only of their beds, the musicians started playing more energetic songs. The servants moved the tables to the edges of the hall and the children were some of the first on their feet, Delphine gasping with delight and recognition at the sound of a particular jig.
They had spent the morning laughing until they cried: and the evening dancing until they dropped. By the fourth dance, Larra had removed her grey-and-black overdress to reveal the vibrant red cotehardie beneath, to the awe of onlookers everywhere: she was simply too hot to keep her new cape and overdress on. Larra did not sit a single dance out: she indulged in every opportunity to force Jon to dance with her, the way she always had when they were younger, determined not to let Lady Catelyn win and send Jon skulking into the shadows for fear of her glowering. She danced with Jon, and with Sansa, and even Arya stumbled through some of the nearly-forgotten dances Septa Mordane had tried in vain to teach her. Gendry laughed and applauded from the settle, occasionally keeping drumming the beat on his knee, but he had not been taught how to dance.
Feeling overly hot, Gendry accompanied Larra as she slipped outside into the crisp night air. Torchlight flickered, and all around them, they could hear music – not just echoing out of the Great Hall but in the yards too – and people laughing and singing. They were dancing. In one small yard, the stage had been set up for the mummers, to tremendous laughter and applause.
"They're happy," Gendry murmured, and Larra smiled, tucking herself against him. He wrapped an arm around her and she sighed, smiling to herself.
"We need little provocation to be happy," she said softly. Gendry kissed the top of her head.
"Are you happy?" he asked.
She smiled, glancing up at him.
"You make me happy," she told him, and he smiled gently.
"I love you," he said richly, and she smiled.
"I know."
They kissed, and Rosamund came to find them, taking Larra's hand and pulling her back towards the Great Hall. After a few dances, Theon was shoved forward by his grim-faced sister Yara, who today was in high spirits. He awkwardly asked Larra to dance: they danced a violently energetic Northern jig that sent Larra twirling around the hall, laughing giddily, onlookers applauding as the dancers kept pace with the music. Today was not a day to hold on to anger: it was a day to remember, yes, but to celebrate. Robb most certainly would have celebrated with them.
The lively dances had always been Larra's favourite, and she danced for hours, with anyone – whether it was Sigorn of the Thenns, Little Jon, Dagonet Storm, Altheda Lannister, Dolorous Edd, Dickon Tarly, Narcisa or Neva or Maester Arys. When the musicians struck up a familiar, elegant tune, Larra smiled, slightly stunned, when Gendry found her in the crowd and offered his hand: the crowd thinned as people went to the edges of the room, reaching for goblets and resting on settles.
Larra did not stop smiling in wonder as Gendry flawlessly led her in the laendler, a dance introduced to Westeros first at the court of the Conqueror, a favourite of his sister-wife Rhaenys. The Valryian dance was a sequence of complicated arm movements and delicate steps flowing beautifully, the partners dancing together becoming a never-ending ouroboros – no beginning, no end. Joined and forever entwined.
As they were.
A.N.: The laendler of course being the dance from The Sound of Music. I just love that scene! And the idea that the laendler is a Valyrian dance designed to mimick dragon coils that became a Westerosi 'court' dance is just… I imagine Sansa teaching Gendry how to dance so that he could surprise Larra.