Note of Thanks x
To all of you who reviewed after my last A/N THANK YOU SO MUCH! It's thanks to your long and very detailed feedback, I got this chapter done. You were all so inspiring and literally the reason I could push through with the slight block I'd been feeling. The fact that some of you don't even SPEAK ENGLISH and yet you still reviewed is super heart warming for me. I really tried to keep in mind all that you had said- literally re-reading every single review whenever I felt stuck- and hopefully this chapter expresses my efforts.
Once again! I love and appreciate all of you so much x
Something you readers should know:
I have already plotted the entirety of this fic. From beginning to end, it is literally sitting in a folder on my computer. I don't plan to change any of what I have plotted but am willing to adjust to any added content (such as this ladies arc, because idk why my brain insisted I do it but it was done). So I can promise you, that even if I never finish WRITING this story (or by some horrible reason I no longer can or feel the need to write this fic) you will receive CLOSURE for this story.
I try to keep the word count of each chapter under 12,000 words. It's the only reason this chapter got published. I'm literally going to post this and continue typing the next one. I also like to try and give you all time to leave a review for each chapter update. Soooo the next chapter will probably be posted in about a week.
I know everyone wants more Ned and Robert, but you have two more chapters to go before NED COMES HOME! And in the upcoming two chapter's we still touch base with them through Anya's letters ( yes more letters between everyone). I've already written Robert and Anya's first meeting (as well as a few Jaime scenes and her dynamic with Roose Bolton).
I also will return to my time skipping ways so you won't be reading through a day by day write up on what happens. I will definitely be stepping away from the political stuff and focus on some Family stuff and character building for the Stark's and other characters.
Authour's advice as this story progresses:
Never forget that you are reading A song of Ice and Fire/ Game of thrones Fanfiction. True fans know what to expect.
This will be the last long note I leave for a while.
Enjoy your read and a very Happy Easter to all of you lovely people :)
Chapter 11: Final Days: The Farewell Feast.
Barbary Ryswell smiled at her reflection, humming a dreamy ballad as she combed through her unbound hair. From the corner, Bethany watched with a heavy frown but she was easily ignored by her sister.
"Did you see how Lord Brandon stared at me, Bethany?" Barbary giggled with a smirk.
Similar to the Stark sisters, the younger Ryswell felt stressed by the elder's actions. Day six of the Ladies gathering had been dedicated to musical practice, per Lord Brandon's request. Despite the tittering uncertainty about performing an item for the men at the final feast, the activity soon became rather fun. It did not take long for the Ladies to grow giddy with excitement.
The Ladies from House Umber, Karstark and Manderly had trilled in harmony like morning birds greeting the rising sun. Lady Mormont, despite her japes of sounding horrid, provided a steady beat on her make shift drum. Although the drum was hardly a proper instrument for a lady; Lady Mormont had a talent for making it seem graceful. Occasionally, she would add to the trio's trilling harmony with her soothing baritone sound. Lady Hornwood sang a strong bass, a sound that stood out with the help of Lady Cerwyn's skill with the lute.
The Ladies had made good practice of the day; creating what was looking to be a rather elegant performance the men would surely love. However the time they practiced had not been without a few bumbling mistakes. Especially when Brandon Stark had once again imposed on their gathering.
He had entered with that same roguish grin and charm, sending hearts a flutter and causing cheeks to flush; specifically Barbary Ryswell's.
"Does it matter? You are betrothed Barb," Bethany disapproved with a tight frown.
Her words caused Barbary's smirk to shift into a scowl. The older Ryswell sister's eyes turned flinty with irritation. She glared at Bethany with a snippy hiss in her words.
"Oh do relax Beth. I've not forgotten about my betrothal and I don't need you to remind me."
Bethany scoffed and mimicked Barbary's earlier behavior around Brandon Stark.
"Lord Brandon! Oh what a delightful surprise!?" she sharply gasped before fanning at her cheeks with one hand and pressing the other against her chest. She then widened her eyes with faked praise and stars, clapping her hands excitedly.
"Adding a dance to our performance! Oh such a marvelous idea! Just as marvelous as your style of dress this delightful morn!" Bethany mocked.
"I said no such thing!" Barbary hissed.
"You might as well have told the wild wolf to ravage you there and then. Have you no shame? Betrothed to be married and yet still you chase after the wagging tail of another man!"
"The key words to mind are BETROTHED! I'm not married yet. Why shouldn't I be allowed to flirt and enjoy the attention of other men!?"
"Because it's not proper, Barb!" Bethany stressed.
Barbary stood and stepped away from the looking glass. She'd had enough of her sister's judgement and scolding. For the past week tension had built between the Ryswell sisters. The both of them had developed differing opinions towards the Stark sisters. While Barbary disliked the two strongly, Bethany felt admiration towards the Stark sisters.
Bethany thought Lyanna Stark to be admirable. The girl was so brazen and filled with determination to fight for what she wanted; Bethany could not help but be envious. The younger Ryswell could only dream about being so wild. One would have to possess a strong sense of character to persist against all the negativity- the whispers and words pointedly spoken to expose the truth of Lyanna's act.
However, her admiration for Lyanna Stark paled in comparison to her adoration of Anya Stark. Bethany could only marvel at the younger Stark sister. There was something about her a sort of …..Regal grandiose.
Though only 9 years, three years Bethany's younger, she was inspirational. The grace of her walk, the soft tone of her words and her simplistic style of dress- everything she did drew Bethany like a moth to a flame. The younger Ryswell almost felt bewitched by the younger Stark; unable to draw her gaze for a second. A bit of quiet listening on servant maid gossip enlightened her to how attentive and caring Anya Stark truly was.
Bethany had always been quiet, especially as she had lived in the shadow of her older sister all her life. As they grew older, the shadows only grew darker and stretched farther. She was invisible in the wake of Barbary's confidence and pride. She had convinced herself she was fine with her life in the shadows. Certain, she had made peace with her fate as quiet shy and meek; only useful in gaining her father an alliance through marriage. She would be the one forgotten in history, only known as some Lord's wife, mother to his heir.
She had unintentionally witnessed Anya Stark's speech to the help. Despite the accidental imposition, she found herself unable to leave. She had been bound by the words spoken and pledged. Unable to forget how her heart lifted at hearing such a promise and believing it would be fulfilled. She had not been Bethany Ryswell, noble daughter of House Ryswel; just one of many in the room. For the first time in her short 3 and ten years, she had felt as if she had a voice and someone will hear her speak.
'Seek me and I shall be your voice'
The pledged vow resonated deeply with the younger Ryswell. It called to her; urged her to drift closer to the younger Stark daughter and speak. She tried, constantly seeking an opportunity to exchange words and bond closer to the girl, but never finding one. There was always something that needed attention, like Barbary's pointed word jabs or Lyanna's fumbling.
The loud shattering of glass on the cold stone floor echoed loudly in the chamber. Bethany jumped at the sound, forcefully pulled from her thoughts and warily stared at her sister. Barbary glared darkly at Bethany while her cheeks slowly turned red with frustration. On the floor, the smashed scent vial looked pitiful and the smell slowly started to waft through the room. The floral scent too sickly sweet a smell to the nose.
"I'm so tired of you and your constant nagging!" Barbary snapped with anger.
The Ryswell sisters were no strangers to fighting. Their fighting had only dwindled after the announcement of their betrothals. It clear to Bethany that Barbary was ready to return to their usual fighting by the way she loomed above her. In response, Bethany pursed her lips in preparation.
"How dare you- my own sister- Accuse me of-"
There is a heat in her belly and chest; an unfamiliar feeling that crawls up into her throat and gets spat out in words. Bethany doesn't even realize she'd spoken until the words have left her lips. After a few beats following her outburst, Bethany marvels at how angry she feels.
"How dare you! Since arriving here all you have done is prompt and attempt to instigate tension! Have you no respect for our hosts!?"
Barbary straightens to her full height, standing tall over her younger sister. When she speaks, it is done with mockery and taunt. Bethany had never once won an argument against Barbary; and the older girl intends to keep it as so.
"I have no respect to give to some pretentious brat who stupidly believes to be fooling anyone!"
Bethany snorts and mirrors Barbary's stance exactly.
"Respect? Do you think yourself to be respected with how obviously you chase after Brandon Stark with your wanton eyes?"
Barbary burns red at the worded jab and takes a threatening step forward.
"Bold aren't you little sister? Surely, you're no sister of mine, as the Bethany I know never had such a voice! Are you so confident now because you are to be a Bolton, sister?"
Barbary's lips lift slightly as she watches how Bethany steps back and her eyes widen. The mention of Bethany's betrothed's house so obviously dropped on purpose. The fight in Bethany dies instantly and instead she drowns with the sting of hurt and betrayal. When House Bolton approved Lord Ryswell's offering of a betrothal, they had emphasized they would have Bethany not Barbary.
The damage to Barbary's pride had been incredible great. Especially as she had been crowing the night before of how grand her life as Lady Bolton would be. Once her betrothal to William Dustin had been confirmed, she'd switched her praises to House Dustin. Purposely making snide words whenever Bethany was near of how House Bolton lacked in comparison. The tension between them had only decreased when Bethany confessed to Barbary her fear of marrying a man like Roose Bolton.
Barbary knew just how deeply afraid Bethany felt towards her betrothed and future House. She stood frozen, as if she'd been slapped in the face into silence. Barbary gave a nod of finality and turned back to the looking glass. Uncaring for the frozen state of her younger sister.
"I know my place, I know my lessons and I know my worth. I don't need you to remind me little sister. Be as enamored by the little Lady Stark and her beastly sister all you want. Just don't forget who is truly on your side. We are blood sisters and always will be. Our House may be smaller in power among the nobles, but soon that will change. The North will see change- WE will bring change for our House and Lord Father. You as Lady Bolton and I as Lady Dustin."
The anger had long left, and slowly the hurt became muted in the wake of her acceptance. Under her skin, where her heart was caged, Bethany felt the shifting of something new. Lord Ryswell had always complained of how Bethany lacked the ambition her sister possessed. After so long, Bethany felt the stirring of her ambition awaken and she found her earlier voice to speak.
"Of course…. As usual you are right Barb. I'm certain that the North will see change and one day our House will rise….."
Bethany let her words to trail as she moved to leave her sister's chambers. She looked back before stepping out and watched Barbary continue her humming and combing. She quietly finished her sentence in a whisper no one other than the gods would hear.
"…but it will not be you to lift it."
Bethany had always been in the shadows of her sister. In this moment, she made a choice. After the gathering, she will be wed and no longer a Ryswell but a Bolton. As she closed the chamber doors and stood alone in the cold corridors, she tested the words on her tongue.
"Our Blades are sharp," she whispered.
The pounding of her art and the excitement that grew in her gut brought a smile to her lips. Perhaps, the time had finally come for her to greet the light and shine alone.
'Seek me and I shall be your voice'
As she walked, Bethany felt her entire being buzz with determination- ambition. No longer will she watch in the shadows, outshone and dismissed. She wanted to be heard- seen; to shine bright like frost flakes in the morning light. Bethany has spent too long playing witness and now it is her turn to speak.
She finds the younger Stark deep in the Library, lost to the throes of knowledge with a burning candle and open scroll. Anya looks up at her arrival with surprise that shifts into a welcome smile. Bethany can only tell by the way the girls eyes shift in the light of the candle.
"Lady Ryswell? To what do I owe the late visit?"
Bethany give a smile that is much too meek and somewhat watery. Once, she had divulged the worries of her heart and fears in her mind to Barbary. Tonight, her sister proved to her she was mistaken.
"You once asked me to be sure of where I stand…"
Anya blinks and the mask she wears hardens. Bethany swallows at how swiftly the air around them turned antagonistic. The unspoken threat and intimidating study easily felt right down to her bones. Still, she can't help but feel a small fraction of smugness for rightly hearing the hidden offer. Bethany had grown up with her mouth sealed but her ears open, the unspoken message offered on Day 2 had been easy for her to catch. She takes a breath and speaks, knowing the hurt in her eyes shines bright enough to be seen.
"Would you share with me a seat?"
Anya give a tiny smile that seems understanding and soft. She pushes out the stool beside her and motions for Bethany to sit. Bethany can feel how her eyes itch and burn with tears but she refuses to let them fall. They spend the night in each other's company. Neither would have thought the seed of their friendship, now taking root, would one day shape the beginning of something new in the world of politics. A world where voice could be heard and quiet shadows could shine.
In the moment, they were just two little sisters burdened to carry the short comings of their older sisters.
~*~*~Winter Storm Queen~*~*~
"Honestly Bran, what made you think suggesting a dance would be any better than singing!?" Anya huffed from where she sat on Brandon's cot.
Brandon groaned into his pillow and pulled the furs over his head. He didn't need to open his eyes to know the sun had yet to rise. If Anya was visiting him, she undoubtedly kept in mind his words and was pointedly ignoring their agreement.
"Anya, I thought I told you never to visit my tent again!" He grumbled.
"I thought you agreed to not to interfere with my gathering," she drawled.
The flat expression on her face did nothing to hide the pointed glint in her eyes. He glared at her before flopping back with another groan. How was it she could perfectly channel Ned's bloody sass when she'd not seen him in so long!? Clearly, Brandon would have to visit more often. She was passing on the same cheek to Benjen. Ned was such a terrible influence despite not even being here.
"Just have Lyanna stomp her feet or some nonsense," he huffed.
Anya sighed, perfectly imitating their father which brought a frown to his lips. She was even picking up their father's terrible habits! If there was one thing Brandon was sure of, it was that they didn't her turning any further into a mini version of their father. The mask was the only bad habit he was willing to excuse.
"Do you have any idea just how complex Lady dancing is!?" She scowled.
"It can't be any different from normal dancing. God's I've danced with plenty of women and let me assure you, grace was of no concern for them," he sighed before sitting up, finally giving up on trying to sleep.
He took a few minutes to simply study his youngest sister. She looked tired, almost gloomy which concerned him. Anya had never been one to sleep in, always rising before first light. What worried him was the obvious hunch in her shoulders and the distracted gleam in her eyes. Brandon was starting to hate being visited in bed by siblings. So far, something always proved to be wrong.
"Okay, what's the matter? Out with it already and stop you're sighing," he roughly prompted.
It shouldn't have anything to do with Lyanna's mess. Brandon had taken every precaution available to ensure no word will reach Anya's ears. It still didn't explain the fidgeting she sat with or the heavy invisible weight she seemed to wear.
"Did something happen with Lya?" she asked with imploring eyes.
Brandon exhaled heavily and massaged the bridge of his nose. If Lyanna fucking did something again, he's not sure what he'd do.
"Other than the dancing, is there a reason you think something happened?" he carefully worded.
The doubtful arch of her brow had him relaxing a little. Clearly, she must still know nothing, only suspicious. It's the only reason she'd attempt to weasel the truth out of him.
"She said she was with you the day before," Anya pointed out, daring him to lie.
Brandon smirked down at her and easily answered.
"And the day before that, you came to visit me much like now. Ngaw, don't worry there's no need to fight over your favorite big brother," he teased.
Anya scrunched her brows in confusion.
"I don't see Ned here?"
He scowled at her cheek while her eyes twinkled with mirth. He pointed a warning finger her way with mocking threat.
"Oi! Enough of that cheek. You've already started to corrupt Benjen with that cheeky attitude of yours."
She hummed dismissively and played with the furs of his blanket.
"Lya just seemed upset. I was worried something happened with the other ladies."
Brandon bit the inside of his cheek, annoyed with the reminder of Lyanna's actions.
"You shouldn't worry about Lyanna. You should worry more about yourself."
Anya frowned before looking up at him.
"I can't just do that. There's too much that needs attendance. I need to…"
Brandon felt his temper start to rise as he listed to Anya list all that needed her aid. The longer she spoke the more irritated he grew. He wanted to seek out Lyanna and scold her all over again. He wanted to storm to his father's solar and demand to know why he would let Anya shoulder so much. He wanted to shake Anya and try to get her to see just how much she put herself at risk working so much so young. All the chores and duties she listed should be halved between her and Lyanna, not done on her own.
Honestly, did Winterfell go to shit without him? Did none of his family care about their health and responsibilities? Gods, first Ned gets influenced by that fucking Baratheon and now this mess.
The Gods must be playing some fucking jape on him if he's the only Stark thinking reasonably.
Brandon growled before interrupting Anya's listing with a sharp comment.
"What part of take it easy did you not understand, Nya? Do you want to collapse and fall ill again? You shouldn't be fucking doing so much on your own, you're still too young!"
Anya had immediately silenced herself, but she didn't shy away as other's might have. She loved and trusted Brandon too much to ever think he would harm her. Brandon was her oldest brother, her protector. He would never hurt her or wish to see her cry.
"I am taking care of myself!" she retorted.
Despite the polite manner in her voice, Brandon only heard her childish pout. Since her god damn mask, he'd subconsciously trained himself to seek such differences. He hated the fucking mask so damn much. Anya had gotten it to the point where he could barely find the cracks and slips in her act. It was a small slip, but Brandon clung to the slip like a starved man would to water. All the building frustration and anger seeped out of him immediately and instead a wide boyish grin formed on his lips.
"Are you pouting, Nya?"
The flush of embarrassment that colored her cheeks had his heart soaring.
"Don't call me that!" she mumbled.
Brandon's grin stretched into a wide laughing smile. They'd not used the child nickname for her in so long. In fact, they'd stopped after she had started with her mask. It hadn't fit her anymore- not when she was so cold and blank, so much like their father. It thrilled him to know he'd found a key to cracking her masked facade.
"I'm going to write to Ned! He's going to love this!" He cackled gleefully.
Anya's embarrassment slowly faded and a small smile sat on her lips instead.
"I miss him…." she sighed with wistful sadness.
A small part of Brandon sneered with jealousy. Ned and Anya had always had a certain connection. He still felt rather cheated by Ned, having been tricked and missing the chance to be the first to hold Anya. Still, as he'd learned to do at a young age, Brandon smothered the jealousy he felt.
If Lyanna had admitted such a thing, Brandon would have teased her relentlessly. Not Anya, never Anya or Ned. They carried with them the silence and patience of the hunting predator. Content to wait until their time came to strike with a ravenous hunger. Lyanna and he were loud with the hot blood of the wolf. They raged and hunted because they could.
Brandon curiously wondered what traits Benjen would develop.
"Has he not replied recently?" He asked with a frown.
Let it be known, if Brandon heard that Ned hadn't wrote because of some stupid shit he'd done with the fucking Baratheon; He would ride to the Vale himself just to punch him in the face. Anya sighed with guilt and shook her head with upset.
"I haven't had time to write him back since his letter for my name day. Especially with everything on at the moment."
Brandon frowned.
From what he'd come to understand, Anya and Ned exchanged letters almost every second day or so. The constant flow of ravens between them kept a steady pace of conversation for the two. While Brandon never wrote letters, he read every single letter Anya sent. It was worrying that Ned hadn't replied in so long.
Surely, Ned had received his earlier letter about their sister's fight?
He chased his worries for Ned to the back of his mind. He had no time to stress about Ned's silence. He needed to prioritize. Ned was in the south but Anya and Lyanna were here. He'd worry about Ned in four days, when the Lady Gathering was well and truly over and his sisters had passed father's test.
Brandon placed his hand on top of Anya's head and gave her hair a ruffle. She didn't complain or yelp like a lady would. Instead, she huffed a soft giggle and curled into him for a loose cuddle. Brandon would be lying if he said he didn't feel the slightest bit of tears form in his eyes.
Gods he missed this.
He missed her so much.
For a second, Brandon thought he saw the ghostly visage of his mother. He thought she had smiled at him like she had once before. A smile of mischief and secret sent his way before she playfully tapped at his nose. The second passed, and he was looking down at Anya's wide eyes of wonder.
"Bran?"
The cold in his heart thawed just a little at having his baby sister stare at him with absolute trust. She truly believed he would protect her from dragons and storms, beasts that dared to harm her.
He felt his cheeks ache due to the wide stretch of his smile.
"Mama would be so proud of you, Nya."
He whispered his words with little thought, as if they'd simply slipped out on their own. Anya tightens her hold around him and whispers back. It's almost as if they are trading secrets with each other as they did when they were much younger.
"She'd be extra proud of you Bran."
He feels his heart stop and stares down at her. She looks up at him with a knowing glint in her eyes. It makes him uncomfortable because- what? What could she possibly know? There is more she wishes to say. He can tell by how she worries at her lips and her fingers tangle in his tunic. A tell she could never hide as a child.
"I don't know why you've been avoiding father. I don't want you to leave again. I know you don't like writing letters. I know you have never once forgotten that you are the heir. No matter what anyone says, I just want you to know that to Benjen, Lyanna and Ned- to me….. We'll always be proud of you."
Shit.
He doesn't know what, how or who Anya had spoken with to prompt her to say such things. He doesn't know how she knew just what to say to assure the secret fears he locked away in the darkest parts of his mind. She shouldn't know anything about his doubt, his fears or worries.
Not when he is supposed to be her protector.
There are days where the dark whispers in his mind tell him he should feel shame. Days, where the screaming of their whispers are too hard to ignore. Moments of doubt, filled with pressure to be 'The Wild Wolf of Winterfell'. He was not blind to the fearful looks some of the help or small folk would cast his way. He could ignore such things by embracing the rage in his blood and the ice caging his heart.
But Anya had silenced the whispers and his mind is silent. The rage in his blood had cooled and his heart had lifted itself from the cold he'd caged it in. Anya stared at him with such soft eyes that turned loving and proud as she repeated herself.
"We will always be proud of you, because we love you."
Brandon laughed and pulled her close. He knew she heard the strangled choke of his laughter but didn't care. He let himself enjoy the moment and cared little for the wetness in his eyes.
"You brat," he huffed before lifting her and throwing her over his shoulder to spin.
Anya let out a strained squeal of shock and started to hiss for him to put her down. Brandon didn't listen and only laughed louder before tickling her sides. Anya couldn't muffle the giggles that slipped pass her lips.
Any man awake or close enough to hear the siblings would wonder at the young carefree laughter so early. If any had been curious enough to peer into the tent, they would only find two siblings, being children.
~*~*~Winter Storm Queen~*~*~
Anya left Brandon's tent just as the sky bled orange from the rising sun. She carefully made her way through the men's camp, ensuring none spied her company. She only relaxed once she was out of range of the camp and rid herself off the dark cloak she wore. A second later, she was join by Arrei who stepped out from the shadowed corner she had waited.
"Am I late?" Anya questioned while she straightened her appearance.
"No, my lady. Breaking fast still has yet to begin."
Arrei kept her gaze low as she took Anya's cloak. The marble of the little Lady's mask was chilling to greet. Arrei did her best not to fidget as she waited for further instructions. She endured the heavy weight of Anya's stare in silence. With an idle hum, Anya decided her next task.
"I've a trip to make and thanks to give tonight. You're service has been welcomed."
"Yes, my lady."
Anya tipped her head and waved for Arrei to leave. The servant maid would know just what Anya wanted done. There was something different about the servant maid. Something, quiet and subtle that had not been there before. It bothered Anya…..but she had other thoughts to ponder than the mystery surrounding her father's trusted servant maid. If it were a dangerous mystery, Anya was sure her father had organized its purpose.
Instead, Anya pulled from her sleeves the small slip of paper that had spurred her morning visit to her brother. Anya re-read the note in her hand and gave a heavy sigh of worry and stress.
A brother sleeps in restless whispers. A guard dog wakes with want for blood. Beware the mind where doubt festers to strike- to kill.
Anya was exhausted as she had yet to sleep. If not for the bitter beans she readily chewed to wake her mind, she would have long fallen to sleeps lure. It was much too early to try and solve such a cryptic riddle. The lack of sleep was an easy price to pay in exchange for another promised alliance. Anya hadn't thought she'd win over one of the Ryswell sisters. Although, she's glad to have gotten the younger. It would open so many more opportunities and Anya felt excitement stir at her catch.
Her excitement faded as her thoughts then returned to the riddle at hand.
Rana may not be a wordsmith, but she knew enough to be cryptic. She would not send such a thing if she did not think it important for Anya to know. It was easy to figure the riddle spoke of Brandon.
The real mystery was the meaning behind it. Anya had fretted over it and scoured many scrolls majority of the night. If not for Bethany Ryswell's intrusion, she most likely would have fallen asleep in the library again. It had been too late to continue after her parting from the unexpected meeting. The riddle had worried her enough that she had changed course from her room to sneaking her way to Brandon's tent again.
She thought back to the dark glint in her brother's eyes as she had talked about her duties. It had been that dark look of rage that prompted her to think of Rana's riddle. So she took a chance and said what she hoped would chase the darkness in his eyes away. Only now, where he could not distract her with tickling and laughter, did she remember the teary shine in his eyes.
If she directly asked Brandon would never tell. It went against his protective needs. Anya resolved to talk to her father, hoping perhaps he could help or shed some light on what might be wrong.
Satisfied with her decision, she turned to make her way to the kitchens for a final check that all was in order for the feast. She had just turned the corner of the west wing corridor when she collided with another. Anya blinked with confusion at the boy before her who seemed unconcerned by the surprise clash.
"Pardon me, my lady," he whispered, Anya almost didn't hear him.
Unease crept up her spine and Anya took a wary step back as her tired mind became alert.
"Dorrick…." She named.
A quick glance over his appearance had her noting the slump of his shoulders and upset expression on his face. Dorrick and Anya were not friends. While they were familiar with each other, as Dorrick's father had been a great friend to Lyarra Stark; never would one consider them friends.
Anya considered them to be acquaintances at best.
It was because of this acquainted relation alone, she found herself feeling concerned.
"Why are you so bruised?" she asked.
She did not know of how her mask softened into one of genuine distress. She did not hear how her tone warmed slightly with worry. She certainly failed to notice how the change had lifted Dorrick's shoulders and assured him of his decision.
After the events of yesterday, Dorrick had fought, raged and roared about the unfairness of it all. It took the older stable boys beating him into silence to finally calm his rage. He could not rest easy since then. All through the night, he nursed his wounds and stewed in his self-hatred for being so pathetically useless. He hated himself so deeply for making such a great mistake and having the man he saw as a father figure take his punishment.
If not for Walder's pity for his state and sharing with him the truth about the culprit; Dorrick would have long wallowed himself into the bottom of the ale barrel.
Which is why he sought the little Lady.
"My Lady… There is something I wish to say…." He started.
Anya's unease deepened and the feeling in her gut urged her to brace herself. It was a feeling that warned her what she would hear would upset her greatly. Anya suddenly wanted to silence Dorrick by any means, the order was on the tip of her tongue, just waiting to be said. She forced herself to ignore the urge and steel herself against temptation. Instead, she readied her ears to listen and mentally reminded herself of the vow she had pledged to the help. She had no plans of breaking her promise so soon, no matter the urge.
"The other day your sister-"
"Ah! Dorrick there you are!" a voice interrupted.
Anya and Dorrick turned to the speaker with narrowed eyes. One held cold warning and the other icy suspicion. Walder shivered but pushed forward to intrude, many called him a simpleton and he supposed it must be true if he was daring to continue to impose. He could feel his panic growing as he bowed deeply and dragged Dorrick down with him before the little Lady Anya.
"Apologies Lady Anya. The other ladies have gathered to break this morning's fast and are asking after your presence. Lady Lyanna is seeking you as we speak."
Anya frowns.
She does not like the way Dorrick glares at the ground, or how nervous Walder appears.
But Lyanna is looking for her….
She wars with herself, conflicted with what she should do. When she next speaks she pointedly addresses Dorrick alone. She stares him down with the full power of mask, channeling her father to her best capabilities. Despite the cold marble of her mask, she somehow feels as if he understands her silent message clearly.
"You wished to speak to me Dorrick?" she prompted.
Walder shifted on his feet and opened his mouth as if to interrupt again. Anya cast a frigid glare of warning at him and he immediately forced his head low and remained silent. Dorrick looked at her, visibly appearing to fight with himself. Finally, he settled whatever struggle he felt and answered. He smirked at her as he always had since they were children.
"Only wanted to tell the tiny wolf of how her sister currently worries after her as she had the other day."
It's a lie.
Anya hears it instantly.
Dorrick and Anya are not friends.
But they are familiar with each other.
Dorrick is lying and it is about something Lyanna has done.
Again, Anya feels it in her gut that the truth Dorrick holds will upset her. She knows that the right thing to be done is to ask- to push him to tell her what he hides now that Walder has come.
But Lyanna is looking for her…..
Anya nods her head and accepts the lie, and the warning in her gut is easier to ignore.
"You have my thanks, Dorrick."
He smiles at her so widely it appears painful. When he tips his head forward in a short bow, it looks awkward and lacks its usual tease.
"The pleasure is always mine, little sprout."
Walder steps forward and elbows Dorrick sharply in the ribs for the obvious overstep of familiarity. Anya ignores it, nods and takes her leave. She walks away and knows that he still watches her back. She walks away feeling the upset in her gut grow louder.
Dorrick doesn't drop his pained smile until Anya is completely out of sight. The second she is, he is grabbed roughly by his neck and dragged to a quiet corner where none will see. Walder looms above him with a red face of anger and deep fear.
"Have you fucking lost it, Dorrick! I told you the truth out of pity not to have you fucking get us killed! Lord Brandon will-"
Dorrick shoved Walder away from him with all his might. He glared at the older boy with hatred so strong, Walder fell silent.
"I DON'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THE WILD WOLF!"
The silence between them thrums with tension, only broken by Dorrick's dark sneer as he speaks with hatred.
"Brandon Stark can have my head if he wants but it will never hide the truth. Lyanna Stark is a selfish little bitch and nobody is ever going to change my mind!"
Walder tries to channel as much urgency into his voice as he can before speaking.
"FINE! She's a bitch but you don't go telling the little lady about it!"
Dorrick laughs and then spits at Walder's feet and turns to walk.
"If you think the tiny little Lady will only feel hurt once she hears, you truly are the simpleton they say you are."
Walder grows red and shouts at his back.
"FUCK YOU DORRICK! You're no better than the rest of us!"
Dorrick laughs darkly then turns with a wink.
"Please Walder, I have standards."
Dorrick leaves a furious red Walder behind and continues to the kitchens. He steals himself a few bottles of ale and seeks out one the empty stable stalls. He knows no one will pester him, not after yesterday.
~*~*~Winter Storm Queen~*~*~
Day 7 began with plenty of excitement by many in Winterfell. The help flitted from place to place, rushing to set up for the great feast of the evening. It was the final day and many were eager to celebrate. The men perhaps were most eager of all to attend. The yard was filled with the sound of clanging swords and sharpening blades as rowdy yelling increased in volume by the seconds.
Some pushed their bodies harder, hoping to tone and gain a little bit more muscle before the evening. Some scrubbed at their faces and hands to appear a little cleaner than before. All of them harboured hope and desperate dreams of catching the eye of one of the noble Ladies to be present at the feast. For a man ( especially young green boys who'd yet to see war); a week spent with only men and no great beauty, felt very much like several decades.
"What a load of madness, aye Stark?" one scoffed as he watched the chaos of the men around him.
Brandon only gave his absent agreement. He was much too distracted by the skies and Anya's words from earlier this morning. He wondered if Anya was right in her belief.
Would Mother really be proud?
"Lord Brandon!" someone called.
He scowled at the interruption and intended to express his irritation only to pause. The two men who followed behind the speaker prompts Brandon to hurry and straighten. As casually as he could possibly seem, Brandon greets them.
Rickard Stark stares at his son with a marble mask polished smooth to show no cracks and weaknesses. Not even his eyes give hint to his thoughts and Brandon swallows his want to sneer at the mask. Unlike Anya, he knows there is no breaking his father of the horrible habit. In truth, Brandon feels no need to try.
"AH! Father, what can I do for you!?" Brandon greets with his practiced charm and open stance of welcome.
He ignores the trailing eyes of scrutiny from both his father and the young Lord at his side. Brandon is no fool, he knows the rules to the game of politics he's expected to play. If it is to be a choice, between a political games and family, Brandon will always choose his blood.
"Brandon, Lord Bolton arrived early this morning," Rickard informs with a slight motion to the man beside him.
Only then does Brandon bother to acknowledge the man at his father's side. He widens his smile, still so charming only filled with more teeth. He tips his head in acknowledgement and receives nothing in return. He knows it's a baiting move, a trap and Brandon is almost tempted to trigger the trap for a bit of fun. Roose Bolton is only older than him by 2 years, Brandon is certain it will be a quick little dance of swords and words before he'd win.
He forces himself to remember that this is not his event. This is Anya's gathering. He casts a quick glance to where his father watches with his ice marble mask. The obvious test and warning rolled into one meeting, orchestrated by his father is just a tad insulting.
"How fares the Dreadfort? I'd been told by your men, matters demanded your guidance and your appearance at tonight's feast should not be expected?"
Anya only relented and agreed to have the Noble Lords come to Winterfell for the farewell feast because it was the last day. Brandon excused himself from having to cater to the Noble Lords by insisting he needed to occupy the men. It was the only reason Rickard was seeing them entertained instead of his children.
Roose Bolton had rather low expectations on what to expect of his visit to Winterfell. He contemplated Rickard Stark- a cold man made of ice, and the famed Wild Wolf- a hungry predator, hot with lust for blood in his veins. He can't help but find himself intrigued despite his efforts not to be.
"And miss the most talked about event throughout the North? Hardly," he drawls.
Brandon breaks out into a hearty laugh while the two men before him remain stiff and cold. Perhaps the most uncomfortable element to his laughter is how real it sounds to any who would listen. When Brandon's laughter eases to a stop, he somehow looks a lot less threatening. Brandon clamps a hand on the Bolton lord's shoulder and grins at him as if they are long-time friends.
"No need to flatter us, Roose. I'm sure the talk is just idle whisper among the locals of Wintertown."
Roose swallows the instinctual urge to press his dagger against the Stark heir's throat for touching him so casually. He grits his teeth and glares at the hand on his shoulder. Only then does the Stark heir release his hold. He does so with a smug grin and a glint of victory in his eyes. Roose clenches his fists beneath the cape of his cloak and calms himself by imagining the bloodied flesh hidden beneath the Stark heir's skin.
"Brandon, have you seen you're sisters?" Rickard interrupts.
Brandon shrugs at the question and leads them to where some men are sharpening their blades.
"Undoubtedly busy, I expect."
"I must admit, the concept of a Ladies Gathering is intriguing," Roose added as he watched Brandon begin to sharpen his blade. The Bolton Lord was certain there was no need for the excessive grandeur the Stark heir seemed to add as he conducted his task. The fucking prick was blatantly mocking him now, he was sure of it.
"I suppose there aren't many gatherings in the Dreadfort, then?" Brandon casually inquired.
If Roose had still been just an heir, he swears to the gods he wouldn't have hesitated to challenge the fucking wild wolf to a 'spar'. During said 'spar' he'd 'accidently' have sliced into the man and scrape his flesh from his bone.
"My youngest daughter's idea. As it was her name day I saw no harm in agreeing to her requests," Rickard casually added as if to remind the younger males of his presence.
Roose completely dismissed Brandon and turned to Rickard with a tight smile that was empty of any genuine thanks.
"Indeed. A truly ingenious idea, never seen done before here in the North. I'm sure you're aware of the interest some Southern Houses have shown."
Rickard ignores the pointed wording. The Lord of House Bolton was still so young, he had yet to truly know subtlety and deception by way of interest. It's so blatant that even Brandon is swallowing a laugh. House Bolton has never made it secret that they believe House Stark to have other interests than the North. When word had spread of Ned's fostering in the South, it was House Bolton who raged the greatest uproar.
"Believe me, Roose. The gathering of women- ladies even, is no new concept. The only reason intrigue has spread, is due to the deliberate organisation."
Brandon looks up from his sword and quirks a brow of false inquiry.
"Gossip was invented by women you know?"
Roose purses his lips so tightly they pale considerably. Brandon gives a tiny smirk before pointedly continuing to sharpen his quite sharp blade. There's a cry of Brandon's name and one of the other men joins them. At seeing the company surrounding him, he hastily bows his head in apology.
"What is your name?" Roose orders.
He is angry and feels wrong footed among the company of the two Stark men. He chooses to distract himself with the new comer. The intruder darts a quick eye to Brandon who continues to sharpen his blade before answering.
"Ethan Glover, my lord."
"Glover? Any relation to-"
The whet stone falls to the ground and interrupts Roose's question. Brandon blows on his blade then returns it back to his sheath. He smiles at Roose, politely and with plenty of (false) respect.
"Bah! Nothing like that Roose! Ethan here is just my squire, nothing more."
Ethan's eyes widened but Roose missed it as he had turned a narrow glare at the Stark heir. Rickard allowed himself a small eye roll at his son's obvious lie. The shock of news was the only reason Ethan remained quiet, otherwise the lie would have been exposed. Brandon grinned at Ethan and motioned for him to speak. Still bewildered, Ethan stammered to speak.
"A-ah William Dustin seeks to speak with you?"
"Oh? Does he? Did he mention what for?" Brandon hums, well aware of his Father's stare on his back.
"He's been made aware of his father's arrival. He uh… insists you join him in greeting Lord Dustin."
Brandon nods his head sympathetically before he snaps his fingers. He turns to Roose with his eyes bright as if he'd just had a brilliant idea.
"But Roose! Are you not engaged to the younger Ryswell sister?"
Roose scowls and says nothing, never the less Brandon pushes forward.
"Oh I'm sure Lord Dustin would be more than delighted to greet you before me. After all soon you will be family!"
There's a bit of squabbling and a few more words exchanged, before Ethan is leading the Bolton Lord to greet Lord Dustin and his son. Brandon waves them off cheerfully before finally turning to the last man in his company. He stares at his father with a scowl and furrowed brow.
"Well father? Did I impress?" he mocks with a scoff.
Rickard stares at him imperturbably and says nothing. Instead, he merely tips his head by the slightest and brushes pass Brandon without a word. Brandon doesn't like the unease he feels. He doesn't like the air of 'knowing' his father possessed as he passed him. Doubt festers in his mind and the dark whispers tell him that his father knows of Lyanna's mess. Brandon ignores the whispers and grits his teeth tightly. He seeks out a man to spar and forces himself to embrace the distraction.
Everything is fine.
Anya and Lyanna will pass.
Brandon had made sure no word would reach his Father.
Right?
~*~*~Winter Storm Queen~*~*~
Lyanna trembled as she paced back and forth in her room. The thud of her boots the only sound other than her labored breathing. She was not panicking- she refused to panic. Everything would be fine, Brandon had fixed her mess and tonight was the last day of the gathering.
Soon she will be free.
Right?
Why is it then, she felt a horrible sense of foreboding?
She caught sight of herself in the looking glass and froze at the girl who stared back. The neatly arranged hair, braided and strategically made wavy to frame her face; the grey and white dress, with sleeves that billow and a tail end that trails. She stares at the image she makes and does not know the stranger before her. She lifts her lips in attempt to smile but only feels empty in her chest.
She feels as if she can no longer breathe.
"You are a Lady," she whispers and feels horror creep up her spine as her reflection says the same.
She startles badly at the knocking of her door. Accidently knocking a few of her trinkets from her table to the ground. When she turns she finds Anya watching her with worry.
"Are you alright, Lya?"
No.
Lyanna is by far not alright.
She opens her mouth to say so but is distracted when she fully takes in the appearance of her sister. Anya is dressed similar to her, though her dress has a few bits pale blue lace lining her neckline and sleeves. Their hairs are styled differently; while Lyanna's hair has most of hers in a braid, Anya's has a bit freely loose. Lyanna, finds herself distracted by the visible concern on her little sister's face.
For the first time in years since their mother's death, Lyanna is seeing Anya without her mask.
The sudden rush of tears that itch at her eyes is unexpected, but Anya visibly widens her eyes with alarm and rushes to comfort her. Lyanna can't bring herself to stop the tears that escape. Anya fusses over her, pulling at the her dress- asking if the material is too itchy; she worries over Lyanna's braids- asking if they are too tight and hurting her scalp.
Lyanna answers none of Anya's questions and drags her little sister into a tight embrace. Not even a second later, Anya's arms are squeezing Lyanna's middle in return. The sisters cling to each other tightly- desperately afraid to be the first to let go. It's Lyanna who breaks the silence between but the words she speaks makes no sense to Anya.
"I missed you Nya….." she sniffles.
Anya pulls back and frowns at her older sister. They are so close that both are able to spot the concerning exhaustion on their faces. Lyanna's eyes are red rimmed and empty of her usual fire and fight. It is as if they have lost their shine and dulled into a pale ash grey. Anya is paler than usual; the area beneath her eyes seem puffy and dark. The sisters frown in unison at what they see and speak over each other.
"Why are you crying?" "Why do you look so tired?"
They blink at each other in surprise before Lyanna erupts into giggles. She stops when she hears an old familiar chime of giggles she'd not heard in years. The sound soft like wind chimes, a sound too shy to drown out the wind itself. Anya takes no note of Lyanna's strange reaction and sighs contently as her giggling fit fades.
"It's been so long since we'd done such a thing."
Anya was not wrong. As little girls, the Stark sister's had a (rather creepy if you ever asked Brandon) habit of speaking in unison over each other. It had been a game of theirs, one Lyanna often used to 'prove' that they were indeed twins as children. A game that would drive Brandon to hysterics and Ned into fits of outrageous laughter.
"Lya?" Anya prompted again, bringing Lyanna out of her thoughts.
"Hm?"
"Are you sure you're okay? What is it?"
Lyanna tries to find the words to explain what she felt was wrong. She had them ready on her tongue, knew exactly what to say. Only, before she released them from her tongue, her mind replayed Brandon's furious scolding the day before. 'Anya will not always be there to save you. She is the second daughter and you are the first. She should not be doing all that she is because you refuse to become what you must!'
'What she must.'
Lyanna smiles when she speaks and presses her forehead against her sweet shy little sister's.
"I'm fine, just excited for this all to be over."
Lyanna lies with a smile on her lips so wide the corner of her eyes crinkle. Anya smiles at her so bright, so young, so familiarly. Anya smiles at Lyanna as if she is the bravest warrior to ever exist.
"Are you surprised that you made it? A whole week of being a lady! It wasn't so bad, right?"
Lyanna laughs and she pulls back to make a dramatic face.
"Oh it was so horrible! How did I ever survive?" she japes.
Anya laughs and while Lyanna's stomach twists due to the lies she performs, her heart melts at having her sweet little sister back, even if it's just for a moment. Anya straightens Lyanna's dress and smooths out her braided hair. The both of them face the looking glass. They stare at the two ladies who stare back.
When Anya speaks, Lyanna all but freezes in place.
"Mama would be so proud."
Lyanna swallows against the dryness in her throat, and her voice shakes when she replies.
"How do you know?"
Anya briefly frowns before looking at her sister through the looking glass. She hugs Lyanna from behind and smiles sweetly at their reflection. Lyanna simply stares as she waits for Anya to answer.
"I don't know, but I'm proud of you and I know Mama will always love us."
'I forgive you. I will always forgive you because I love you.'
Lyanna laces her hands with her little sisters and smiles wider at her reflection. She ignores the painful ache it causes her cheeks. She ignores the empty feeling in her chest. She stares at the two ladies in the reflection of the looking glass and tells herself 'She is a lady.'
The words still ring false in her mind and ears.
Wrong.
But Lyanna embraces the lie because she must be what she should be.
She is Lady Lyanna Stark.
Eldest and noble daughter of Rickard Stark of House Stark from the North.
When she can no longer stand the sight of her Lady self, Lyanna turns her eyes to her little sister. She chooses to ignore the sight she makes and focuses instead on the beauty and sweetness of her little sister. She savors the sight, clings to the memory so greatly she hopes it'd imprint itself on the surface of her brain. For Lyanna knows nothing of when she'll next see her little sister so proud of her.
~*~*~Winter Storm Queen~*~*~
Winterfell castle was filled with an overwhelming thrum of activity. The help could be seen rushing from place to place, carrying with them platters and other things. The entire castle was loud with laughter, talk and cheers. In the feasting hall, despite the strategic arrangement to fit as many as possible, some men were forced to crowd outside. The Noble Lords were already seated at their table, sharing idle conversation among each other as they waited.
But it was very clear that the gathered company slowly grew impatient.
"Hear I say! How much longer must we wait to see our Daughters, Lord Stark?" Lord Manderly demanded.
As if his words were gospel, the feasting hall faded into silence. All eyes turned to Lord Rickard Stark, who calmly drank from his cup. From his seat closer to the front, yet not among the House Lords, Brandon scowled. Though not many noticed the child closely at Brandon's side, if one were to look, they would grow weary of the frown Benjen Stark wore.
"Impatience will get you nowhere. We are guests being hosted, patience is only polite," Lord Karstark snorted.
"Patience is only polite, if the wait were filled with entertainment." Lord Umber couldn't help but add.
"Entertainment? Leave it to him to file complaints about entertainment," Lord Hornwood snorted before mumbling into his cups.
He had not been as quiet as he (probably) intended and Lord Umber banged his fists on the table with a temper. Lord Cerywn arched a brow of interest from where he sipped at his own cup, before leaning close to whisper to Lord Rickard Stark.
"Be honest with me Rickard, is this supposed to be the entertainment?" he japed, never once looking away from the escalating argument between the two men.
"Hah! If so, your girls certainly have good tastes!" Lord Mormont laughed.
The arguing men had started to insult each other's victories and had managed to draw Lord Manderly into the mess. Lord's Ryswell, Dustin and Bolton watched with bored eyes as the fighting began to stir the watching men as well. Other than the noble Lord's, only Brandon and Benjen watched their father for signs of action. When Rickard seemed to be content in ignoring the escalating outbursts, all were surprised to be stopped by the most unexpected voice in the hall.
"Are all Lord's so impatient!? Have they no patience to wait?" Benjen loudly whined to Brandon.
The Noble House Lords froze and turned to the boy with unsettled frowns. Benjen was not looking at them but staring up at Brandon with patient eyes. Brandon shrugged before ruffling his little brother's hair and grinning sharply with laughter in his eyes.
"Lords have important business responsibilities, Benjen. Time is precious in the world of men."
Benjen huffed then continued to loudly grumble to his brother. 'Oblivious' to the attention he'd gained with his question.
"Well do they have to be so rude? Don't they remember this is a Ladies Gathering?"
"And tell me boy! What difference does a Ladies Gathering make compared to the time of a Lord?" Lord Ryswell scoffed with a short laugh.
Benjen blinked at him before looking to his father and brother. As if to silently ask permission. When he received the barest of nods and a wicked with mischief grin, he gave his answer. Despite only being a boy of 5 years, Benjen straightened to his full height and held his head high. When he spoke, his words were shared with a heavy tone of absolute and slight scolding.
"Ladies, my Lord, are never late. They arrive at a time worthy of their status."
There was a beat of silence before many men broke into entertained laughter and some cheered and clapped for the young boy's delivery. Benjen didn't deter from his proud stance and Brandon's warning glare at the men closest to him kept them quiet. Rickard sipped at his cup, his face blank with little reaction. When the laughter died, it was Lord Cerwyn who spoke next.
"And who taught you such truth, little Lord?"
"My sister of course."
"Ah! Lady Lyanna speaks much wisdom. You should certainly never forget her teachings." Lord Ryswell lightly praises with a humoring smile.
Benjen stares at the Lord with little amusement. A stare he copied from Anya herself and perfected with the help of his Father and Brandon. The lord blinked with surprise at being held under such scrutiny.
"Anya knows plenty of wisdom," can you claim the same?
The listening lords are stunned and wonder if they perhaps imagined the unspoken words. They suspect they hadn't when Rickard Stark finally gives a huff of laughter at his son's words. Lord Umber opens his mouth, looking ready to start another argument, but all is interrupted by a servant maids command for attention.
"If it would please you all, the Gathered Ladies are ready to begin the feast."
"Begin? Have we not started feasting already?" William Dustin questions as he motions to the platters before them.
The men grow confused when the maid servant only smiles in reply.
"Tonight is the Farewell feast, and the young Ladies Stark have planned the event thoroughly. Their only wish is for you all to enjoy and celebrate in merry fulfillment together."
The men's excitement return with a vengeance and the tension feels as if it is soon to snap. Only the Lords and their heirs share hesitant looks with each other. When the servant maid leaves, Rickard Stark finally addresses the rest of Lords.
"The Ladies Gathering was a gift to my daughter. Today, we are all her guests and so to clarify any confusion you may have for the night. I assure you gentlemen, I am just as clueless as to what entertainment will be had tonight."
There is a brief moment of silence, before Lord Mormont laughs deeply from the depths of his belly. He laughs because only a fool would believe Rickard Stark knew nothing of what happened in his castle. The suspenseful build only means that the night will be filled with plenty of fun.
When the doors next open, and Ladies finally enter; every male's breath is caught in their throats.
Lyanna Stark leads the women with her sister at her side. The two Stark daughters are a vision of beauty, wearing dresses of their house colours and traditional braids. Behind them the following Ladies embody their own respective Houses with stylish Northern braids of old. For William Dustin and Roose Bolton, they are frozen with shock as they stare at their soon to be wives. Roose can't bring himself to look away from his bride to be who is dressed in his House colors. It is the first time he had seen his betrothed, and despite being married once before- he has never once felt such a way in his life.
A week to men stretches and feels much like the passing of decades.
The Noble Lord's find themselves blinking rapidly in attempt to connect the fact that the beautiful young ladies before them are their daughters.
A boy sent to war returns home a man.
They did not think, sending a girl to a Ladies Gathering would see her returned a woman grown.
"Apologies my lord's for the wait. I hope the delay had not brought about any frustration?"
Lyanna Stark- a girl said to be wild and as scrappy as a lad, dips her head gracefully as she speaks. She straightens fluidly and smiles softly, looking and behaving older than her simple 9 years. Even Brandon and Benjen from their seats gape at the change in their sister. Behind Lyanna, only Anya seems to be beaming at her sister with immense pride and smug satisfaction.
Rickard stands and commands all attention to him.
"No apologies to be given. Come, let us welcome our daughters- you're Ladies, of the North"
The cheer and applause that rises shakes the walls and deafen ears with their thundering. The Gathered Ladies regally stand in the center of their praise, smiling with grace and humbling thanks.
The Farewell feast begins with plenty of awe and wild cheers….. But it is only the start of what will historically be listed as the Winter Storm Queen's first act of change.
