Memories of Winter
By Juliet McKenna
Chapter Three: The Things That Plague Us Most
RUNESTONE
The trees whistled and ached beneath the call of winter, creaking as remnants of starlight peeked through the shutters of Morwenna's bedchambers. Morning called late in winter and Morwenna, newly five and ten, now almost always woke before the dawn.
Flimsy flames crackled from the hearth as Morwenna peeled back the thick furs of her blankets, a shiver rushing across her skin as she stepped barefoot onto the wooden floors. She pulled her dressing robes over her shift, pulling the thick wool tighter around her as she shuffled sleepily towards the hearth.
She plopped a new log of wood onto the dwindling embers, waiting impatiently for the flame to take hold. She rubbed her hands together, her breath visible as she blew warm breath across her palms.
Draped over a nearby chair, a deep blue wool gown sat newly hemmed. In the dim firelight, she could make out silver threads embroidered in dainty patterns over the sleeves. Such delicate work could only have been done with her cousin, Emma's care. The dress was no doubt a reminder, as if Morwenna could forget, that Lord Arryn would be visiting Runestone for a feast in his honor.
Winter may have been a season more widely celebrated in the North, but Valemen were also known for their festivities and Lord Arryn's arrival in the Vale after four years would mark the first large celebration of the Runestone Winterfest since Morwenna was a child. The last time the Royces had hosted the event, her mother had still been alive to prepare them for it.
Now at five and ten with a new gown and not a head taller than last year, Morwenna would host the nobles of the Vale as Lady of Runestone for the first time.
Getting an early start was essential. Careful not to dirty her new frock, she pulled on a more familiar gown, sliding a stained apron around her waist as she tidied her nest of hair. Septa Prym helped her pull the thick raven hair back into four elegant braids. Where Morwenna lacked growth in height, she did not lack in her hair. Black tendrils spilled down her back and near her waist and no matter how many times she threatened to crop it shorter to ease the burden, when she pulled sheers to the ends she could not bring herself to do it.
Folly as it might have been, Morwenna still enjoyed sneaking out and pulling her hair out of it's confines to feel the wind wriggle through the loose ends. For now the braids would have to suffice. They were orderly and neat.
Gwyn would be proud.
Morwenna stopped first at the kitchens, pulling the rolled parchment from her apron pocket as she gazed through the list of courses for the feast that would be laid out at dusk. She'd recruited three cooks from Gulltown to assist her own and together, despite a few disagreements, they made quick work of the chopping and washing. Rich smells drifted through Morwenna's nostrils and as she reached for the spoon to taste one particularly delectable smelling stew, her cook – by the name of Imelda – swatted her hand away.
"Lady or no, I will have your hide. That stew is far from ready."
Morwenna bit back a laugh and she held her hands up in surrender.
Her second stop led her to the rookery where Maester's ravens would be waiting with letters. She dreaded the rookery, especially in the mornings when the ravens hounded her for the morsels of meat she'd bring after stopping in the kitchens. She could come back for the letters later, allow one of the Maester's apprentices to feed the ravens, but the letters brought news from around the Vale and if she waited, she'd only be making more work for herself later, especially if she stumbled into her father in the corridors. He liked a full report with breakfast, better to get it out of the way now.
Morwenna left the bucket of unidentified meat outside the rookery door. Already the ravens sensed she'd come to feed them and as she plucked notes from their legs, they nipped and pecked desperately at her hands.
"Ouch!" she hissed, gripping one note in her palm as blood stained the back of her knuckles. "Little bastard," she muttered under her breath.
Morwenna's nose scrunched as she pulled tiny pieces of unidentified meat from a bucket and tossed it into the perches. The ravens, as predicted, swarmed the food that lined their stalls and Morwenna wasted no time in skirting out through the door before they realized she had nothing left but her own flesh and bone now staining their beaks.
Standing on the other side of the door, Runestone's steward, Maelor, stood with three letters in his outstretched hand.
"A messenger from Gulltown came with these letters. They were sent through White Harbor."
"Much more civilized than those little beasts," she hissed. "Next time maybe I can greet the messenger while you coax letters from the ravens."
Maelor rarely laughed, a hard man who had once seen too much war in his itme. But the light smirk in the corner of his wrinkled mouth was reward enough.
"Have you seen father yet?" she asked. Maelor nodded. "Was he…in good spirits?"
"After finding out the Young Falcon has fathered a bastard with one of the servant girls? Not likely. He's still fuming. Lord Hardyng might be six and ten, but your father lit up his backside as if he were still a boy. No doubt he'll have trouble sitting through the feast tonight."
Morwenna shook her head. "It's not the sitting I'm worried about. Better they'd have whipped his…" she paused, clearing her throat. "Nevermind. I'll see to Papa. Hopefully one of those little pricks brought good news, otherwise we're all in for it."
Maelor's smirk widened as he bowed his head and left Morwenna to the handful of correspondence she carried down into the Maester's study.
It was a miracle anyone had been up before the sun after Harry's punishment. He'd been put on display late into the night when news came that he'd impregnated one of the serving girls at his aunt's estate. Ever since Harrold Hardyng had come to Runestone to train with Ser Samwell Stone, he'd been a pain in Morwenna's side. While she certainly didn't approve of his methods, she appreciated that for once he was a pain in someone else's.
More specifically her father's.
Fathering bastards was not becoming of a young lord who might one day become Lord of the Vale, at least not with so little attempt at discretion. Of course he might also never become Lord of the Vale if the health of Lord Arryn's son ever improved. Another thing she'd learned from all the letters she read was that Sweet Robin's summer illness clung to the young boy through autumn and now into winter. Winter was the worst time for a child to be ill, especially the only child of a lord. As Lord Arryn had no other children, his nephew, Harry, would be considered his heir should the worst occur.
This was precisely why the lords of the Vale had agreed Harry would be better suited to train at Runestone, away from the Eyrie and away from curious eyes. No one, except perhaps for Harry, wanted to give off the impression that the Young Falcon was sitting in wait for a seat that may never be his.
And for the sake of Harry's ego, Morwenna prayed to the old gods and the new that he was never gifted such power.
Morwenna stood outside the Maester's door, sorting through the letters before spotting one with her name on it. The handwriting was slanted and sharp, unfamiliar to her now trained eyes. Most letters came addressed to the Maester or her father. Rarely to her directly, unless they came from Gwyn in the Riverlands. She flipped the parchment, brows furrowing as she spotted the seal. Staring back at her, a small direwolf snarled, teeth exposed.
Stark? She thought. Lord Stark had written to her father on no less than eight separate occasions in the last year, but never had he written to her directly. She slid her fingers beneath the weathered parchment and, with effort, released the wax seal.
To the Girl Who is Fond of High Places, it read and Morwenna's lips twitched at the immediate realization that the letter had not been from Lord Stark, but in fact his son.
"Robb," she whispered with a grin.
The Maester's door opened and Morwenna jumped, heart leaping as she quickly stuffed the letter into her apron pocket.
"You've been standing outside my door for several minutes, I was wondering if you were ever planning to knock," said Maester Helliweg.
Morwenna stood, hand over her wildly beating chest, and bowed her head. "Apologies, Maester, for my delay. I received my very first letter. One not from Gwyn of course."
Helliweg smiled. "Well as Lady of Runestone, I suspect you will begin receiving a good deal of correspondence as you become a woman." He pulled the door open and motioned towards his table. "Come now. You have a long day ahead of you. Best not to delay too much longer."
Long day. Newly five and ten, Morwenna's life was now a succession of long days and even longer nights in winter. Her moments of freedom became fewer and far between. She wondered if one day soon, they would cease to exist all together.
To the Girl Who is Fond of High Places,
This letter will assuredly come as a surprise to you, and though I am not accustomed to having friends to write to very often, I had hoped you wouldn't mind receiving one from me. I'm not sure what it is that grown-ups spend so much time writing to one another about. Perhaps that is a lesson for seven and ten to be learnt next year. And yet, as I find myself alone with my thoughts, I wonder if writing letters is a way for us to be rid of them. The things that plague us most.
This winter seems colder and darker than usual, giving me much more time to myself and these thoughts. I've thought often, in the last few months, of Seagard and the things we spoke of. I was once afraid of duty and yet you taught me that fears should be faced, even the ones that frighten us most.
I have more responsibilities than I did at five and ten. I am now my father's shadow, following him on errands of many different occasions. Some are unpleasant whilst others I quite enjoy. But as my mother prepares Winterfell for the Winter Fest, I took notice for the first time how much responsibility falls on her shoulders. She works harder than almost anyone at Winterfell. It made me wonder, how a girl of four and ten, perhaps already five and ten, could handle such a burden.
I hope you still make time for your tall places, Morwenna. I am doing my best to make time for mine.
Your Friend,
Robb
The letter from Robb sat in Morwenna's left cloak pocket as she stood out in the courtyard of Runestone, waiting for Lord Arryn's party to arrive. Torches were lit against the fading sunlight. Dusk kissed the skies in oranges and pinks and Morwenna thought to herself that it would be a beautiful view from where Gwyn sat in Seagard.
Until the letter, she hadn't thought much of Seagard, at least not aside from her sister who wrote regularly to report on the joys of married life. Morwenna could tell there was something hidden behind her sister's polite words and while she had no doubt Patrek was a kind husband to his beautiful bride, the loneliness in Gwyn's letters became more apparent each time they arrived.
Gwyn had always craved the life of a mother. Morwenna thought that was because she'd had so much practice in raising her younger sisters when their mother passed, that she would no doubt be a wonderful one when her time came to have her own. Still, months had passed and no such news had come.
Morwenna had not found the same ease and pleasure in mentoring their younger sisters in Gwyn's absence. Both Ysilla and Helena were now her responsibility, in the same way Waymar and Robar were left to Andar's supervision. And yet, with the rest of her duties to Runestone, her brothers and her father, raising younger sisters was by far the most difficult task she'd been saddled with.
Ysilla was amiable enough but sensitive and her feelings easily hurt. Countless times Morwenna had accidentally allowed her sullen mood to dampen her Ysilla's spirits and though her younger sister would hide her discontentment beneath her mild-mannered facade, there were often days when Morwenna caught the downtrodden feelings peeking through. Extra care was given to ensure Ysilla felt loved and cared for, time that was likewise unneeded for raising a young lady that she would soon become.
Helena, however, was a handful of a different kind. Rebellious and cunning, Morwenna had once believed her youngest sister to be a kindred spirit. However, as Helena reached her tenth nameday, it became clear that she was cut from a different cloth entirely. Gwyn used to call Morwenna the "Wildling of Runestone" but no moniker rang quite as true as it did for Helena Royce. Still, each time Helena would escape her lessons with Septa Prym to take to the fields and run until breath left her lungs, a small smile would appear on Morwenna's lips. She hoped for her sister's sake, she had much more time to run wild.
Morwenna straightened Helena's simple black braid, pulling it over her shoulder and tightening the bronze colored ribbon. Helena squirmed beneath Morwenna's touch, her pink lips curling into a beastly snarl. Freckles flecked the young girl's pale white flesh and Morwenna sheathed a smirk as she straightened her expression, mirroring her father.
"Stand still, Lena," Morwenna said, lowering her voice. "Lord Arryn's visit will put father in good spirits and so if you are on your best behavior, I'm certain he wouldn't notice if you were to sneak out of the feast early for some extra time to play with the others."
A spark lit behind her sister's eyes and her squirming ceased. She cast a careful glance back at their father who stood at the head of the Royce family party, then back to Morwenna.
"Promise?" she asked.
Morwenna's brow rose. "Promise to behave like a lady, for only a few hours more?"
Helena held out her petite hand. Even at ten, Helena had a height Morwenna lacked at her age. She was small now but she would one day be a tall Royce woman with curves like Gwyn. Morwenna took hold of the small hand and a deal was struck.
"Open the gates!" shouted Maelor from atop the watchtower.
Morwenna scurried back to her space at her father's left. The space, normally reserved for their mother and most previously, Gwyn, had become Morwenna's as Lady of Runestone. At their father's right stood Andar, followed by a newly arrived Robar who'd returned from his tourneys in the south long enough to celebrate winter festivities with his family. Waymar, his spirits low since his return to Runestone, had a distant look in his eyes as he stood between Ysilla and Robar. Helena, at least, did her best to smile.
It was a poor attempt but Morwenna didn't care, so long as it was no longer a scowl.
Harry stood directly behind her and she was spared his snide jokes only thanks to her father's presence. With his sore backside, he was not likely to waste any remaining good will on pranks or folly.
The gates opened, revealing an aged Lord last time she'd seen the man, he'd seemed much larger, much more grand. In four years it looked as though time had sucked him dry. But he was Hand of the King, a position of honor and responsibility that far surpassed her own. If one year as Lady of Runestone could give Morwenna such anxiety, she could hardly imagine what it would be like to have the the weight of the entire Seven Kingdoms on her shoulders.
Lord Arryn offered a small distracted smile as he dismounted his horse. He stepped forward, offering his arm. "Yohn, you're a sight for sore eyes," the man said, tired wrinkles creasing under his eyes. "I have been away so long, you're beginning to look nearly as old as me."
Morwenna saw her father crack a smile as he took Lord Arryn's arm in his own and pulled him into a warm embrace.
"Time has surely been no friend to either of us poor souls," Yohn said.
Lord Arryn turned, eyes darting quickly over the new Lady of Runestone and his brows rose. "Do not tell me this is young Morwenna?" he asked. "Surely you are not the small girl I once knew to ride wildly about the courtyard on her favorite pony."
Morwenna squirreled away the unladylike laugh as she bowed her head and curtsied. "I'm afraid I am one and the same, My Lord."
"Wenna has grown up in your absence, Lord. Her sister left large shoes to fill but we think she is finding her way well enough."
The words were more comparison than compliment but Morwenna did her best not to let them sting. She offered a warm smile and despite the distant worry behind the man's ocean blue eyes, a flash of warmth appeared. He nodded his head and then looked past her, eyeing his nephew of six and ten at her back.
"Nephew," spoke Lord Arryn. "You look well. It is good to see how you've grown here at Runestone. How is your bladework under Strong Sam's tutelage?"
"Well, Lord Uncle," Harry replied, his voice loud and confident as it sang over the onlookers in the Runestone courtyard. "This summer I have made a name for myself at many tourneys in the Vale. Ser Samwell Stone says I will be ready for tourneys in King's Landing by spring."
Harry stood much taller than Morwenna, and even without turning, she could feel his presence as he bowed to his uncle. Morwenna gazed up at the older man. She'd once heard tales that Harry resembled his uncle from the time when Jon Arryn was a young man. It was hard to believe the tired man before her now had once been one of the most handsome men in the realm.
Of course, Morwenna, even at the impressionable age of five and ten, had always believed beauty was neither a truth nor a standard for all men. Harry had both the looks and charm to sweep most girls, peasant or princess, off of their feet. But his pride left a sour taste in Morwenna's mouth and whatever traditional Andal beauty swelled in that golden hair or cerulean eyes, was overshadowed by his own stupidity.
And anyways, Morwenna had very little experience with men, so who was she to judge?
Lord Arryn's shoulders stiffened, his soft features fading into hard stoicism.
"Yes, well. It will be nice to see familiar faces in King's Landing." He then turned to Yohn. "Come, I would speak with you alone before the feast. I bring not only tidings, but news as well."
The crowd parted as Bronze Yohn and Jon Arryn started their way towards the keep.
A flurry of neatly braided red hair rushed her way in the form of her cousin, Emma. She gripped Morwenna's arm, panic in her eyes.
"Does that mean they are not going directly to the feast?" she asked hurriedly. "Should someone warn the cooks?"
The change in plans would undoubtedly alter all of Morwenna's carefully laid plans for the feast, but she'd been around her father's men long enough to know that they could forgive a delay in food if they had enough ale in their bellies.
"Find Ursula in the kitchens. Tell her the men are thirsty and to supply them with as much wine and ale that they forget their hunger pains. We won't start the feast without Lord Arryn. I'll be sure whatever business he has with my father does not take too long."
Emma's shoulders sank. "There are already circles under your eyes," she said, tugging the gloves from her hands and pressing her cold fingers beneath Morwenna's eyes. "They should be ashamed, running you ragged like this."
"There are always circles under Wenna's eyes," Harry proclaimed, throwing his shoulders over both Emma and Morwenna's shoulders. "It's just harder to tell because they're usually covered up by so many freckles."
Morwenna shrugged him off, her gloved hands balling into fists at her side.
"Shouldn't you be scurrying off now, to find a new girl to pump one of your bastards into," she hissed. The crass comment was said low enough not to stir any eavesdroppers but loud enough it had its desired effect. Harry's smile faded. "You may have had free reign while you were at your aunt's estate, but if you defile any of the women – or girls – at Runestone, I'll be sure it's more than your hide next time."
Harry lifted his chin, a small curve in his lips as he towered over her, stepping closer, bending at his waist into an exaggerated bow. "Yes, My Lady."
As he sauntered off, Morwenna couldn't stifle a laugh at the slight limp in his step.
"I don't know why you let him get to you," Emma whispered. "Harry is harmless. All talk, like every other young knight in the Vale."
"Harmless enough perhaps, but if he's not kept in line, I fear half the Vale will be populated with his offspring. And one Harrold Hardyng is quite enough for me."
Emma hid a snort behind her hand.
There was an old tower just outside the main keep of Runestone where Morwenna used as her place to escape and hide. The feast carried on into the late hours and so long as men were making merry, Morwenna would have things to look after. She'd already seen that her sisters were off to bed, Lord Arryn's belly was full of pheasant and fish, and her father wore a genuine smile on his face – albeit small – when crowds of young and old filled the great hall for wine and dance.
Times were not hard at Runestone, but happy memories for her father were few and far between since her mother's death. It was good to hear laughter through the halls, even if it was caused by drunkenness.
Still, through all her duties, Morwenna found a moment to breathe. The old tower overlooked the tall cliffs that jutted from the earth in the grey rocks that Runestone sat atop. Here, on clear winter nights, she could see the stars so clearly it was as if she could almost touch them with her bare hands. Her breath danced out into the night, visible in the torchlight alongside the fortress walls. She sat with her back against stone as she reread Robb's letter for the fourth time. Here she did not need to suppress the stupid grin that peeled back her lips, exposing her white teeth. Not one of her polite smiles. A true smile.
I hope you still make time for your tall places, Morwenna. The words said in his neat tilted handwriting. The 'M' had a small embellishment on the end.
She had not thought much of Robb since Seagard, of the boy from the Window and now the boy from the sea. But for some reason, as her eyes poured greedily over the words in his letter, she could not stop wondering.
Should she write him back? Whatever would she have to say that would be of any interest to a boy who would one day be Warden of the North? He had thought of her words for months since their meeting at Runestone and yet as she thought back to that moment she could hardly remember what she'd said.
How could such words, her words, impact him in such a way?
Heavy footsteps piled slowly up the steps of the wall bridge. Morwenna flinched, pulling the letter closed and shoving it back into the pocket of her cloak. She peered over the edge of her hiding space and saw two figures in the dark, black hair illuminated by the warm light of the overhead torch.
"What's got you in such a sullen mood?" came the voice of her eldest brother. Andar, while every bit as tall as their father, had a voice that warmed the soul. Even when mildly inebriated. "You should be finding a woman for your bed at this hour."
A scoff escaped the second figure, a common sound from her brother Waymar. Perpetually unimpressed with others. Only ever impressed with himself. It was a miracle he and Morwenna were as close as they were. But she'd always assumed it was because he had little cause for duty as a third son, and much more lax on the rules than Andar had ever been. And far less likely to enforce them on his rule-bending sister.
Still, the deep set frown on his lips furrowed Morwenna's brow. She had seen the far-away look in his eyes for months, the light playfulness that had once filled his pale eyes to the brim, disappearing week after week.
"Every time I come home, I tire of this place more and more," Waymar muttered. "I tire of it having no use of me."
Adar clapped his hand over their brother's shoulder.
"You tasted the outside world and now you realize how dull it can be when you are caged here, like the rest of us."
"Like Wenna, perhaps," Waymar corrected. "You at least get to travel on father's behalf. Robar travels from city to city, tourney to tourney, making his name. What use do I have to father aside from being a messenger when he is too busy to leave these suffocating walls?"
Waymar threw his hands up, gesturing to the fortress around him as he looked around.
Morwenna slunk down, pressing her back once again into the stone, head hidden from view. Still, the drunken voices of her brothers echoed loud enough that Waymar's frustration reverberated off of her and the walls around them. Even moreso, his frustration permeated into her soul.
Suffocating walls. Of those she knew too well.
"What do you expect? If we were at war, perhaps he could make better use of each of us. But we have been at peace so long, sons of lords grow fat in their fortresses. And there is nothing wrong with peace time, brother. Better bored and fat than in the ground next to our mother."
"Well I hate it," Waymar hissed. "Every moment I sit beneath your shadow, and Robar's, I rot. Father has no time for his third son and I have no time for Runestone."
"No time or no patience?" asked Andar. "You think you are of no use here? What of our sisters? Of Morwenna? She and I have a duty to this place but it is in you she finds a kindred spirit. I am content with this life, as suffocating as it may be. But it is where I belong. The two of you…" Andar sighed. "Neither of you could be content unless you'd seen all life had to offer."
"No," Waymar countered. "Wenna is not burdened by pride like me. She aches to see the world, I only ache to make my name in it. But there is no place to make a name as a third son. Not as a Royce."
"And so what? Who gives a flying fuck about a name?" Andar, who very rarely lost his cool, raised his voice. "What is so great about being remembered? Wouldn't you rather have a good life, with your family? Take a wife and grow old? Live to see your children grow old?"
No, Morwenna thought. Waymar would never be content with such an easy life.
"I am going to tell father that I want to take the black."
Morwenna's heart sank. Waymar had always been prideful. Always coveted the recognition of their elder brothers that he had never had. But to join the Night's Watch? The brotherhood rarely took on volunteers now. It was filled to the brim with men dodging the noose. Whatever recognition Waymar wanted could surely not come from somewhere like the Wall.
"When?" Andar asked. "Not in the middle of Winter?"
"And why not? Winter is as good as any time."
"We can't travel North until the snow melts anyways, give it some more thought."
"I've given it enough thought! I'm doing this. With or without father's blessing."
"And what of Wenna?" Andar pleaded.
"She is finding her stride well enough."
Well enough. They all said the same. Would she ever be enough, she wondered?
"She needs more time. Without you, she will feel more alone than ever."
Morwenna didn't like being used as a pawn, even if it was so very true. She was five and ten and yet some days she still felt like a child. Only Waymar didn't treat her as one. He saw through Morwenna's tired performance as Lady of Runestone. Straight to her soul. The soul that wanted to escape. Until now, having him made her feel as if there was someone else who truly understood. Not what it meant to have a duty. Andar understood that well enough. But instead, what it felt like to want more. And to have it just out of reach.
"You don't give her enough credit," Waymar answered. "She doesn't need me and if you asked her, she would tell you the same thing."
She would, if it came to it. Not because it was true but because as difficult as it would be to let him go, she would never be the one to hold him back.
"I'm still not so certain. Please," Andar begged. "Give it a little more time, Wenna will be six and ten next winter. If you can bear just one more year…I know it is a lot to ask."
A long pause hung in the air alongside Morwenna's breath. Her shoulders raised, tense against the muscles of her neck as she sat there waiting for Waymar's reply. Finally, a resigned sigh poured from her brother's chest.
"One year, before the snows set in. Promise me you will have my back when I speak to father."
Andar clapped his arm to Waymar's.
"You have my word."
Wenna's heart sank where there should have been relief. She'd have one more year with Waymar, the brother who know her best. Who perhaps loved her best. But it would be a year of misery for him. And in turn, Morwenna's stomach churned as she clasped the parchment against her chest. In turn, she would be the cause of her brother's misery.
At five and ten, Morwenna became Lady of Runestone. And still, she did not have the power to bring about her brother's freedom.
And yet, as I find myself alone with my thoughts, I wonder if writing letters is a way for us to be rid of them. The things that plague us most.
Robb's words churned in her mind. The things that plague us most. Perhaps she had something to write about after all.
Next time: Winter falls...at Winterfell...
